![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
I'm now busting tail to post as much of Out Of Bounds as I can for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mad_maudlin before she leaves for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan this Sunday. This is for you, babe. ;) Thank you for many years of excellent stories, your twinking sense of humor, and fascinating posts on linguistics. I want to hear alllllll about it when you get back.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "I'm his coach and therefore my word is law."
A/N: Thank you toperfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view. Our special guest star beta is sarka with her sparkling knowledge of Czechoslovakian cold war politics. Thank you, sarka. And, yes, I know there are no 1986 Olympics. ;)
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
February, 1986
"After his lackluster performance in the short program yesterday, Canada's Rodney McKay needs to go for broke if he is to have any shot at the gold."
"Right now it's his technical scores in the compulsories that are keeping him afloat. Although many feel that the precision of the compulsories are the true measure of the best skater."
"Still, it's the freeskate that will determine the gold tonight."
"Absolutely. McKay's program does not have quite the level of technical difficulty as the Soviets, nor does he have the athletic power of the East German team, but what he does have is the artistic scores that often carry the day. Rodney McKay is a charismatic performer. It is truly something to see him skate in person."
~*~*~
Rodney's coach had both hands on Rodney's thin shoulders as Rodney bent over, coiled in on himself on the locker room bench.
"But they have better jumps than I do," Rodney said, dispirited.
"This is figure skating, not the high jump in track and field. No one cares if they put their footprints a little further on the ice – that's not a sign of real talent," his coach said. "You're better than all of them, and you've beaten them all before at Worlds."
Rodney's wide blue eyes flicked up, looking a shade desperate. "I have," he said, as if trying to remind himself.
"Now last night—"
"Last night was terrible!" Rodney wailed.
"Last night was good, you skated it clean, and almost everyone else made mistakes. Remember that. But these are the Olympics. You don't get a second chance. So skate like last night but this time put it all on the line," he said. "Give us everything, Rodney, and you'll do great." He thumped Rodney's back as Rodney stood. They heard the thunder of applause even this far down the hall from the ice. The Russian skater must have done something amazing because the Soviets weren't popular in Germany.
Swallowing, Rodney stepped out of the locker room into the brightly lit concrete tunnel to the rink, the crowd noise rising as he approached for his final skate. They were cheering the Soviet skater as he bowed at center ice, arms sweeping up, the flowers thrown in cellophane-wrapped bundles. Little stuffed animals seemed to be a new trend. Through the opening of the tunnel he saw the Soviet star lean down to scoop up a turquoise dinosaur and hold it in the air with amusement as this prompted more cheers.
Rodney read him: loose-limbed and confident. He must have had a very good skate. He approached the edge of the rink, deliberately a little late, as he rested his chin on the boards, praying quietly.
The rink was huge, every seat full and blinking with flashbulbs. Rodney noticed one of the cameras aimed in his direction and affected not to care. He'd never performed in front of so many, not even at Worlds. The rink had a wet shine to it from the heat of the stage lighting. Fortunately, from here the acoustics were such that you couldn't hear the scores as they were announced. But the flood of cheers said a word or two on that account.
Then everything seemed to fall still and speed up at once. Rodney didn't hear his name called, but his coach pushed his shoulder forward and said, "Go on, Rodney." He'd forgotten he was there.
The crowd roared, cheered, and whistled, Canadian flags and banners waving as Rodney skated onto the ice for his final freeskate.
~*~*~
February, 1998
John was in the men's room bent over the toilet. The tile was a green-blue with rust between the edges, and the roll was out of toilet paper. He slowly eased up till he was standing, wiping his mouth and rocking back a little.
"Must be something I ate on the plane," he told Rodney.
"I throw up every time, too," Rodney said, and waved him away from the toilet. "Come on." Then backed up a step, hands up. "Whoa. I mean, if you're done."
"I think so," John said, wavering where he stood and still woozy. He cupped his hand under a faucet, rinsed and spat as he leaned on both arms over the sink.
Rodney led John to the locker room mirror by the elbow. "Let's get you fixed up."
Still recovering and spacey, John stood in front of the long wall-length mirror, the cropped cobalt blue spangled jacket of his costume draped across one of the two benches behind him. He ignored the sweep of the little sponge as Rodney reapplied the pancake make-up over his nose and around his mouth, then added the dry fluff of the powder brush. John shook out first one foot, then the other, bouncing a little as he loosened his shoulders like a boxer.
Rubbing his fingers together with a quick flicking motion, Rodney picked up the black eye pencil from John's bag.
"I got that." John stopped him, slipping the eye pencil out of his hand. He stretched one eyelid, applying a thin line right above his eye lashes. "It's scary that we're all good with this stuff," he said, doing the other eye and blinking. Examining himself in the mirror, he smeared a small mistake away at the corner.
Rodney grimaced, scrunching his face. "I try not to think about it."
He put on the tiny cobalt blue sequined jacket over the white ruffled shirt and gave Rodney a death glare as Rodney pressed his lips together, eyes dancing, obviously trying hard not to laugh. He hadn't considered that they'd need to practice in costume just so Rodney could get it out of his system.
"One word...." John warned him in a low growl as he considered disemboweling Rodney if he lost it now.
"You look... great," Rodney lied, and John appreciated the effort.
With a purposeful stride, Rodney led John out in the bare concrete hall, the noise of the crowd rising as they approached. John was as white as a sheet, drawn in on himself, sweat beading along his hairline.
They were reading the scores for the last skater as John had his final brief warm-up on the edge of the ice. He always did his best not to listen to those, hands on his hips, head down. Cameras flashed in his direction.
Moments later the announcer called, "Representing the Glen Ellyn Figure Skating Club in Chicago, Illinois... John Sheppard."
John skated out, pasting a tight smile on his face. To this day John could still hear his first coach's voice: Smile, John. You look like you're going to a funeral.
At center ice, his body struck the starting pose of its own accord. Now there was nothing left but to skate. Rodney was rink-side behind him, he knew, chewing his nails. Living through every moment of this with him. It was like a thin imaginary lifeline.
The arena was much colder, quieter than Nationals six weeks ago, all the seats down in front full. Only a scattering of spectators in the upper stands. Two people alone, way up in the seats above the cavernous hole of the entryway, were having a conversation. The dark eye of a television camera pointed in his direction, which John tried hard not to think about. There were so many lights aimed at the ice that the stadium practically whited out.
The familiar music began, the music he'd skated to in every competition this season and countless practices over the last year. He'd never been more sick of a piece of music in his life. He moved, acting on pure muscle memory, and found himself spinning up into his first quad, landing it clean. A distant clapping sounded like someone shuffling a deck of cards.
Weird things were suddenly amplified as he moved into the straight line steps, left, right, turn, arms out, little stuff he never noticed: his posture wasn't good, his back had hunched as he jumped up into the next double. He knew it as it happened, yet couldn't help it on auto pilot, skating into a well-worn groove.
His favorite section, the low sliding steps with the double push to the outward edge went smoothly, he could feel it; he changed his footing and did the same on the inside edge and let himself glide up, bouncing and swinging his leg around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees into the half camels, switched legs and did the same. When he stabbed the ice with his toe pick for the triple flip, something wobbled. He spun around tight and landed it okay, but something was wrong.
Even though he skated like he'd always had, he suddenly knew none of it was right; it wasn't fixed. This was nothing like his skating with Rodney. It felt like going to kindergarten to sit in the back in too small a chair. For the first time he knew he hadn't made any progress.
Amazed, John lost his sense of the music, and the connection with his program vanished. He found himself going through the motions in the Russian step sequence – hit an edge wrong -- shit! -- his right skate tipped sideways for no good reason. He stumbled. And was skidding on his hands and knees. Stupid! Stupid!
He got back up but found himself chasing the music from then onward. It was all over very quickly as he found his last pose, not quite on his mark, his right fist punched in the air like he'd scored a victory.
The music stopped, after what seemed like three seconds on the ice, all of them that fall – in the easiest section of his program! John wondered if the crowd was as floored as he was.
Then they started clapping. That was forgiving of them, he thought.
He forced himself to bow as if everything had gone perfectly, hands sweeping out, his eyes wide and stunned. Then, shoulders hunched and his head down, he turned to skate off the ice. His knee wouldn't cooperate, and felt leaden, like it had been injected with novocaine.
A moment later, while he struggling to get a little momentum going -- his face turning hot as he couldn't get off the ice in front of all these people -- a solid someone reached under his arm and grabbed him, wrapping John's arm over his shoulder. John looked over at a bald-headed burly guy in a white polo shirt, a whistle dangling and the skating rink logo over his pocket.
"Where does it hurt?" burly guy asked.
He was fine. He didn't need any help.
"It doesn't hurt at all," John heard himself saying. "It just won't work."
"Okay. You need to get your weight off your right leg... straighten your left leg and I'll pull you."
They started moving towards the cavernous exit.
"Um. I hate to be a back seat driver but the Kiss-and-Cry is over there," John pointed, casting a glance over his shoulder to the right. He scanned for Rodney, waiting for him, but didn't see anyone on the platform.
"I don't think you're going there."
Oh, good, John thought. He sure as hell didn't want to know his scores for that shitty performance. He looked again for Rodney but no dice.
The audience had grown a lot louder, their talk and chatter sounding like the ocean to John. Faces collected alongside the boards, pressing closer and, as he got off the ice, John was pretty sure there were a lot more people taking pictures of him now than earlier. The thought had a bitter ironic taste, though he also thought it was kind of funny. His knee twanged like a bow once they were on dry land and that's when the pain began, throbbing low and searing up his leg. Eyes watering, he wished the ice stretched all the way to the locker room where he could lie down. His pills were there, too, though this would probably require the rest of the bottle.
"Where are you taking him?" Rodney's familiar snappish voice, sharp with panic, was a balm. John's face spun towards him in relief. Rodney was forcing his way through the crowd, must have come all the way from the Kiss-N-Cry, rudely shouldering people aside with the grace of a linebacker.
"Hey, Rodney," John said with breezy calm he didn't feel. "My knee stopped working. And I missed the straight line steps, can you believe it?" he blurted out.
"Shut up, I wasn't talking to you," Rodney said to John, turning to the guy holding John up.
The burly guy answered, "That's your option. We have medical staff on hand or we can call 911 and have him taken to the hospital."
The crowd hummed and roared around them. The announcer said something; John couldn't tell what it was. It occurred to him that they were probably holding up the program.
"Hospital," Rodney rapped out without a second's hesitation.
"I don't think that's necessary, I'm fine," John interrupted.
"And you are-?" the burly guy asked Rodney.
Why were they both ignoring him?
"I'm his coach and therefore my word is law: hospital. Now."
"No, no, I just need to lie down," John said in a cheerful, strangely disconnected voice that seemed to come from a vast distance. He felt the truth of that as the energy drained out of him; it was taking everything he had to stand there with his leg on fire, waves of fierce pain licking up his calf. Coupled with skating exhaustion, he felt like he could fall asleep on the spot, though usually it hit him in the Kiss-N-Cry when he came off the adrenaline of competition.
The burly guy staggered a step under John's sudden full weight.
"Get him to a hospital, or I'll have you all sued within an inch of your lives at which point I'll buy this rink just for the satisfaction of seeing you fired!" Rodney said.
"Call 911," the burly guy said over his shoulder. He was a practical man.
They brought John a stretcher – which was embarrassing and unnecessary, John was sure, but they still weren't listening to him as they poured him onto it – and then two guys bounced him down a corridor. Watching the ceiling go by overhead, with the poorly painted pipes and ragged concrete, was a weird experience and John was sure he could have gone more smoothly and with fewer jogs of pain if they had just let him stand.
Outside in the wet parking lot, double-headed lamps made the slick asphalt shine. An ambulance was already silently waiting for him, its red lights blinking and flashing. It was cold in Colorado, crumbled brown snow shoved in every corner, and John shivered, still in just his costume. He was grateful when they finally shut the ambulance doors and he was staring at a new ceiling, white and curved.
The doors reopened, bringing a fresh wash of cold air as Rodney bullied his way into the ambulance, raising holy hell when the paramedic didn't want him along. John caught the tail end of the argument as the doors shut behind Rodney. "...do I look like I carry an automobile in my pocket? How am I supposed to get there?"
The ambulance staff hunched away from him. Rodney wasn't winning any friends tonight, and John was so grateful.
Rodney yelled at him the whole way.
"Don't think I haven't figured out you were doing the jumps all along, because no one pulls a triple axel out of his ass after being grounded for five weeks, I don't care how talented they are...."
It was the first time Rodney had ever called him talented.
[Previous][Next]
John's music: Brahms - Hungarian Dance #5
I'm now busting tail to post as much of Out Of Bounds as I can for
mad_maudlin before she leaves for the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan this Sunday. This is for you, babe. ;) Thank you for many years of excellent stories, your twinking sense of humor, and fascinating posts on linguistics. I want to hear alllllll about it when you get back.Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "I'm his coach and therefore my word is law."
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me, amothea for listening to me whine, teaphile for her birds eye view. Our special guest star beta is sarka with her sparkling knowledge of Czechoslovakian cold war politics. Thank you, sarka. And, yes, I know there are no 1986 Olympics. ;)Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. At the 1986 Olympics, Rodney had befriended a young Czech ski jump judge, Radek Zelenka, and began a quiet affair that turned dangerous once the Czech government began to pressure Radek to prevent his brother from making his final ski jump. Meanwhile in the present, John begins competition at the America Cup.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
February, 1986
"After his lackluster performance in the short program yesterday, Canada's Rodney McKay needs to go for broke if he is to have any shot at the gold."
"Right now it's his technical scores in the compulsories that are keeping him afloat. Although many feel that the precision of the compulsories are the true measure of the best skater."
"Still, it's the freeskate that will determine the gold tonight."
"Absolutely. McKay's program does not have quite the level of technical difficulty as the Soviets, nor does he have the athletic power of the East German team, but what he does have is the artistic scores that often carry the day. Rodney McKay is a charismatic performer. It is truly something to see him skate in person."
Rodney's coach had both hands on Rodney's thin shoulders as Rodney bent over, coiled in on himself on the locker room bench.
"But they have better jumps than I do," Rodney said, dispirited.
"This is figure skating, not the high jump in track and field. No one cares if they put their footprints a little further on the ice – that's not a sign of real talent," his coach said. "You're better than all of them, and you've beaten them all before at Worlds."
Rodney's wide blue eyes flicked up, looking a shade desperate. "I have," he said, as if trying to remind himself.
"Now last night—"
"Last night was terrible!" Rodney wailed.
"Last night was good, you skated it clean, and almost everyone else made mistakes. Remember that. But these are the Olympics. You don't get a second chance. So skate like last night but this time put it all on the line," he said. "Give us everything, Rodney, and you'll do great." He thumped Rodney's back as Rodney stood. They heard the thunder of applause even this far down the hall from the ice. The Russian skater must have done something amazing because the Soviets weren't popular in Germany.
Swallowing, Rodney stepped out of the locker room into the brightly lit concrete tunnel to the rink, the crowd noise rising as he approached for his final skate. They were cheering the Soviet skater as he bowed at center ice, arms sweeping up, the flowers thrown in cellophane-wrapped bundles. Little stuffed animals seemed to be a new trend. Through the opening of the tunnel he saw the Soviet star lean down to scoop up a turquoise dinosaur and hold it in the air with amusement as this prompted more cheers.
Rodney read him: loose-limbed and confident. He must have had a very good skate. He approached the edge of the rink, deliberately a little late, as he rested his chin on the boards, praying quietly.
The rink was huge, every seat full and blinking with flashbulbs. Rodney noticed one of the cameras aimed in his direction and affected not to care. He'd never performed in front of so many, not even at Worlds. The rink had a wet shine to it from the heat of the stage lighting. Fortunately, from here the acoustics were such that you couldn't hear the scores as they were announced. But the flood of cheers said a word or two on that account.
Then everything seemed to fall still and speed up at once. Rodney didn't hear his name called, but his coach pushed his shoulder forward and said, "Go on, Rodney." He'd forgotten he was there.
The crowd roared, cheered, and whistled, Canadian flags and banners waving as Rodney skated onto the ice for his final freeskate.
February, 1998
John was in the men's room bent over the toilet. The tile was a green-blue with rust between the edges, and the roll was out of toilet paper. He slowly eased up till he was standing, wiping his mouth and rocking back a little.
"Must be something I ate on the plane," he told Rodney.
"I throw up every time, too," Rodney said, and waved him away from the toilet. "Come on." Then backed up a step, hands up. "Whoa. I mean, if you're done."
"I think so," John said, wavering where he stood and still woozy. He cupped his hand under a faucet, rinsed and spat as he leaned on both arms over the sink.
Rodney led John to the locker room mirror by the elbow. "Let's get you fixed up."
Still recovering and spacey, John stood in front of the long wall-length mirror, the cropped cobalt blue spangled jacket of his costume draped across one of the two benches behind him. He ignored the sweep of the little sponge as Rodney reapplied the pancake make-up over his nose and around his mouth, then added the dry fluff of the powder brush. John shook out first one foot, then the other, bouncing a little as he loosened his shoulders like a boxer.
Rubbing his fingers together with a quick flicking motion, Rodney picked up the black eye pencil from John's bag.
"I got that." John stopped him, slipping the eye pencil out of his hand. He stretched one eyelid, applying a thin line right above his eye lashes. "It's scary that we're all good with this stuff," he said, doing the other eye and blinking. Examining himself in the mirror, he smeared a small mistake away at the corner.
Rodney grimaced, scrunching his face. "I try not to think about it."
He put on the tiny cobalt blue sequined jacket over the white ruffled shirt and gave Rodney a death glare as Rodney pressed his lips together, eyes dancing, obviously trying hard not to laugh. He hadn't considered that they'd need to practice in costume just so Rodney could get it out of his system.
"One word...." John warned him in a low growl as he considered disemboweling Rodney if he lost it now.
"You look... great," Rodney lied, and John appreciated the effort.
With a purposeful stride, Rodney led John out in the bare concrete hall, the noise of the crowd rising as they approached. John was as white as a sheet, drawn in on himself, sweat beading along his hairline.
They were reading the scores for the last skater as John had his final brief warm-up on the edge of the ice. He always did his best not to listen to those, hands on his hips, head down. Cameras flashed in his direction.
Moments later the announcer called, "Representing the Glen Ellyn Figure Skating Club in Chicago, Illinois... John Sheppard."
John skated out, pasting a tight smile on his face. To this day John could still hear his first coach's voice: Smile, John. You look like you're going to a funeral.
At center ice, his body struck the starting pose of its own accord. Now there was nothing left but to skate. Rodney was rink-side behind him, he knew, chewing his nails. Living through every moment of this with him. It was like a thin imaginary lifeline.
The arena was much colder, quieter than Nationals six weeks ago, all the seats down in front full. Only a scattering of spectators in the upper stands. Two people alone, way up in the seats above the cavernous hole of the entryway, were having a conversation. The dark eye of a television camera pointed in his direction, which John tried hard not to think about. There were so many lights aimed at the ice that the stadium practically whited out.
The familiar music began, the music he'd skated to in every competition this season and countless practices over the last year. He'd never been more sick of a piece of music in his life. He moved, acting on pure muscle memory, and found himself spinning up into his first quad, landing it clean. A distant clapping sounded like someone shuffling a deck of cards.
Weird things were suddenly amplified as he moved into the straight line steps, left, right, turn, arms out, little stuff he never noticed: his posture wasn't good, his back had hunched as he jumped up into the next double. He knew it as it happened, yet couldn't help it on auto pilot, skating into a well-worn groove.
His favorite section, the low sliding steps with the double push to the outward edge went smoothly, he could feel it; he changed his footing and did the same on the inside edge and let himself glide up, bouncing and swinging his leg around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees into the half camels, switched legs and did the same. When he stabbed the ice with his toe pick for the triple flip, something wobbled. He spun around tight and landed it okay, but something was wrong.
Even though he skated like he'd always had, he suddenly knew none of it was right; it wasn't fixed. This was nothing like his skating with Rodney. It felt like going to kindergarten to sit in the back in too small a chair. For the first time he knew he hadn't made any progress.
Amazed, John lost his sense of the music, and the connection with his program vanished. He found himself going through the motions in the Russian step sequence – hit an edge wrong -- shit! -- his right skate tipped sideways for no good reason. He stumbled. And was skidding on his hands and knees. Stupid! Stupid!
He got back up but found himself chasing the music from then onward. It was all over very quickly as he found his last pose, not quite on his mark, his right fist punched in the air like he'd scored a victory.
The music stopped, after what seemed like three seconds on the ice, all of them that fall – in the easiest section of his program! John wondered if the crowd was as floored as he was.
Then they started clapping. That was forgiving of them, he thought.
He forced himself to bow as if everything had gone perfectly, hands sweeping out, his eyes wide and stunned. Then, shoulders hunched and his head down, he turned to skate off the ice. His knee wouldn't cooperate, and felt leaden, like it had been injected with novocaine.
A moment later, while he struggling to get a little momentum going -- his face turning hot as he couldn't get off the ice in front of all these people -- a solid someone reached under his arm and grabbed him, wrapping John's arm over his shoulder. John looked over at a bald-headed burly guy in a white polo shirt, a whistle dangling and the skating rink logo over his pocket.
"Where does it hurt?" burly guy asked.
He was fine. He didn't need any help.
"It doesn't hurt at all," John heard himself saying. "It just won't work."
"Okay. You need to get your weight off your right leg... straighten your left leg and I'll pull you."
They started moving towards the cavernous exit.
"Um. I hate to be a back seat driver but the Kiss-and-Cry is over there," John pointed, casting a glance over his shoulder to the right. He scanned for Rodney, waiting for him, but didn't see anyone on the platform.
"I don't think you're going there."
Oh, good, John thought. He sure as hell didn't want to know his scores for that shitty performance. He looked again for Rodney but no dice.
The audience had grown a lot louder, their talk and chatter sounding like the ocean to John. Faces collected alongside the boards, pressing closer and, as he got off the ice, John was pretty sure there were a lot more people taking pictures of him now than earlier. The thought had a bitter ironic taste, though he also thought it was kind of funny. His knee twanged like a bow once they were on dry land and that's when the pain began, throbbing low and searing up his leg. Eyes watering, he wished the ice stretched all the way to the locker room where he could lie down. His pills were there, too, though this would probably require the rest of the bottle.
"Where are you taking him?" Rodney's familiar snappish voice, sharp with panic, was a balm. John's face spun towards him in relief. Rodney was forcing his way through the crowd, must have come all the way from the Kiss-N-Cry, rudely shouldering people aside with the grace of a linebacker.
"Hey, Rodney," John said with breezy calm he didn't feel. "My knee stopped working. And I missed the straight line steps, can you believe it?" he blurted out.
"Shut up, I wasn't talking to you," Rodney said to John, turning to the guy holding John up.
The burly guy answered, "That's your option. We have medical staff on hand or we can call 911 and have him taken to the hospital."
The crowd hummed and roared around them. The announcer said something; John couldn't tell what it was. It occurred to him that they were probably holding up the program.
"Hospital," Rodney rapped out without a second's hesitation.
"I don't think that's necessary, I'm fine," John interrupted.
"And you are-?" the burly guy asked Rodney.
Why were they both ignoring him?
"I'm his coach and therefore my word is law: hospital. Now."
"No, no, I just need to lie down," John said in a cheerful, strangely disconnected voice that seemed to come from a vast distance. He felt the truth of that as the energy drained out of him; it was taking everything he had to stand there with his leg on fire, waves of fierce pain licking up his calf. Coupled with skating exhaustion, he felt like he could fall asleep on the spot, though usually it hit him in the Kiss-N-Cry when he came off the adrenaline of competition.
The burly guy staggered a step under John's sudden full weight.
"Get him to a hospital, or I'll have you all sued within an inch of your lives at which point I'll buy this rink just for the satisfaction of seeing you fired!" Rodney said.
"Call 911," the burly guy said over his shoulder. He was a practical man.
They brought John a stretcher – which was embarrassing and unnecessary, John was sure, but they still weren't listening to him as they poured him onto it – and then two guys bounced him down a corridor. Watching the ceiling go by overhead, with the poorly painted pipes and ragged concrete, was a weird experience and John was sure he could have gone more smoothly and with fewer jogs of pain if they had just let him stand.
Outside in the wet parking lot, double-headed lamps made the slick asphalt shine. An ambulance was already silently waiting for him, its red lights blinking and flashing. It was cold in Colorado, crumbled brown snow shoved in every corner, and John shivered, still in just his costume. He was grateful when they finally shut the ambulance doors and he was staring at a new ceiling, white and curved.
The doors reopened, bringing a fresh wash of cold air as Rodney bullied his way into the ambulance, raising holy hell when the paramedic didn't want him along. John caught the tail end of the argument as the doors shut behind Rodney. "...do I look like I carry an automobile in my pocket? How am I supposed to get there?"
The ambulance staff hunched away from him. Rodney wasn't winning any friends tonight, and John was so grateful.
Rodney yelled at him the whole way.
"Don't think I haven't figured out you were doing the jumps all along, because no one pulls a triple axel out of his ass after being grounded for five weeks, I don't care how talented they are...."
It was the first time Rodney had ever called him talented.
[Previous][Next]
John's music: Brahms - Hungarian Dance #5
