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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 twinkling 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: "Try that with a hot poker next because I don't think it hurt enough."
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. ;)
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
February, 1986
"The Czech officials have asked Jiri Zelenka to remove his number, which seems to have some writing on it. Looks like magic marker. They seem very upset. Let's have a closer look at that."
"I don't read Czech. You?"
"No. But there's a date on there. Let's see if we can get more infor.... We've just learned that it's the date of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia."
"Jiri Zelenka has certainly made a statement at these Olympic games."
"And currently he's in first place. But Finland is up next. They'll be tough to beat."
~*~*~
February, 1998
The hospital had speckled floors and white walls and brightly lit rooms that reminded John of something that nagged at the back of his mind, until he realized the lighting was a lot like the rink. He was laying on the hospital bed as strange hands cut away the pant leg of his costume and exposed him up to his thigh. Then those hands, warm and sure, touched his knee and rotated it gently.
"Agh!" John yelped, coming to full consciousness. The doctor prodded him just below the knee. "Try that with a hot poker next because I don't think it hurt enough." He glared.
"You do have a medical license, right?" Rodney asked. "And your name's not Kevorkian?"
The doctor wore a sea-green hospital coat and was very young, with black, cropped curly hair and deep brown skin. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on a chart without comment, the pen scratching quietly.
"It's probably the ACL again," John said to fill the space.
"No. Your knee is not subluxated in full extension so the anterior cruciate ligament is not a likely culprit," the young doctor said in a clipped tenor, with just a little of the inner city in his voice. "Also, the pain would suggest another cause."
"Really?" Rodney said with an amazed expression, seeming to understand all that.
John just looked at the doc as if he'd just spouted Greek. Or Latin, which was probably closer to the truth.
"I've had ACL problems before," John said, mystified.
"Yes. We had your medical records faxed to us by the U.S. Figure Skating Association." Someone at the association had his medical records? John wondered about the legality of that but didn't have time to consider the implications. "It appears that the reconstructive surgery two years ago was a success, although all signs suggest an extreme amount of stress on the affected knee which we would prefer you'd avoid. For the current situation we'll need X-rays to confirm it," the doctor continued, clicking on an overhead light. John put his hand up to block it. "But your symptoms most likely indicate an anterior tibial stress fracture."
"A fracture?" John said.
"Have you engaged in an increased level of activity recently? Heavy, repetitive motions?"
"I've done a lot of jumping...." John said.
"Mmm-hmm. When did the pain first appear?" the doctor continued briskly, not looking at John.
"When I was rollerblading. I, uh, fell."
"It was related to a specific fall?" the doctor asked, frowning in sudden concern.
"Rollerblading?" Rodney squawked.
"And this was on-?"
John winced and squirmed, scrunching his face. "Can we not talk about that right now?"
"Did the pain first appear this evening or before?" the doctor continued relentlessly.
"Before," John admitted. "It started on Friday."
"Friday?" Rodney said.
John hung his head. "I really don't want to talk about this...."
"I can have him removed if you like," the doctor offered. His manner was professional and smooth, the sort of guy who worked very hard to be perfect, but it seemed he liked the idea as he finally raised his face from John's chart.
John's eyes widened in worry at the thought of Rodney leaving. "No, he can stay," he said, the casual words belied by his sharp tone.
As the doctor left, Rodney started in on John. "Friday? Didn't I tell you to cool it on Friday...?"
And with a complaining groan, John put his arm over his face.
~*~*~
February, 1986
Jeannie pounded on Rodney's door. She had moved past polite knocking to the full drum kit, but he was Not. Listening. He turned up his Walkman further and could easily ignore her till the cows came home.
"You can't stay locked in your room forever," came Jeannie's muffled voice.
"Oh, yes, I can," Rodney said into his pillow. He wasn't crying. He was avoiding the press in the most thorough way possible, and why did they have those vultures ready to pounce the moment you left the Kiss-n-Cry?
"Dad wants to talk to you," Jeannie added.
His sister always loved to deliver bad news.
"Tell him to go away," Rodney said.
"And there's a letter here for you from someone called 'Dalek'...?"
"That's Radek," Rodney corrected. He stood, unlocked the door, and yanked it open in a heartbeat, snatching the letter out of her hand with a quick swipe, then tried to close it again – but she threw her shoulder against it and held the door wide open, her feet braced. His coach and his father were in the adjoining room to Rodney's. His father's arms were crossed while his coach sat on his bed, wiping his forehead.
"Told you that would flush him out," Jeannie said to their dad with a victorious smile. Rodney was already tearing the letter open. A folded newspaper article fell out onto the floor and Rodney bent to pick it up. "Bet it's a love letter."
"Rodney...." his father began, his voice stern.
"Who's Radek?" his coach asked, puzzled.
Rodney made an impatient gesture. "He's a Czech ski jump...." He drifted into silence as he read Radek's note. It was short. Far too short. All it said was:
I'm sorry I could not come to see you skate.
- R.Z.
Rodney turned his attention to the folded article, which was in English, thankfully. The headline said, Czech Protester Jumps to Silver.
"How do you know a Czech ski jumper?" his coach asked, mouth open.
"He's a ski jump judge, now will you all be quiet a second?" Rodney waved them off as his eyes scanned frantically down the page. He threw them a bone, adding with an off-handed gesture, "He was supposed to go to Amsterdam with me."
His father froze. Then he pulled the article firmly from Rodney's hand, his eyes growing wide as he read it. "You planned to go to Amsterdam with a Czechoslovakian dissident?"
Jeannie chortled, sidling close and shifting the article delicately from her father's hands. "What? You leading some kind of double life, Mer?"
Rodney snatched it from her. "That's mine." He started reading again. "And he's not a dissident – oh, my god, they're calling him a dissident! Well, from this newspaper it's a compliment, but still."
"How do you know this person?" Rodney's father asked, his intense eyes alarmed.
"That's what I'd like to know," his coach echoed wonderingly.
His sister snatched the article from Rodney's hands -- again -- and skimmed it. "Oh, he's the one that did that ski jump protest."
Rodney's coach leaned over her shoulder to read it, frowning.
"You know about this?" Rodney looked up, squinting at her.
"It's all over the news. Where've you been?" Jeannie said.
"Skating!"
"...and going to Amsterdam," Jeannie muttered under her breath, quickly silenced by a dark look from her dad.
Rodney took advantage of her distraction to seize the article back. She held tight and he shouted, "Rip it and I'll disown you all!"
She let go.
"Rodney. I need to speak with you. Privately," his father said. His words fell on deaf ears as Rodney kept reading.
Then Rodney looked up, eyes wide with horror. "He's gone. They sent him back to Czechoslovakia yesterday."
The article fluttered to the bed.
"How did you meet this person?" his father asked, his brow furrowed.
"Oooo! Meredith has a boyfriend...." Jeannie teased.
"Oh, shut up, everyone knows I'm gay!" Rodney snapped at her.
Rodney's father fell completely still.
Rodney glanced around the room at the sudden silence. Jeannie's eyes circled warily to their dad.
"Um. Present company excepted, I guess." Rodney turned to his coach with a puzzled frown. "But I thought... Marc, didn't I ask you to tell dad?"
His coach had his face in his hands, rounded shoulders slumped. He ran his hands slowly down his face and let them drop his lap, saying, "I think I said that this is something you have to handle yourself, Rodney."
"Okay. Well. News flash!" He held his hands up and waggled his fingers. "I'm gay, gay, gay! Now that that's handled, can we get back to the point?"
"I knew...." Jeannie muttered.
His father turned to the window, his hand to his forehead like he had a headache. "What am I going to tell your mother?" Shoulders squared and stiff, he sighed and braced a forearm against the window frame. "Am I to understand that instead of hearing about you sneaking away to Amsterdam -- during the most important competition of your life -- we could have been hearing about you sneaking off to have a... relationship, a gay relationship," he seemed stuck on that point, reeling, "in Amsterdam. With a Czechoslovakian dissident?"
"You make it sound so terrible." Rodney blinked.
"So this is your boyfriend?" Jeannie interrupted gleefully, holding up the picture in the article.
"No," Rodney said with infinite disgust and patience. "That's his brother, Jiri."
"So you were with the criminal."
"No! He's not a criminal!"
"They said he cheated in the judging for his brother. The Czechoslovakians even want to give the medal back."
"Read it!" Rodney shouted, poking his finger at the article. "It says right here, bottom of the third paragraph: Radek was just a trial judge. The article says his scores wouldn't count towards the total. It's like a practice judge when you're new." He sighed heavily and sat on Marc's bed. "The Czech government was threatening him to make his brother not jump because of the Russians. He told me. I just wasn't listening," Rodney said, slumped and miserable. Then an option dawned on him and he brightened. "I could go to the press."
Rodney's father watched this exchange like an impending train wreck. Then he finally said, with false soft-voiced calm, "Rodney. You are going to stay here. You are not to leave your room unless I say so." He speared Rodney with a look, his pale blue eyes bright and laser-sharp. "'Room' as defined by these four walls. 'Me' as defined as no one other than me. These are simple rules in clear language, Rodney, with no wiggle room whatsoever. Have I been understood? Nod and say yes to answer."
Rodney stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. He nodded. "Yes," he said, careful not to add a single syllable to his instructions.
"Marc." He motioned for Rodney's coach to follow him. "I'd like a word." He stepped into the hallway without looking back.
Rodney's coach looked equally frightened, if resigned. As he and Rodney's father left, Marc cast a wan look back at Rodney.
As the door hissed slowly shut behind them, his father's voice carried from the hall, "Explain to me why you didn't know about this...."
~*~*~
February, 1998
John shut the door to his apartment with his right elbow and heard it bang too loud behind him. He fumbled the crutch back under his arm, adjusting the left side again as he swung forward towards the kitchen, ignoring all the things that he wasn't going to be able to do right now. The sheets were still stripped off the bed, exposing the bare mattress. Laundry was still hanging off the rod in the kitchen, half-blocking the window in a brightly-colored curtain of clothes.
Leaning against the kitchen counter for precarious balance, John plunked a saucepan of water on the stove and then, with a couple of hops, pulled hot dogs out of the fridge. He achieved splashdown, tossing one, and then the second hot dog into the pan from where he stood. The water sloshed and hissed onto the electric burner. The buns landed with a thump on the kitchen table. He was a pro with crutches and knew all the tricks.
He'd told Rodney the truth that he had food, but Rodney had fussed and insisted on going shopping tomorrow -- though neither of them had figured out how that was going to work since Rodney didn't have a car. But Rodney had insisted on the cast and most conservative treatment plan possible. Then he spent most of the return trip embarrassing John, following him around with a pen and notepad, forcing John sit in the aisle seat (insisting loudly that it was so he could get up for the bathroom) and harassing the stewardesses with his demand that they be allowed to sit in the exit row for the extra leg room. John had smiled his apologies to them and made Rodney sit down in their assigned seats.
After a few minutes, he speared his hotdogs on a fork, carrying the little ketchup bottle in his teeth. Experience had taught him that throwing the bottle resulted in ketchup splattered all over the kitchen.
With a two more swings on the crutches, he dropped the ketchup on the table, and got the hotdogs into buns, never mind using a plate. John propped himself in front of the chair and turned around with little hops. He used the table for balance as he leaned the crutches against the wall and then eased himself down to the seat. He bumped his foot on the table leg and winced. He hated the weakness that came from hospital drugs and moving around with his leg in the heavy pendulum of a cast.
John leaned his head on his elbow, trying to work out logistics. When he'd hurt his knee two years ago, ruining his chances at Worlds, he'd lived with roommates. That had made some things easier.
A moment later, he shook himself awake and forced himself to eat.
~*~*~
March, 1996
None of his roommates from U of T gave a damn about figure skating. That helped. It cut down on the pity.
John edged his hips deeper into the couch, lifting himself up on his hands as he tried not to jostle the injured knee. He grimaced, then reached for the remote. Having roommates sucked and he couldn't wait to have his own pad again but he'd been saving money for--
John cut off that thought with a scowl, because it went places that hurt more than the leg. The electric buzz on the back of his knee felt like it had fallen asleep, though it was probably pain deadened by the drugs. He wrapped the ace bandage tighter, tugging at it. The doctor had mentioned surgery, given he was 26 and an athlete.
At least the guys had sprung for cable. John clicked on ESPN and lay back against the arm of the couch, not watching it, staring at the ceiling. The sharp pitch of a whistle sounded over the hiss and roar of the crowd. John idly identified it as football.
He popped the cap off a beer and sipped, his one rebellion against the meds. He was getting seriously dizzy and he couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Pounding footsteps interrupted his haze.
His roommate, Nate, lumbered down the stairs, unshaven, wearing a sloppy stretched sweatshirt and a pair of boxers that just barely peeked out over his hairy white legs. He stopped just before the last step, catching sight of John, hands trailing along the low ceiling.
"Sheppard?" He had that sour look of unpleasant surprise you got when a relative dropped by. "Aren't you supposed to be in, like, France or something?"
John supplied the translation: I thought I'd have the place to myself to fuck my girlfriend.
"Ecuador, but close enough," John said with a deliberate easy gesture, dangling the beer from two fingers—and hating him with a passion. "Injured my leg. ACL."
Nate took in "ACL" with a blank look followed by a disinterested shrug. "Too bad. Sounded like a cool place. Better luck next year." He headed for the kitchen and John heard the fridge open and close.
"Yeah," John muttered to himself aloud. "Because I get picked for the U.S. Worlds team every year."
The TV switched to a blaring commercial, an electric guitar run and flashing images in the corner of John's eye. Then an announcer shouted, "Next up: Live coverage of the World's Championship men's figure skating short program! Will Kyle--"
With quick-draw speed, John switched the channel to a bad soap opera.
Even ESPN had betrayed him. He didn't throw the remote at the TV but it was a near thing.
The sound of the soap opera washed over him, barely sounding like English. He'd heard that they had Spanish soap operas in Ecuador that the skaters mocked in between practices.
He wished he could just as easily change the channel in his mind.
The doorbell rang, too close and loud to be on the TV. There was the voice of Nate's girlfriend, with that effusive "Hiiii...!" The wet sound of a long kiss in the doorway. John shut his eyes and could almost feel the moment when she stopped cold just on the edge of the living room.
"John. Aren't you supposed to be in France or something?"
"Ecuador," John snapped, biting off the word. He tried to follow it with a smile. It wasn't her fault after all.
He heard them scamper up the stairs, her squeal and giggle at the top of the steps, and silently vowed to get really drunk this weekend. Maybe all week.
With a limp gesture he picked up one of the vials on the folding TV dinner tray, turning it in his fingers. The label warned in capital letters: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.
Drunk and stoned, he amended.
~*~*~
February, 1998
It took John several minutes to answer the door, as the knocking grew steadily louder and more impatient. With an irritated scowl, he unlocked it and tried to back up a step on the crutches before the door swung wide. Rodney stood in the hallway with four plastic bags of groceries dangling from his hands.
"Number one," he announced, "you need to give me a key. This is cantaloupe—" He held up one arm and jiggled the two bags. "—and therefore heavy, not to mention I start feeling rejected if I'm left standing in the hall forever. Number two, your convalescence is becoming painfully inconvenient for me, so let me borrow your car."
He slipped past John, head high as he headed unerringly for the kitchen and clicked on the lights. To Rodney's credit, he did put the groceries away, something he didn't always do for himself.
"Rodney, I've never even seen you drive."
"How hard can it be?"
John rolled his eyes as he followed more slowly to the kitchen with careful, swinging steps.
"I'm kidding, just kidding!" Rodney said as he stuffed lettuce into the crisper. John had him trained to put things where they belonged. More or less. "I have a Honda – the trouble is, it doesn't work." He swung around to John, eyes pleading. The cabinets were open behind him and he narrowly missed clipping his head on the corner of one. "Please? You don't understand what it's been like. You were my ride every morning, all I had to work out was Saturdays. Now my budget is spinning out of control what with all the cab rides—"
"Get somebody else to drive you," John said, settling himself in the chair Rodney usually used. He refused to feel guilty. It was Rodney who had insisted on the full plastic cast.
"Well, it's not as though I'm on the way for everyone."
John decided not to mention that Rodney wasn't exactly on the way for him either. He just didn't mind.
"And there are some people I can't ask, like, oh, the Bevingtons." He shuddered visibly. "And this." He brandished a bag of celery in his fist. "Is getting ridiculous. If I had a vehicle I could do it all in one trip a week, but the most I can carry when I get a ride is four bags and I'm really regretting that cantaloupe right about now." He rubbed his wrist. "I take back what I said about you eating like a bird, by the way: you consume your body weight daily, I just don't know where it goes."
John didn't want to admit that he didn't like the idea of seeing Rodney only once a week. It got really quiet during the day. He'd never had many distractions and all his hobbies were pretty similar: skateboarding, rollerblading, basketball – skiing back when he could afford it. He played chess.
"Rodney. Look around." John gestured at his apartment. "This is it. Everything you see here and that car is all I've got." He made a slicing gesture. "And I've never even seen you drive. No."
"I remember how!" Rodney swore to him.
"It's only a few more weeks. Or I can work something else out...." John began, rubbing the back of his head, though he had no idea what that would be.
"Yes, you and your thousands of friends. I noticed I had to fight my way through the flowers and crowds of well-wishers." Rodney gestured to the empty flower-free apartment, then huffed a heavy, miserable sigh as he clicked on the stove.
John couldn't tell his friends. One, most of them were back in the states, and two, they might slip and mention it to his parents. Then with alarm he noticed Rodney was cooking.
"Wait... no, you don't have to do that...." He scrambled for his crutches, knocking one to the floor. It landed with a clatter.
Rodney picked up the crutch for him. "I wouldn't dream of it. What are friends for?" He beamed, opening the cookbook. He studied it like it was a textbook. Then he bent to assemble the pots and pans he'd need.
On the one hand, Rodney didn't cook so much as overcook. Spaghetti really was the only thing he could manage, probably because you could simmer it for days. On the other hand, when he cooked, he stayed and watched TV afterward with John, making fun of the dull documentaries on cable and "mindless American television, oh, this so explains Ronald Reagan...."
As ever, Rodney dismissed his suggestions as "interference" with his "culinary expertise." John sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching Rodney, and felt pretty damned pathetic.
~*~*~
It had worked that morning. John flipped through entire channels of gray fuzz as he tried to find ESPN. He finally realized he was cycling through the same buttons on the remote. In pent-up frustration dropped the remote on the covers, snagging his crutches as he swung his leg off the bed.
He hobbled over to the TV and circled it, bouncing a little as he moved around to check for wires that might have been knocked loose. He bumped into things a lot right now.
And, lifting his head, he realized what must have happened.
"Son of a bitch," John said. The cable man must have caught on to his illegal connection.
This was the last straw.
Determined, John walk-hopped with wide swinging steps towards the closet. Halfway there, he thought better of it and changed direction, rearranging himself to angle towards the kitchen.
Under the sink there was a ballooning collection of Rodney's plastic grocery bags, and the garbage was getting ripe. He grabbed two white plastic bags. Then, returning to the closet, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and used the end of his left crutch to drag a cardboard box of tools across the wood floor of the closet. Fortunately, the most recently used tools were the ones he'd needed the last time he set up the connection and still right on top. Clutter in the closet settled in a small landslide as he pulled the box out, but, leaning one crutch against the wall, the spool of wire, flathead screwdriver, and tin-snips were lifted easily into the two plastic bags.
He tied the plastic bags around the bend of each of his crutches, testing their balance and swing. Separated, they were both pretty light. John smiled at his cleverness.
He experimented with the whole set-up in a swinging walk-hop to the kitchen, the two bags acting as awkward counterweights. It was going to work. Leaned against the counter, the crutches clutched in one hand as he opened the fridge, John nabbed a bottle of water. Then made a beeline to the little tray on the counter where he kept his set of keys.
He stood on one leg as he pocketed the jingling keys, then looked up to begin his trek, eyes narrowed and intent. The cable box was on the third floor. But the steps were wood, which meant solid footing, with clear, squared off landings between them.
He left the door unlocked behind him. The main hall had deep green carpet that had seen better days, though the walls were freshly painted. The main stair ran through the center of the building, only a few doors down from John's first floor apartment. John didn't expect a traffic jam at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hi, John," said Mrs. Hendrikson, a short round woman with wide hips in a blue flowered dress. She had a potted fern under one arm where she stood on the bottom step, blocking his way. "Good to see you out and about. How's the leg?"
"Still in a cast." John stated the obvious, tipping his head with rueful charm.
"I'll bet you've been going stir crazy in that apartment of yours this week." She smiled at him. Not moving from that step.
"Yeah," John said, wishing her gone.
They finished the pointless pleasantries while she somehow failed to notice that he was standing there on one leg and crutches. She finally cleared the stairway and waddled down the first floor hallway.
John breathed a sigh and gripped the handrail, both crutches under his other arm, and quickly found a flaw in his plan. The bags now were both swinging on his left side and together way they were heavy and off-balance. He was guaranteed to drop them. He stopped, stood on one leg with his shoulder against the wall to untie them, head dipped in concentration. He stretched the loops of the bags a little and swung them over his neck. It was less than ideal. If he fell... well, he'd better not.
There was a trampling sound down the stairs as his upstairs neighbor appeared, the one with the habit of pacing late at night. John had finally explained his schedule to the guy. One rug later -- problem solved. He was older man in his late fifties, solidly built with slate-gray hair. He wore a blue and white jogging outfit from the eighties, complete with racing stripes down the sides.
"What are you up to, John?" he said.
"Out for a little walk," John said.
"Good for you," the man said, completely disinterested as he headed for the front door. For the first time John regretted he lived in a building with a lot of retirees, who apparently were around all the time. Also, they were painfully healthy. He watched the guy trundle down the front steps with ease.
Better balanced now, John grabbed the handrail again, grateful it was on the right side by the injured leg, and tucked the crutches under his left arm. He got them braced and then, hanging onto the rail (hard), he hopped up a step on his good left leg, holding the heavy cast up behind him. The tools bounced against his chest.
His right side was usually his take-off leg for jumps but in effect this really wasn't all that different. Past experience had taught him to go up the stairs fast though.
He rested at the top of the first flight, balanced with his shoulder against the wall. Surprisingly, it was his arms that felt tired, missing his workouts. He tried to pull the bottled water out of the bag but blew it and dropped one of the crutches instead. Shit. So he gave up on the water – he'd reward himself with that on the third floor – and struggled to bend and pick up the crutch. Finally, with a sigh, he focused on the next flight, hopping into position.
Jaw clenched, he took the next series of hops quickly, paused, then finished the flight. He didn't give himself time to think of the fact that he had still more to go, launching into the next steps right away.
His thighs burned, and other than the nagging ache in his right leg, it almost felt good. A relief to be back in action. At the base of the last flight he steadied himself and focused, recognizing the wave of giddiness that came with pushing it. He forced himself to rest, propped up against the wall. He leaned the crutches, handles down, against the wall, and pulled out the bottle of water.
The gray metal cable box was at the top of the last flight. Target acquired.
With a grim smile, John put away the water and tucked the crutches back under his arm. He was tired, but at this point it was just a quick series of practiced swing-hops to the top, much easier now. With a relieved breath, John propped his crutches up and leaned his back against the wall, wiping the sweat off his damp forehead.
Down the stairway, several levels below, loud heavy shoes echoed. But whoever it was didn't come his way.
John slipped the two plastic grocery bags off his neck, then thought the better of it – what was he going to do? Put them out of reach on the floor? – and helped himself to more water. Recapping the bottle, he dragged the flathead screwdriver out of the bag, smiling with mischief.
With a sharp-eyed look over his shoulder, he set to work.
Sure enough, the cable guy had replaced the old flimsy lock with an even thicker Master lock. Nice try, but John didn't need to cut the lock on the cable box. The hinges were far easier to remove. He pried the rusted pins out. They were still loosened from the last time.
The box swung open with a loud clattering crash, sagging on its one "hinge." Normally John would have caught it but this time he had to just let it fall and swing back. He froze, listening for steps, eyes wide and hunted. He silently waited for it to finish the motion of its swing as he pocketed the hinges.
Hopping a little closer to peer into the box, it wasn't difficult to figure out which switch was his own. None of them were marked, but it was pretty obvious, since his and the empty apartment were only ones that were turned off. It was one benefit of living in an apartment building with retirees. Shoulder against the hard edge of metal, he connected both, just in case, although he was fairly sure he knew which was one was his.
The next stage was going to be the hard part, though usually it was easy. One hand on the box, John hopped and grabbed the awkward leaning door, staggering a little as he hopped back and swung it up to hold it with his shoulder.
Okay. That was stupid. That could have been a bad backward fall. He tapped the hinge-pins back in.
Then the stairway door swung open behind him. John stuffed the screwdriver into the bag around his neck. It was a guy in his thirties in a rumpled brown suit, with a wan face, blond hair falling in his eyes. John didn't know the people on the third floor.
"It's a little loud out here. What are you doing?" the guy asked, taking in John's crutches. His accent sounded British.
John said, still clutching the box, "Holding on for dear life."
"Oh," the blond guy blinked. "You probably shouldn't be on the stair. You could fall."
"I needed the exercise," John said, truthfully this time, his heart pounding.
Looking concerned, the guy reached over and handed John his crutches.
"Sometimes I think they should put in a lift. You sure you can manage it all right?" he asked with a worried expression, glancing down the long stairs.
"Oh, I got this far," John said, then he reassured the nice guy, "Down is always a lot easier than up."
"Okay," he said doubtfully. "Don't slip." And he stayed on the top step watching as John hopped down the steps.
Down really was easier.
After the second flight, John glanced up. The guy had gone. Then John let his head tip back with an audible sigh of relief.
He grinned as he turned the corner of the last landing.
At the bottom of the stretch of stairway was Rodney, staring at John with an open-mouthed mystified expression. Several plastic bags of groceries dangled from his wrists.
~*~*~
"The bedroom of course you are already thoroughly familiar with." Rodney indicated his own room with a wave of his hand in the cheerful tone of a tour guide director on the Love Boat. "Your clothes are on hangers in the closet -- within easy reach you'll note -- while your toiletries—"
"Toiletries?" John echoed with a ghost of amusement.
"—reside in the medicine cabinet. Left-hand side." Rodney's casual wave indicated the bathroom behind them. "You may go outside onto the porch to get some air, but!" He emphasized this with a raised forefinger. "You are not allowed, under any circumstances, to negotiate the front steps." He added, "And don't think for a second that I won't stoop to electronic surveillance because I most certainly will."
"Kinky," John commented with an approving nod.
He rocked forward on his crutches and started to explore.
Rodney's clutter of boxes, scattered clothes, skate guards, piles of magazines and newspapers, CDs, computer equipment and DVDs hadn't been so much "cleaned up" as they'd been shoved against the livingroom walls to clear a wider path for John. He had to admit though, there was a lot more space than in his tiny apartment, which had never seemed so small. The coffee table had been pushed out of the way and it was now possible to reach the couch without having to step over anything. John looked around back towards the kitchen. Both kitchen chairs had been similarly cleared, while the piles of envelopes and whatnot had been moved from the table to the top of the boxes of cans -- that were still there, almost a month later.
"What if there's a fire?"
Rodney looked pained. "I'm speaking of actualities, as in you actually walking up three steep flights of stairs today, as opposed to hypotheticals, such as this house catching on fire which hasn't happened in the ten years I've lived here."
"So I'm allowed to run for my life?" John said, a smile starting at the corner of his mouth.
"It had better be dire and you had better not be the one who started it."
Rodney followed John to the bathroom, where John leaned one crutch under his arm, freeing up a hand to click on the light. There were fluffy white towels on the towel rack. He opened the medicine cabinet. His toothbrush was right there next to Rodney's.
He backed out and tried the new path to the bedroom. So far his crutches cleared all the piles, though he thought this was far more hazardous than his nice, empty apartment. In the bedroom the path had been widened to leave a clear ring around both sides of the bed.
Rodney stood behind him in the doorway and wrung his hands. "Um. If you'd prefer, I can clean out the den and you can have the hide-a-bed and your own space... I don't mean to presume, there just hasn't been time...."
"Nah, this is all right," John said, and smiled at Rodney with a tiny shrug of one shoulder. "It's only a few weeks."
"Ah. Well. Don't think you get to loaf about eating bon-bons." Rodney clapped and rubbed his hands together. "It's pre-season so...."
"I know. Program design time." John bobbed his head. "As soon as you have it and I can skate again," he lifted his arms to indicate the crutches, "I'll try it out."
"What do you mean, as soon as I have it?" Rodney asked.
"As soon as you've got the general choreography, I'll run through it," John said. "It's okay. I know we're going to be behind and we'll probably have to tweak it here and there, but I have confidence in what you can do."
Rodney stared. "Have you never participated in the design of your programs?"
John gave him a sarcastic smile. "I'm not a choreographer, Rodney."
"Okay. I'll do that for a nine-year-old, just hand over a program, but even my preteens participate in their program design. How can you expect any trace of your personality to shine through if... wait. You know what?" Rodney cut himself off. "Never mind. I've seen what you skate, and, oh, this explains so much."
John tipped his head doubtfully and said in a sour voice, "Rodney. Maybe the kids you've had doing this since they were five are good at it, but I've had a few years to learn what I can and can't do." He rubbed an itchy spot on his nose with his shoulder and admitted, "It'll suck."
"I'm not going to have you do it from scratch. I can't even design an elite program -- not one that'll win anyway. But you can't be passively handed a program and expect it to be anything more than just a reflection of the choreographer."
"I dunno...." John shook his head.
"Tomorrow, you start with the music," Rodney rolled right over him, ignoring his doubts. He smirked. "I trust I have a sufficient selection? Try not to blow out the speakers, they're expensive, and the neighbors," he twiddled his fingers in the air and tipped his head with a guilty wince, "well, they complain."
That sounded a lot like personal experience, John thought.
"Oh. And John...?" Rodney had a devilish glint and his smile didn't bode well. He picked up the television remote and placed it firmly in John's hand. "I have cable."
[Previous][Next]
John's music: Johnny Cash - Hurt
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 twinkling 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: "Try that with a hot poker next because I don't think it hurt enough."
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. After John's performance at the America Cup (and after), Rodney decides he'd better keep a closer eye on him.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
February, 1986
"The Czech officials have asked Jiri Zelenka to remove his number, which seems to have some writing on it. Looks like magic marker. They seem very upset. Let's have a closer look at that."
"I don't read Czech. You?"
"No. But there's a date on there. Let's see if we can get more infor.... We've just learned that it's the date of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia."
"Jiri Zelenka has certainly made a statement at these Olympic games."
"And currently he's in first place. But Finland is up next. They'll be tough to beat."
February, 1998
The hospital had speckled floors and white walls and brightly lit rooms that reminded John of something that nagged at the back of his mind, until he realized the lighting was a lot like the rink. He was laying on the hospital bed as strange hands cut away the pant leg of his costume and exposed him up to his thigh. Then those hands, warm and sure, touched his knee and rotated it gently.
"Agh!" John yelped, coming to full consciousness. The doctor prodded him just below the knee. "Try that with a hot poker next because I don't think it hurt enough." He glared.
"You do have a medical license, right?" Rodney asked. "And your name's not Kevorkian?"
The doctor wore a sea-green hospital coat and was very young, with black, cropped curly hair and deep brown skin. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on a chart without comment, the pen scratching quietly.
"It's probably the ACL again," John said to fill the space.
"No. Your knee is not subluxated in full extension so the anterior cruciate ligament is not a likely culprit," the young doctor said in a clipped tenor, with just a little of the inner city in his voice. "Also, the pain would suggest another cause."
"Really?" Rodney said with an amazed expression, seeming to understand all that.
John just looked at the doc as if he'd just spouted Greek. Or Latin, which was probably closer to the truth.
"I've had ACL problems before," John said, mystified.
"Yes. We had your medical records faxed to us by the U.S. Figure Skating Association." Someone at the association had his medical records? John wondered about the legality of that but didn't have time to consider the implications. "It appears that the reconstructive surgery two years ago was a success, although all signs suggest an extreme amount of stress on the affected knee which we would prefer you'd avoid. For the current situation we'll need X-rays to confirm it," the doctor continued, clicking on an overhead light. John put his hand up to block it. "But your symptoms most likely indicate an anterior tibial stress fracture."
"A fracture?" John said.
"Have you engaged in an increased level of activity recently? Heavy, repetitive motions?"
"I've done a lot of jumping...." John said.
"Mmm-hmm. When did the pain first appear?" the doctor continued briskly, not looking at John.
"When I was rollerblading. I, uh, fell."
"It was related to a specific fall?" the doctor asked, frowning in sudden concern.
"Rollerblading?" Rodney squawked.
"And this was on-?"
John winced and squirmed, scrunching his face. "Can we not talk about that right now?"
"Did the pain first appear this evening or before?" the doctor continued relentlessly.
"Before," John admitted. "It started on Friday."
"Friday?" Rodney said.
John hung his head. "I really don't want to talk about this...."
"I can have him removed if you like," the doctor offered. His manner was professional and smooth, the sort of guy who worked very hard to be perfect, but it seemed he liked the idea as he finally raised his face from John's chart.
John's eyes widened in worry at the thought of Rodney leaving. "No, he can stay," he said, the casual words belied by his sharp tone.
As the doctor left, Rodney started in on John. "Friday? Didn't I tell you to cool it on Friday...?"
And with a complaining groan, John put his arm over his face.
February, 1986
Jeannie pounded on Rodney's door. She had moved past polite knocking to the full drum kit, but he was Not. Listening. He turned up his Walkman further and could easily ignore her till the cows came home.
"You can't stay locked in your room forever," came Jeannie's muffled voice.
"Oh, yes, I can," Rodney said into his pillow. He wasn't crying. He was avoiding the press in the most thorough way possible, and why did they have those vultures ready to pounce the moment you left the Kiss-n-Cry?
"Dad wants to talk to you," Jeannie added.
His sister always loved to deliver bad news.
"Tell him to go away," Rodney said.
"And there's a letter here for you from someone called 'Dalek'...?"
"That's Radek," Rodney corrected. He stood, unlocked the door, and yanked it open in a heartbeat, snatching the letter out of her hand with a quick swipe, then tried to close it again – but she threw her shoulder against it and held the door wide open, her feet braced. His coach and his father were in the adjoining room to Rodney's. His father's arms were crossed while his coach sat on his bed, wiping his forehead.
"Told you that would flush him out," Jeannie said to their dad with a victorious smile. Rodney was already tearing the letter open. A folded newspaper article fell out onto the floor and Rodney bent to pick it up. "Bet it's a love letter."
"Rodney...." his father began, his voice stern.
"Who's Radek?" his coach asked, puzzled.
Rodney made an impatient gesture. "He's a Czech ski jump...." He drifted into silence as he read Radek's note. It was short. Far too short. All it said was:
I'm sorry I could not come to see you skate.
- R.Z.
Rodney turned his attention to the folded article, which was in English, thankfully. The headline said, Czech Protester Jumps to Silver.
"How do you know a Czech ski jumper?" his coach asked, mouth open.
"He's a ski jump judge, now will you all be quiet a second?" Rodney waved them off as his eyes scanned frantically down the page. He threw them a bone, adding with an off-handed gesture, "He was supposed to go to Amsterdam with me."
His father froze. Then he pulled the article firmly from Rodney's hand, his eyes growing wide as he read it. "You planned to go to Amsterdam with a Czechoslovakian dissident?"
Jeannie chortled, sidling close and shifting the article delicately from her father's hands. "What? You leading some kind of double life, Mer?"
Rodney snatched it from her. "That's mine." He started reading again. "And he's not a dissident – oh, my god, they're calling him a dissident! Well, from this newspaper it's a compliment, but still."
"How do you know this person?" Rodney's father asked, his intense eyes alarmed.
"That's what I'd like to know," his coach echoed wonderingly.
His sister snatched the article from Rodney's hands -- again -- and skimmed it. "Oh, he's the one that did that ski jump protest."
Rodney's coach leaned over her shoulder to read it, frowning.
"You know about this?" Rodney looked up, squinting at her.
"It's all over the news. Where've you been?" Jeannie said.
"Skating!"
"...and going to Amsterdam," Jeannie muttered under her breath, quickly silenced by a dark look from her dad.
Rodney took advantage of her distraction to seize the article back. She held tight and he shouted, "Rip it and I'll disown you all!"
She let go.
"Rodney. I need to speak with you. Privately," his father said. His words fell on deaf ears as Rodney kept reading.
Then Rodney looked up, eyes wide with horror. "He's gone. They sent him back to Czechoslovakia yesterday."
The article fluttered to the bed.
"How did you meet this person?" his father asked, his brow furrowed.
"Oooo! Meredith has a boyfriend...." Jeannie teased.
"Oh, shut up, everyone knows I'm gay!" Rodney snapped at her.
Rodney's father fell completely still.
Rodney glanced around the room at the sudden silence. Jeannie's eyes circled warily to their dad.
"Um. Present company excepted, I guess." Rodney turned to his coach with a puzzled frown. "But I thought... Marc, didn't I ask you to tell dad?"
His coach had his face in his hands, rounded shoulders slumped. He ran his hands slowly down his face and let them drop his lap, saying, "I think I said that this is something you have to handle yourself, Rodney."
"Okay. Well. News flash!" He held his hands up and waggled his fingers. "I'm gay, gay, gay! Now that that's handled, can we get back to the point?"
"I knew...." Jeannie muttered.
His father turned to the window, his hand to his forehead like he had a headache. "What am I going to tell your mother?" Shoulders squared and stiff, he sighed and braced a forearm against the window frame. "Am I to understand that instead of hearing about you sneaking away to Amsterdam -- during the most important competition of your life -- we could have been hearing about you sneaking off to have a... relationship, a gay relationship," he seemed stuck on that point, reeling, "in Amsterdam. With a Czechoslovakian dissident?"
"You make it sound so terrible." Rodney blinked.
"So this is your boyfriend?" Jeannie interrupted gleefully, holding up the picture in the article.
"No," Rodney said with infinite disgust and patience. "That's his brother, Jiri."
"So you were with the criminal."
"No! He's not a criminal!"
"They said he cheated in the judging for his brother. The Czechoslovakians even want to give the medal back."
"Read it!" Rodney shouted, poking his finger at the article. "It says right here, bottom of the third paragraph: Radek was just a trial judge. The article says his scores wouldn't count towards the total. It's like a practice judge when you're new." He sighed heavily and sat on Marc's bed. "The Czech government was threatening him to make his brother not jump because of the Russians. He told me. I just wasn't listening," Rodney said, slumped and miserable. Then an option dawned on him and he brightened. "I could go to the press."
Rodney's father watched this exchange like an impending train wreck. Then he finally said, with false soft-voiced calm, "Rodney. You are going to stay here. You are not to leave your room unless I say so." He speared Rodney with a look, his pale blue eyes bright and laser-sharp. "'Room' as defined by these four walls. 'Me' as defined as no one other than me. These are simple rules in clear language, Rodney, with no wiggle room whatsoever. Have I been understood? Nod and say yes to answer."
Rodney stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. He nodded. "Yes," he said, careful not to add a single syllable to his instructions.
"Marc." He motioned for Rodney's coach to follow him. "I'd like a word." He stepped into the hallway without looking back.
Rodney's coach looked equally frightened, if resigned. As he and Rodney's father left, Marc cast a wan look back at Rodney.
As the door hissed slowly shut behind them, his father's voice carried from the hall, "Explain to me why you didn't know about this...."
February, 1998
John shut the door to his apartment with his right elbow and heard it bang too loud behind him. He fumbled the crutch back under his arm, adjusting the left side again as he swung forward towards the kitchen, ignoring all the things that he wasn't going to be able to do right now. The sheets were still stripped off the bed, exposing the bare mattress. Laundry was still hanging off the rod in the kitchen, half-blocking the window in a brightly-colored curtain of clothes.
Leaning against the kitchen counter for precarious balance, John plunked a saucepan of water on the stove and then, with a couple of hops, pulled hot dogs out of the fridge. He achieved splashdown, tossing one, and then the second hot dog into the pan from where he stood. The water sloshed and hissed onto the electric burner. The buns landed with a thump on the kitchen table. He was a pro with crutches and knew all the tricks.
He'd told Rodney the truth that he had food, but Rodney had fussed and insisted on going shopping tomorrow -- though neither of them had figured out how that was going to work since Rodney didn't have a car. But Rodney had insisted on the cast and most conservative treatment plan possible. Then he spent most of the return trip embarrassing John, following him around with a pen and notepad, forcing John sit in the aisle seat (insisting loudly that it was so he could get up for the bathroom) and harassing the stewardesses with his demand that they be allowed to sit in the exit row for the extra leg room. John had smiled his apologies to them and made Rodney sit down in their assigned seats.
After a few minutes, he speared his hotdogs on a fork, carrying the little ketchup bottle in his teeth. Experience had taught him that throwing the bottle resulted in ketchup splattered all over the kitchen.
With a two more swings on the crutches, he dropped the ketchup on the table, and got the hotdogs into buns, never mind using a plate. John propped himself in front of the chair and turned around with little hops. He used the table for balance as he leaned the crutches against the wall and then eased himself down to the seat. He bumped his foot on the table leg and winced. He hated the weakness that came from hospital drugs and moving around with his leg in the heavy pendulum of a cast.
John leaned his head on his elbow, trying to work out logistics. When he'd hurt his knee two years ago, ruining his chances at Worlds, he'd lived with roommates. That had made some things easier.
A moment later, he shook himself awake and forced himself to eat.
March, 1996
None of his roommates from U of T gave a damn about figure skating. That helped. It cut down on the pity.
John edged his hips deeper into the couch, lifting himself up on his hands as he tried not to jostle the injured knee. He grimaced, then reached for the remote. Having roommates sucked and he couldn't wait to have his own pad again but he'd been saving money for--
John cut off that thought with a scowl, because it went places that hurt more than the leg. The electric buzz on the back of his knee felt like it had fallen asleep, though it was probably pain deadened by the drugs. He wrapped the ace bandage tighter, tugging at it. The doctor had mentioned surgery, given he was 26 and an athlete.
At least the guys had sprung for cable. John clicked on ESPN and lay back against the arm of the couch, not watching it, staring at the ceiling. The sharp pitch of a whistle sounded over the hiss and roar of the crowd. John idly identified it as football.
He popped the cap off a beer and sipped, his one rebellion against the meds. He was getting seriously dizzy and he couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Pounding footsteps interrupted his haze.
His roommate, Nate, lumbered down the stairs, unshaven, wearing a sloppy stretched sweatshirt and a pair of boxers that just barely peeked out over his hairy white legs. He stopped just before the last step, catching sight of John, hands trailing along the low ceiling.
"Sheppard?" He had that sour look of unpleasant surprise you got when a relative dropped by. "Aren't you supposed to be in, like, France or something?"
John supplied the translation: I thought I'd have the place to myself to fuck my girlfriend.
"Ecuador, but close enough," John said with a deliberate easy gesture, dangling the beer from two fingers—and hating him with a passion. "Injured my leg. ACL."
Nate took in "ACL" with a blank look followed by a disinterested shrug. "Too bad. Sounded like a cool place. Better luck next year." He headed for the kitchen and John heard the fridge open and close.
"Yeah," John muttered to himself aloud. "Because I get picked for the U.S. Worlds team every year."
The TV switched to a blaring commercial, an electric guitar run and flashing images in the corner of John's eye. Then an announcer shouted, "Next up: Live coverage of the World's Championship men's figure skating short program! Will Kyle--"
With quick-draw speed, John switched the channel to a bad soap opera.
Even ESPN had betrayed him. He didn't throw the remote at the TV but it was a near thing.
The sound of the soap opera washed over him, barely sounding like English. He'd heard that they had Spanish soap operas in Ecuador that the skaters mocked in between practices.
He wished he could just as easily change the channel in his mind.
The doorbell rang, too close and loud to be on the TV. There was the voice of Nate's girlfriend, with that effusive "Hiiii...!" The wet sound of a long kiss in the doorway. John shut his eyes and could almost feel the moment when she stopped cold just on the edge of the living room.
"John. Aren't you supposed to be in France or something?"
"Ecuador," John snapped, biting off the word. He tried to follow it with a smile. It wasn't her fault after all.
He heard them scamper up the stairs, her squeal and giggle at the top of the steps, and silently vowed to get really drunk this weekend. Maybe all week.
With a limp gesture he picked up one of the vials on the folding TV dinner tray, turning it in his fingers. The label warned in capital letters: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.
Drunk and stoned, he amended.
February, 1998
It took John several minutes to answer the door, as the knocking grew steadily louder and more impatient. With an irritated scowl, he unlocked it and tried to back up a step on the crutches before the door swung wide. Rodney stood in the hallway with four plastic bags of groceries dangling from his hands.
"Number one," he announced, "you need to give me a key. This is cantaloupe—" He held up one arm and jiggled the two bags. "—and therefore heavy, not to mention I start feeling rejected if I'm left standing in the hall forever. Number two, your convalescence is becoming painfully inconvenient for me, so let me borrow your car."
He slipped past John, head high as he headed unerringly for the kitchen and clicked on the lights. To Rodney's credit, he did put the groceries away, something he didn't always do for himself.
"Rodney, I've never even seen you drive."
"How hard can it be?"
John rolled his eyes as he followed more slowly to the kitchen with careful, swinging steps.
"I'm kidding, just kidding!" Rodney said as he stuffed lettuce into the crisper. John had him trained to put things where they belonged. More or less. "I have a Honda – the trouble is, it doesn't work." He swung around to John, eyes pleading. The cabinets were open behind him and he narrowly missed clipping his head on the corner of one. "Please? You don't understand what it's been like. You were my ride every morning, all I had to work out was Saturdays. Now my budget is spinning out of control what with all the cab rides—"
"Get somebody else to drive you," John said, settling himself in the chair Rodney usually used. He refused to feel guilty. It was Rodney who had insisted on the full plastic cast.
"Well, it's not as though I'm on the way for everyone."
John decided not to mention that Rodney wasn't exactly on the way for him either. He just didn't mind.
"And there are some people I can't ask, like, oh, the Bevingtons." He shuddered visibly. "And this." He brandished a bag of celery in his fist. "Is getting ridiculous. If I had a vehicle I could do it all in one trip a week, but the most I can carry when I get a ride is four bags and I'm really regretting that cantaloupe right about now." He rubbed his wrist. "I take back what I said about you eating like a bird, by the way: you consume your body weight daily, I just don't know where it goes."
John didn't want to admit that he didn't like the idea of seeing Rodney only once a week. It got really quiet during the day. He'd never had many distractions and all his hobbies were pretty similar: skateboarding, rollerblading, basketball – skiing back when he could afford it. He played chess.
"Rodney. Look around." John gestured at his apartment. "This is it. Everything you see here and that car is all I've got." He made a slicing gesture. "And I've never even seen you drive. No."
"I remember how!" Rodney swore to him.
"It's only a few more weeks. Or I can work something else out...." John began, rubbing the back of his head, though he had no idea what that would be.
"Yes, you and your thousands of friends. I noticed I had to fight my way through the flowers and crowds of well-wishers." Rodney gestured to the empty flower-free apartment, then huffed a heavy, miserable sigh as he clicked on the stove.
John couldn't tell his friends. One, most of them were back in the states, and two, they might slip and mention it to his parents. Then with alarm he noticed Rodney was cooking.
"Wait... no, you don't have to do that...." He scrambled for his crutches, knocking one to the floor. It landed with a clatter.
Rodney picked up the crutch for him. "I wouldn't dream of it. What are friends for?" He beamed, opening the cookbook. He studied it like it was a textbook. Then he bent to assemble the pots and pans he'd need.
On the one hand, Rodney didn't cook so much as overcook. Spaghetti really was the only thing he could manage, probably because you could simmer it for days. On the other hand, when he cooked, he stayed and watched TV afterward with John, making fun of the dull documentaries on cable and "mindless American television, oh, this so explains Ronald Reagan...."
As ever, Rodney dismissed his suggestions as "interference" with his "culinary expertise." John sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching Rodney, and felt pretty damned pathetic.
It had worked that morning. John flipped through entire channels of gray fuzz as he tried to find ESPN. He finally realized he was cycling through the same buttons on the remote. In pent-up frustration dropped the remote on the covers, snagging his crutches as he swung his leg off the bed.
He hobbled over to the TV and circled it, bouncing a little as he moved around to check for wires that might have been knocked loose. He bumped into things a lot right now.
And, lifting his head, he realized what must have happened.
"Son of a bitch," John said. The cable man must have caught on to his illegal connection.
This was the last straw.
Determined, John walk-hopped with wide swinging steps towards the closet. Halfway there, he thought better of it and changed direction, rearranging himself to angle towards the kitchen.
Under the sink there was a ballooning collection of Rodney's plastic grocery bags, and the garbage was getting ripe. He grabbed two white plastic bags. Then, returning to the closet, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb and used the end of his left crutch to drag a cardboard box of tools across the wood floor of the closet. Fortunately, the most recently used tools were the ones he'd needed the last time he set up the connection and still right on top. Clutter in the closet settled in a small landslide as he pulled the box out, but, leaning one crutch against the wall, the spool of wire, flathead screwdriver, and tin-snips were lifted easily into the two plastic bags.
He tied the plastic bags around the bend of each of his crutches, testing their balance and swing. Separated, they were both pretty light. John smiled at his cleverness.
He experimented with the whole set-up in a swinging walk-hop to the kitchen, the two bags acting as awkward counterweights. It was going to work. Leaned against the counter, the crutches clutched in one hand as he opened the fridge, John nabbed a bottle of water. Then made a beeline to the little tray on the counter where he kept his set of keys.
He stood on one leg as he pocketed the jingling keys, then looked up to begin his trek, eyes narrowed and intent. The cable box was on the third floor. But the steps were wood, which meant solid footing, with clear, squared off landings between them.
He left the door unlocked behind him. The main hall had deep green carpet that had seen better days, though the walls were freshly painted. The main stair ran through the center of the building, only a few doors down from John's first floor apartment. John didn't expect a traffic jam at the bottom of the stairs.
"Hi, John," said Mrs. Hendrikson, a short round woman with wide hips in a blue flowered dress. She had a potted fern under one arm where she stood on the bottom step, blocking his way. "Good to see you out and about. How's the leg?"
"Still in a cast." John stated the obvious, tipping his head with rueful charm.
"I'll bet you've been going stir crazy in that apartment of yours this week." She smiled at him. Not moving from that step.
"Yeah," John said, wishing her gone.
They finished the pointless pleasantries while she somehow failed to notice that he was standing there on one leg and crutches. She finally cleared the stairway and waddled down the first floor hallway.
John breathed a sigh and gripped the handrail, both crutches under his other arm, and quickly found a flaw in his plan. The bags now were both swinging on his left side and together way they were heavy and off-balance. He was guaranteed to drop them. He stopped, stood on one leg with his shoulder against the wall to untie them, head dipped in concentration. He stretched the loops of the bags a little and swung them over his neck. It was less than ideal. If he fell... well, he'd better not.
There was a trampling sound down the stairs as his upstairs neighbor appeared, the one with the habit of pacing late at night. John had finally explained his schedule to the guy. One rug later -- problem solved. He was older man in his late fifties, solidly built with slate-gray hair. He wore a blue and white jogging outfit from the eighties, complete with racing stripes down the sides.
"What are you up to, John?" he said.
"Out for a little walk," John said.
"Good for you," the man said, completely disinterested as he headed for the front door. For the first time John regretted he lived in a building with a lot of retirees, who apparently were around all the time. Also, they were painfully healthy. He watched the guy trundle down the front steps with ease.
Better balanced now, John grabbed the handrail again, grateful it was on the right side by the injured leg, and tucked the crutches under his left arm. He got them braced and then, hanging onto the rail (hard), he hopped up a step on his good left leg, holding the heavy cast up behind him. The tools bounced against his chest.
His right side was usually his take-off leg for jumps but in effect this really wasn't all that different. Past experience had taught him to go up the stairs fast though.
He rested at the top of the first flight, balanced with his shoulder against the wall. Surprisingly, it was his arms that felt tired, missing his workouts. He tried to pull the bottled water out of the bag but blew it and dropped one of the crutches instead. Shit. So he gave up on the water – he'd reward himself with that on the third floor – and struggled to bend and pick up the crutch. Finally, with a sigh, he focused on the next flight, hopping into position.
Jaw clenched, he took the next series of hops quickly, paused, then finished the flight. He didn't give himself time to think of the fact that he had still more to go, launching into the next steps right away.
His thighs burned, and other than the nagging ache in his right leg, it almost felt good. A relief to be back in action. At the base of the last flight he steadied himself and focused, recognizing the wave of giddiness that came with pushing it. He forced himself to rest, propped up against the wall. He leaned the crutches, handles down, against the wall, and pulled out the bottle of water.
The gray metal cable box was at the top of the last flight. Target acquired.
With a grim smile, John put away the water and tucked the crutches back under his arm. He was tired, but at this point it was just a quick series of practiced swing-hops to the top, much easier now. With a relieved breath, John propped his crutches up and leaned his back against the wall, wiping the sweat off his damp forehead.
Down the stairway, several levels below, loud heavy shoes echoed. But whoever it was didn't come his way.
John slipped the two plastic grocery bags off his neck, then thought the better of it – what was he going to do? Put them out of reach on the floor? – and helped himself to more water. Recapping the bottle, he dragged the flathead screwdriver out of the bag, smiling with mischief.
With a sharp-eyed look over his shoulder, he set to work.
Sure enough, the cable guy had replaced the old flimsy lock with an even thicker Master lock. Nice try, but John didn't need to cut the lock on the cable box. The hinges were far easier to remove. He pried the rusted pins out. They were still loosened from the last time.
The box swung open with a loud clattering crash, sagging on its one "hinge." Normally John would have caught it but this time he had to just let it fall and swing back. He froze, listening for steps, eyes wide and hunted. He silently waited for it to finish the motion of its swing as he pocketed the hinges.
Hopping a little closer to peer into the box, it wasn't difficult to figure out which switch was his own. None of them were marked, but it was pretty obvious, since his and the empty apartment were only ones that were turned off. It was one benefit of living in an apartment building with retirees. Shoulder against the hard edge of metal, he connected both, just in case, although he was fairly sure he knew which was one was his.
The next stage was going to be the hard part, though usually it was easy. One hand on the box, John hopped and grabbed the awkward leaning door, staggering a little as he hopped back and swung it up to hold it with his shoulder.
Okay. That was stupid. That could have been a bad backward fall. He tapped the hinge-pins back in.
Then the stairway door swung open behind him. John stuffed the screwdriver into the bag around his neck. It was a guy in his thirties in a rumpled brown suit, with a wan face, blond hair falling in his eyes. John didn't know the people on the third floor.
"It's a little loud out here. What are you doing?" the guy asked, taking in John's crutches. His accent sounded British.
John said, still clutching the box, "Holding on for dear life."
"Oh," the blond guy blinked. "You probably shouldn't be on the stair. You could fall."
"I needed the exercise," John said, truthfully this time, his heart pounding.
Looking concerned, the guy reached over and handed John his crutches.
"Sometimes I think they should put in a lift. You sure you can manage it all right?" he asked with a worried expression, glancing down the long stairs.
"Oh, I got this far," John said, then he reassured the nice guy, "Down is always a lot easier than up."
"Okay," he said doubtfully. "Don't slip." And he stayed on the top step watching as John hopped down the steps.
Down really was easier.
After the second flight, John glanced up. The guy had gone. Then John let his head tip back with an audible sigh of relief.
He grinned as he turned the corner of the last landing.
At the bottom of the stretch of stairway was Rodney, staring at John with an open-mouthed mystified expression. Several plastic bags of groceries dangled from his wrists.
"The bedroom of course you are already thoroughly familiar with." Rodney indicated his own room with a wave of his hand in the cheerful tone of a tour guide director on the Love Boat. "Your clothes are on hangers in the closet -- within easy reach you'll note -- while your toiletries—"
"Toiletries?" John echoed with a ghost of amusement.
"—reside in the medicine cabinet. Left-hand side." Rodney's casual wave indicated the bathroom behind them. "You may go outside onto the porch to get some air, but!" He emphasized this with a raised forefinger. "You are not allowed, under any circumstances, to negotiate the front steps." He added, "And don't think for a second that I won't stoop to electronic surveillance because I most certainly will."
"Kinky," John commented with an approving nod.
He rocked forward on his crutches and started to explore.
Rodney's clutter of boxes, scattered clothes, skate guards, piles of magazines and newspapers, CDs, computer equipment and DVDs hadn't been so much "cleaned up" as they'd been shoved against the livingroom walls to clear a wider path for John. He had to admit though, there was a lot more space than in his tiny apartment, which had never seemed so small. The coffee table had been pushed out of the way and it was now possible to reach the couch without having to step over anything. John looked around back towards the kitchen. Both kitchen chairs had been similarly cleared, while the piles of envelopes and whatnot had been moved from the table to the top of the boxes of cans -- that were still there, almost a month later.
"What if there's a fire?"
Rodney looked pained. "I'm speaking of actualities, as in you actually walking up three steep flights of stairs today, as opposed to hypotheticals, such as this house catching on fire which hasn't happened in the ten years I've lived here."
"So I'm allowed to run for my life?" John said, a smile starting at the corner of his mouth.
"It had better be dire and you had better not be the one who started it."
Rodney followed John to the bathroom, where John leaned one crutch under his arm, freeing up a hand to click on the light. There were fluffy white towels on the towel rack. He opened the medicine cabinet. His toothbrush was right there next to Rodney's.
He backed out and tried the new path to the bedroom. So far his crutches cleared all the piles, though he thought this was far more hazardous than his nice, empty apartment. In the bedroom the path had been widened to leave a clear ring around both sides of the bed.
Rodney stood behind him in the doorway and wrung his hands. "Um. If you'd prefer, I can clean out the den and you can have the hide-a-bed and your own space... I don't mean to presume, there just hasn't been time...."
"Nah, this is all right," John said, and smiled at Rodney with a tiny shrug of one shoulder. "It's only a few weeks."
"Ah. Well. Don't think you get to loaf about eating bon-bons." Rodney clapped and rubbed his hands together. "It's pre-season so...."
"I know. Program design time." John bobbed his head. "As soon as you have it and I can skate again," he lifted his arms to indicate the crutches, "I'll try it out."
"What do you mean, as soon as I have it?" Rodney asked.
"As soon as you've got the general choreography, I'll run through it," John said. "It's okay. I know we're going to be behind and we'll probably have to tweak it here and there, but I have confidence in what you can do."
Rodney stared. "Have you never participated in the design of your programs?"
John gave him a sarcastic smile. "I'm not a choreographer, Rodney."
"Okay. I'll do that for a nine-year-old, just hand over a program, but even my preteens participate in their program design. How can you expect any trace of your personality to shine through if... wait. You know what?" Rodney cut himself off. "Never mind. I've seen what you skate, and, oh, this explains so much."
John tipped his head doubtfully and said in a sour voice, "Rodney. Maybe the kids you've had doing this since they were five are good at it, but I've had a few years to learn what I can and can't do." He rubbed an itchy spot on his nose with his shoulder and admitted, "It'll suck."
"I'm not going to have you do it from scratch. I can't even design an elite program -- not one that'll win anyway. But you can't be passively handed a program and expect it to be anything more than just a reflection of the choreographer."
"I dunno...." John shook his head.
"Tomorrow, you start with the music," Rodney rolled right over him, ignoring his doubts. He smirked. "I trust I have a sufficient selection? Try not to blow out the speakers, they're expensive, and the neighbors," he twiddled his fingers in the air and tipped his head with a guilty wince, "well, they complain."
That sounded a lot like personal experience, John thought.
"Oh. And John...?" Rodney had a devilish glint and his smile didn't bode well. He picked up the television remote and placed it firmly in John's hand. "I have cable."
[Previous][Next]
John's music: Johnny Cash - Hurt
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-17 08:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-17 08:47 pm (UTC)I am also still cheering for Jiri. The invasion date! I just hope it won't be too hard on them (J,R+family).
Young Rodney continues to be obnoxious and adorable. I laughed at the complete turn around of the situation. First he refused to come out, then he get's grounded. Also lovely coming out. (Only Rodney would expect somebody else to take care of that for him and then forget that they refused.)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-17 09:05 pm (UTC)Thanks for posting more so soon! On to the next part which I see you've already put up :-)
no subject
Date: 2007-08-18 03:29 am (UTC)*eyes of glee*
Love love love. I can never watch the show now (not that I would...), because their John and Rodney wouldn't stand up to yours.
:D
no subject
Date: 2007-08-18 04:03 pm (UTC)"Okay. Well. News flash!" He held his hands up and waggled his fingers. "I'm gay, gay, gay! Now that that's handled, can we get back to the point?"
Oh, these poor boys. ::pets::
no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 12:04 am (UTC)Excellent music choice.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-20 12:43 am (UTC)I'm still wincing a bit about the knee injury, total sympathy pains in the been-there way. Well, except it was a square-dancing accident (totally humiliating) and still a problem 30-odd years later. So, just, *ouch*.
The choreography thing, though - that so totally explains a big problem right there. John doesn't have any problem being all assertive unless he does. Actually, there's more than a bit of passive-aggressiveness in that skateboarding incident and ... never mind. Except, helping design his own program should be a big help. Plus, do we get to meet Rodney's secret choreography weapon from that phone call now?
no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 01:58 am (UTC)*pout*
And damn, can't believe I missed all these update chapters. *headdesk*
Awesomecakes, as always, hon.
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no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 03:19 am (UTC)I need to find a place where I can upload about 500 megs of music for Out Of Bounds, where the files won't expire.
Any ideas or suggestions?
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 03:54 am (UTC)And maybe John can get some exercise cleaning/organizing the McKay Mess. If he does a good job - gazes at apartment - I might even have another job for him....
Hey... how did you get a copy of my notes?
Plus, do we get to meet Rodney's secret choreography weapon from that phone call now?
Yes, indeed we do. *Icarus snatches away top secret Out Of Bounds playbook*
I've posted two more parts since your comment here (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/689031.html) and here (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/692419.html).
Yours,
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2007-11-01 05:57 am (UTC)I just adore that song.
And, um, I'm not sure where you could... hold on a minute... *goes off to search for... something*
Um... sendspace dot com? I've had a few friends upload large files to there successfully. maybe you'd want to check them out?
Otherwise, no, I'm sorry. Don't know of any upload sites for uber-mega song lists. I've been kinda wondering that myself, since I've been building up an impressive songlist for a yet-unwritten fic myself.
Hmmm...
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-01 06:00 am (UTC)*iz brain ded*
Should be sleeping now. Am awaiting dryer to finish. Need clean underwear for work tomorrow. AUGH.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-18 06:44 pm (UTC):)
Awesome
Date: 2007-11-19 03:43 pm (UTC)-----}-@