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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
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mad_maudlin, by now you know about the comm dedicated to your bon voyage. I couldn't participate, in too over my head with this story, but here is the last piece of Out Of Bounds that I have on hand. It should bring the story to a nice sense of closure for your farewell.
Good luck in Khazakhstan (I'm sooooo going to brag that I know someone over there). I don't know what you'll be doing when you get back, but everyone I've met in the Peace Corps tells me it's a life-changing experience.
I feel like I should have Ron Weasley moon you now. Instead, I give you gratuitous nudity....
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "The paperboy's due by any minute." -- "And you're wearing a turban."
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
John's eyelashes flickered and he was dimly aware when Rodney flashed on the overhead light then mumbled, "Sorry, sorry, forgot—"
The light clicked off.
He heard Rodney stumble around in the dark bedroom, making twice as much noise as moments before. Then he tripped. Whatever it was went down with a clatter, and John blinked, realizing that sound was probably his crutches. With a slightly irritated, slightly amused half-smile, John reached for the small side table lamp and turned it on. Rodney crouched on the floor, looking up at him, owl-eyed and apologetic, his foot through the handle of one of the crutches, the other flat on the ground. The clock read 5:12 a.m.
"Oops," Rodney whispered, "um, it seems we need a nightlight."
John decided not to wake up all the way. Instead, he rolled to his side away from the light with a growl of a sigh.
The rest of his sleep hovered on the edge of awareness. The patter of Rodney's feet on the living room carpet. The click, a buzz, and then the faint hum of the television set in the next room turned down low. It sounded like the news. A tiny, sleepy frown furrowed John's brow as he tightened his grip on the pillow. The spurt and spatter of water as the shower started up on the other side of the bedroom wall.
John faded in and out of sleep, hazy and quiet. There was a shift in the air currents that woke him again, a waft of humid moisture as Rodney left the bathroom, a whirring sound turning loud as he opened the door. The overhead fan still running.
John heard a distant clink of dishes. Rodney's next destination was the kitchen. The chug and hiss of the coffeemaker followed by a happy burble. Then the soft, warm smell of coffee began to permeate the house as Rodney returned to the living room, a blue light flickering off the angles of the bedroom walls through the partially open door. John scratched his hand through messy hair and stretched till his elbow touched the headboard.
He rolled over, curious, and watched Rodney sit down at the couch, his head wrapped in a turban of fluffy white towel, another tucked around his waist. The mystery of why they ran through so many towels was solved. Rodney leaned forward and watched the news, carefully sipping his steaming coffee. A half-eaten bagel sat ignored on the coffee table. The blue light caught on his eyelashes, his face open and rather innocent. His expressive mouth pulled to one side over something the anchorman said, bright interested eyes taking it all in with sharp intelligence, and John just watched him.
John gave up on sleep. He swung himself over, only to be surprised by the weight of his cast anchoring him. Right.
Eyes blinking slowly, he debated getting up, then reached for the crutches, sliding the cast off the bed with a light thump as he sat up. He pushed himself off the bed with a hand then braced the crutches, bumping the door all the way open with the rubber-tipped end.
Rodney sat up, the towel slipping over one eye. "Oh. I didn't mean to...."
"Bathroom," John said simply, raising a hand.
John returned moments later, and attempted to focus on the morning news show, trying to fathom the concept of the TV first thing in the morning. He watched the weather report, yawning, as the image of clouds drifted across the great lakes. Partly cloudy. Forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Warm day.
John realized he was staring at the TV, slack-jawed--that thing couldn't be healthy. He shook his head and yawned again, rubbing his face with a sniff. He realized Rodney had stopped gazing at the TV and was looking at him. "What?"
"Aren't you... cold or something?" Rodney marveled.
"Huh?" John was a light sleeper, but it didn't mean he was as sharp as a tack right after he woke up.
"Well. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd have a naked man on crutches in my living room...."
"Oh. No," John said. He swung towards the kitchen and balanced, one crutch crushed in his armpit as he clicked on the light.
"That's a picture window," Rodney said.
"So?" John said, his head buried in the fridge. He pulled out cold cuts that didn't smell too off.
"So? The whole neighborhood can see you!"
John peered at the window and squinted. "Looks like the coast is clear to me." Truthfully, he couldn't see anything but his own reflection. He hopped to the kitchen chair, ignoring the crutches. "It's five a.m., Rodney."
"And the paperboy's due by any minute."
"And you're wearing a turban." John pointed at him with a floppy rolled cold cut, then took a bite out of it.
"I fail to see how that's relevant," Rodney said, chin raised, lips pressed together.
"I'm just saying... people with glass picture windows should not—you know what?" John said, an elbow on the kitchen table. "Let me take a rain check on this conversation till after I'm awake."
"You need to learn to drink coffee," Rodney said, standing with a smirk and taking a long sip. The towel made a thick mound around his waist and gapped above his left thigh.
"Corrupting me already, huh?" John leaned back in the chair, stretching both arms over his head.
"Oh, I certainly hope so." Rodney's smirk turned into a salacious smile.
"You wanna cut class today?" John offered.
Rodney looked tempted and hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said emphatically, "but I can't. I have a lesson at six-thirty."
John gave him a funny look. "You'd better hurry up. It's after six."
"It's--? Oh, shit!" Rodney scrambled away, stripping off and flinging both towels on the couch. At a leisurely pace, John got up, and with two swings across the kitchen had the phone in hand, dialing with an amused grin.
Rodney emerged from the bedroom not five minutes later, fully dressed and hopping on one foot as he put on a shoe. He looked up pleading and hopeful to where John had planted shoulder against the wall by the phone. "Could you, um--?"
"Already called."
"I wish you'd let me drive your—"
"No."
Rodney huffed a dramatic sigh. "It would be so much easier, and faster, and in addition it would cost so much—"
"No."
"It's a piece of—!"
"Don't say it, Rodney," John interrupted with a growl. He crossed his arms, half-serious, with a glint in his eye. "You don't get to insult a man's car and then expect favors afterward."
The yellow body of the cab pulled up at the curb outside, its little sign lit up against the deep blue of the morning.
Rodney flung the door open, walked two steps, then spun around to grab his gym bag just inside the entryway, stuffing it under his arm. Halfway down the walk he stumbled as he jogged backward to wave at John, then he yanked the cab door open, gesturing wildly to the driver who appeared to be Indian and in no particular hurry. And hurrying less the more Rodney yelled.
John eyed the clock over the stove. It was 6:20 a.m.
He might make it.
With a swinging step, John swung through the livingroom to the bedroom where he rooted around for a pair of thick fleece pants and wool socks. A sweatshirt and his jacket off the back of the door came next.
He returned to the fridge. They were low on groceries as usual, but there was a half gallon plastic jug of apple cider left. John set that on the counter and extracted a cheap plastic travel mug with a Tim Horton's logo from the clean stack next to the sink. He no longer allowed Rodney to leave dirty dishes in the sink: it attracted ants. Though it was weird having to store dishes in neat piles on the countertop. He filled the travel mug with cider, grabbed the box of cinnamon tea from his own apartment, and dropped in a teabag, then popped on the lid and set the whole thing in the microwave. He leaned back with both elbows on the counter. He found the other half of Rodney's bagel – it was cold, but good enough – and finished that. Then the microwave dinged.
He grabbed the fanny pack he used for bicycling that he kept hung up on the cabinet door handle and strapped that around his waist, then stuck the travel mug in a sleeve that was supposed to carry a water bottle. With a slow, tired swinging hop, he crossed through the kitchen, ignored the still-murmuring TV, and pulled open the front door.
He brushed a few leaves off the seat of a dirty white plastic chair on the porch, then turned around to ease himself into it, the cast sliding on wood, scraping chipped old paint. The plastic was cold through his fleece pants but warmed slowly, while a gentle breeze carried away the mist of John's breath.
John pulled out his mug – it had spattered a bit, but then again, it always did – and took a long sip as he watched cool light slowly paint Rodney's quiet neighborhood.
[Previous][Next]
mad_maudlin, by now you know about the comm dedicated to your bon voyage. I couldn't participate, in too over my head with this story, but here is the last piece of Out Of Bounds that I have on hand. It should bring the story to a nice sense of closure for your farewell. Good luck in Khazakhstan (I'm sooooo going to brag that I know someone over there). I don't know what you'll be doing when you get back, but everyone I've met in the Peace Corps tells me it's a life-changing experience.
I feel like I should have Ron Weasley moon you now. Instead, I give you gratuitous nudity....
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "The paperboy's due by any minute." -- "And you're wearing a turban."
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
John's eyelashes flickered and he was dimly aware when Rodney flashed on the overhead light then mumbled, "Sorry, sorry, forgot—"
The light clicked off.
He heard Rodney stumble around in the dark bedroom, making twice as much noise as moments before. Then he tripped. Whatever it was went down with a clatter, and John blinked, realizing that sound was probably his crutches. With a slightly irritated, slightly amused half-smile, John reached for the small side table lamp and turned it on. Rodney crouched on the floor, looking up at him, owl-eyed and apologetic, his foot through the handle of one of the crutches, the other flat on the ground. The clock read 5:12 a.m.
"Oops," Rodney whispered, "um, it seems we need a nightlight."
John decided not to wake up all the way. Instead, he rolled to his side away from the light with a growl of a sigh.
The rest of his sleep hovered on the edge of awareness. The patter of Rodney's feet on the living room carpet. The click, a buzz, and then the faint hum of the television set in the next room turned down low. It sounded like the news. A tiny, sleepy frown furrowed John's brow as he tightened his grip on the pillow. The spurt and spatter of water as the shower started up on the other side of the bedroom wall.
John faded in and out of sleep, hazy and quiet. There was a shift in the air currents that woke him again, a waft of humid moisture as Rodney left the bathroom, a whirring sound turning loud as he opened the door. The overhead fan still running.
John heard a distant clink of dishes. Rodney's next destination was the kitchen. The chug and hiss of the coffeemaker followed by a happy burble. Then the soft, warm smell of coffee began to permeate the house as Rodney returned to the living room, a blue light flickering off the angles of the bedroom walls through the partially open door. John scratched his hand through messy hair and stretched till his elbow touched the headboard.
He rolled over, curious, and watched Rodney sit down at the couch, his head wrapped in a turban of fluffy white towel, another tucked around his waist. The mystery of why they ran through so many towels was solved. Rodney leaned forward and watched the news, carefully sipping his steaming coffee. A half-eaten bagel sat ignored on the coffee table. The blue light caught on his eyelashes, his face open and rather innocent. His expressive mouth pulled to one side over something the anchorman said, bright interested eyes taking it all in with sharp intelligence, and John just watched him.
John gave up on sleep. He swung himself over, only to be surprised by the weight of his cast anchoring him. Right.
Eyes blinking slowly, he debated getting up, then reached for the crutches, sliding the cast off the bed with a light thump as he sat up. He pushed himself off the bed with a hand then braced the crutches, bumping the door all the way open with the rubber-tipped end.
Rodney sat up, the towel slipping over one eye. "Oh. I didn't mean to...."
"Bathroom," John said simply, raising a hand.
John returned moments later, and attempted to focus on the morning news show, trying to fathom the concept of the TV first thing in the morning. He watched the weather report, yawning, as the image of clouds drifted across the great lakes. Partly cloudy. Forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Warm day.
John realized he was staring at the TV, slack-jawed--that thing couldn't be healthy. He shook his head and yawned again, rubbing his face with a sniff. He realized Rodney had stopped gazing at the TV and was looking at him. "What?"
"Aren't you... cold or something?" Rodney marveled.
"Huh?" John was a light sleeper, but it didn't mean he was as sharp as a tack right after he woke up.
"Well. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd have a naked man on crutches in my living room...."
"Oh. No," John said. He swung towards the kitchen and balanced, one crutch crushed in his armpit as he clicked on the light.
"That's a picture window," Rodney said.
"So?" John said, his head buried in the fridge. He pulled out cold cuts that didn't smell too off.
"So? The whole neighborhood can see you!"
John peered at the window and squinted. "Looks like the coast is clear to me." Truthfully, he couldn't see anything but his own reflection. He hopped to the kitchen chair, ignoring the crutches. "It's five a.m., Rodney."
"And the paperboy's due by any minute."
"And you're wearing a turban." John pointed at him with a floppy rolled cold cut, then took a bite out of it.
"I fail to see how that's relevant," Rodney said, chin raised, lips pressed together.
"I'm just saying... people with glass picture windows should not—you know what?" John said, an elbow on the kitchen table. "Let me take a rain check on this conversation till after I'm awake."
"You need to learn to drink coffee," Rodney said, standing with a smirk and taking a long sip. The towel made a thick mound around his waist and gapped above his left thigh.
"Corrupting me already, huh?" John leaned back in the chair, stretching both arms over his head.
"Oh, I certainly hope so." Rodney's smirk turned into a salacious smile.
"You wanna cut class today?" John offered.
Rodney looked tempted and hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said emphatically, "but I can't. I have a lesson at six-thirty."
John gave him a funny look. "You'd better hurry up. It's after six."
"It's--? Oh, shit!" Rodney scrambled away, stripping off and flinging both towels on the couch. At a leisurely pace, John got up, and with two swings across the kitchen had the phone in hand, dialing with an amused grin.
Rodney emerged from the bedroom not five minutes later, fully dressed and hopping on one foot as he put on a shoe. He looked up pleading and hopeful to where John had planted shoulder against the wall by the phone. "Could you, um--?"
"Already called."
"I wish you'd let me drive your—"
"No."
Rodney huffed a dramatic sigh. "It would be so much easier, and faster, and in addition it would cost so much—"
"No."
"It's a piece of—!"
"Don't say it, Rodney," John interrupted with a growl. He crossed his arms, half-serious, with a glint in his eye. "You don't get to insult a man's car and then expect favors afterward."
The yellow body of the cab pulled up at the curb outside, its little sign lit up against the deep blue of the morning.
Rodney flung the door open, walked two steps, then spun around to grab his gym bag just inside the entryway, stuffing it under his arm. Halfway down the walk he stumbled as he jogged backward to wave at John, then he yanked the cab door open, gesturing wildly to the driver who appeared to be Indian and in no particular hurry. And hurrying less the more Rodney yelled.
John eyed the clock over the stove. It was 6:20 a.m.
He might make it.
With a swinging step, John swung through the livingroom to the bedroom where he rooted around for a pair of thick fleece pants and wool socks. A sweatshirt and his jacket off the back of the door came next.
He returned to the fridge. They were low on groceries as usual, but there was a half gallon plastic jug of apple cider left. John set that on the counter and extracted a cheap plastic travel mug with a Tim Horton's logo from the clean stack next to the sink. He no longer allowed Rodney to leave dirty dishes in the sink: it attracted ants. Though it was weird having to store dishes in neat piles on the countertop. He filled the travel mug with cider, grabbed the box of cinnamon tea from his own apartment, and dropped in a teabag, then popped on the lid and set the whole thing in the microwave. He leaned back with both elbows on the counter. He found the other half of Rodney's bagel – it was cold, but good enough – and finished that. Then the microwave dinged.
He grabbed the fanny pack he used for bicycling that he kept hung up on the cabinet door handle and strapped that around his waist, then stuck the travel mug in a sleeve that was supposed to carry a water bottle. With a slow, tired swinging hop, he crossed through the kitchen, ignored the still-murmuring TV, and pulled open the front door.
He brushed a few leaves off the seat of a dirty white plastic chair on the porch, then turned around to ease himself into it, the cast sliding on wood, scraping chipped old paint. The plastic was cold through his fleece pants but warmed slowly, while a gentle breeze carried away the mist of John's breath.
John pulled out his mug – it had spattered a bit, but then again, it always did – and took a long sip as he watched cool light slowly paint Rodney's quiet neighborhood.
[Previous][Next]
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Date: 2007-08-25 11:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-08-25 07:57 pm (UTC)Icarus