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icarusYou can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "One step forward, two steps back is the name of the game."
A/N: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me all these months (this is posted pre-beta, giving Perfica some breathing space). Thank you to libitina and roaringmice for inside intel and spywork at Skate America. This one I'm kicking out the door before it's quite ready. This is due to a) avoiding study for my midterms, and b) I'm going nuts waiting for a beta on a fic in a different fandom.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
In a relaxing haze of road noise, John drifted, his head rocking gently against the headrest as they thumped over the regular lines of uneven pavement. Cars hummed around them, passing on the right. The scenery had been nothing special. Farms, fences, trees, farms, fences. Rocks. More trees. The SUV suddenly rumbled, shaking them both.
"Sorry," Rodney said, neck ducked into his collar. He moved the vehicle back into the center of the lane. It figured he couldn't drive a straight line.
John tried to adjust the seat further back unsuccessfully - these new cars never had enough space for long legs, even without the cast – stretching for more room. It had turned out to be a good thing he had an extra supply of meds ("stash" was an exaggeration), but John was determined to prove he was not addicted by not taking them. He winced at his stiff knee, wondering about bathroom breaks, even as Rodney hit the turn signal and slowed, looking nervously over his shoulder. He dodged into the next lane and then lurched towards the nearest exit. Rodney had refused to stop for fast food, skipping one rest stop sign after another. Now he steered the vehicle unerringly towards an old store with a few camper trucks parked in front, bouncing over potholes in the parking lot.
"It's still here," Rodney said, his face lit up and distant.
"Great. So we can do some grocery shopping," John said, though really, he was just glad they'd stopped.
"No, no, there's a little – well, I don't know if they still have it, but—" Without finishing his sentence, Rodney squirmed out from behind the wheel, dropping to the sandy pavement. "Well, come on. No, wait. Stay there. I forgot about the cast." And with that, he dashed towards the store.
John ignored his instructions and got out, gratefully rolling his shoulders, crutch tucked under one arm though he wasn't putting all his weight on it. Colder wind than he was used to brushed his hair. The air smelled like oil, dirt, and damp wood, things John associated with farms and camp outs. John glanced around. The little store adjoined a two-pump gas station and a more modern mini-mart with glass walls. Rodney poked his head out the front door of the store, beaming, and waved John over. John dragged his other crutch out of the car.
"It's still here," Rodney said, clearly excited.
"Oh. That's good to know," John said as Rodney held the door for him. He had no idea what Rodney was talking about.
"I recognized the exit immediately, and that's some memory I've got, because I haven't been here in what-? Fifteen? Twenty years?"
"Like a homing pigeon," John said, his smile snide. Rodney shot him a dirty look.
Stepping inside, John surveyed the dusty wooden shelves with lonely boxes of cereal and stacks of tuna fish cans, the refrigerator full of styrofoam bait containers, all the fishing poles mounted to the wall, and nodded slowly. "This is a real find, Rodney."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's in the back."
The back had six or seven chipped formica tables, and even in the middle of the afternoon it was busy, filled with what looked like locals; men in work jackets on old-fashioned soda fountain stools; a mother herding a toddler back to their table; a group of kids talking loudly as they blew straw wrappers at each other. A teenage girl in an apron swerved between the tables, holding a pot of coffee over her head as John and Rodney sat down.
The menu on the blackboard behind the grill was simple, but promising, and the food smelled great. Mentally, John already had his fork and knife in hand.
"This place is word of mouth," Rodney said proudly. "Only the locals know about it -- and, of course, yours truly."
Never let it be said that Rodney's bragging was without cause.
The platter for John's cheeseburger was the size of a trough, cheese dripping down the side of a burger that was actually medium rare. The home fries were crisp, and Rodney waved John off when he reached for the ketchup. "I realize this is sacrilege, but, try their gravy first." He pointed to a little ceramic cup. "I don't know what they do to it, but no doubt someone's grandma won first prize at the county fair."
It was a little greasy and John had to wipe a drip off his chin but he suspected the moan conveyed his opinion, because Rodney grinned at him across the table before he dug into his own lunch. Their coffee was ordinary, black, and perfect -- hot enough to burn your windpipe. It was also bottomless. The coffee pot circled like a dish at Thanksgiving dinner, in constant motion. Some of the men at the counter cradled mugs in their hands, seeming to thaw in place. The owner certainly knew how to keep the customers coming back.
Finally, with a sigh, John leaned away from his plate, thinking he might need a forklift to get back into the SUV. Rodney picked his teeth with a toothpick, slumped in his chair. They'd blown any semblance of a diet and John was grateful neither of them were competing any time soon.
"Dessert?" Rodney smirked at him.
John groaned and laughed, tipping his head back in a plea for mercy.
They stayed later than they should have, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze, soaking up the homey atmosphere. Outside, the gray skies and flecks of cold rain against the window seemed unwelcoming.
Rodney set down his cup and dug a folded sheet out of his pocket. "Now let's see what I'll have to endure this weekend."
John half expected a map – he doubted Rodney had actually driven to the family cottage when he was twelve – but it turned out to be some sort of pamphlet.
"'Symptoms of withdrawal....'" Rodney read aloud.
"Oh, way to spoil a good time, McKay," John snarled, leaning forward, hunched, elbows on the table. He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "And would you keep it down? This is a family kind of place."
"Embarrassment, that's good. It's a step towards admitting you have a problem."
John scowled at him, eyes narrowed.
"Says so right here," Rodney added brightly, tipping the brochure towards him.
"I don't have a problem."
"One step forward, two steps back is the name of the game," Rodney said sagely with a shake of his head. He looked up from his reading. "That's in paragraph two."
"Gimme that," John said, snatching it out of his hands. He balled it up.
"Sure, keep that one. I have plenty," Rodney said, withdrawing another from an inside pocket. "They give these things out by the dozen."
John ran his hands through his bangs and gave in to the inevitable.
Rodney frowned, reading, his chin high, quick eyes skimming the page. "Hmm... remove the source, hello, obvious?... blah, blah, blah... avoid dehydration, yes, yes, taken care of that... no, I don't think a cavity search is entirely necessary..." John glared bloody murder at him and Rodney shifted nervously. "... or wise. Ah! Here we go: Symptoms. Irritability... restlessness...." Rodney looked up and stared at John. "But-- how am I supposed to be able to tell?"
"Maybe when I come after you with an ax?" John suggested, turning his coffee cup.
"Oh, ha. Try not to hurt yourself when you fall off your crutches, Freddie Kruger."
"I don't know, I've seen some pretty scary villains who limped," John said.
Rodney rubbed an eye and huffed. "I guess the goal here is to return you to normal. You've been entirely too sanguine."
"Funny, I'm feeling irritable already."
"Oh? Really?" Rodney perked up. "Does this mean it's working?"
~*~*~
Rodney so richly deserved it. And he really should have known better with all that greasy food.
They bought "supplies." John figured this was how the little restaurant made its real money as Rodney tossed several bags of groceries and a couple of cords of wood in the back. He assumed they must have a fireplace at that cabin of Rodney's, which did sound nice right about now with the cold seeping in around the doors. Rodney hopped into the cab, and they hit the road. John waited for his moment.
The SUV warmed up and there was good air circulation in the vehicle. Rodney rolled over the left lane on the highway (John decided he must feel safer there) and proceeded to hog it again. Traffic spilled around them.
Then Rodney turned off the heater and the air went still. Perfect.
John eased off the seat a little.
Rodney twitched, sitting up straight. He muttered to himself, nose high, looking around through the windows, "... must be a dairy farm around here somewhere." But there were rocks to either side of the freeway. "Or an overturned port-o-potty. Kids do that out in the country."
He shook his head to clear it. "God, that reeks!"
John couldn't help it, his shoulders started shaking. Rodney zeroed in on him.
"That's you?!" He fumbled with the buttons to roll down the window. His seat buzzed forward, the mirrors turned, before he finally hit one for the window.
John took a deep, voluptuous breath and then choked, his snickers exploding into laughter.
"I hate you!" Rodney said. He stuck his head out the window, sucking down air.
John cracked his own window. He had to admit, it was pretty bad.
"You shall rue the day!" Rodney swore.
He was pretty sure that was true, since Rodney had eaten the same lunch. But John had won the element of surprise.
It wasn't a hundred yards along the road before John rolled his window all the way down, one arm clawed over the side, gagging with laughter. "Oh, man, Rodney!"
[Previous][Next]
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "One step forward, two steps back is the name of the game."
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me all these months (this is posted pre-beta, giving Perfica some breathing space). Thank you to libitina and roaringmice for inside intel and spywork at Skate America. This one I'm kicking out the door before it's quite ready. This is due to a) avoiding study for my midterms, and b) I'm going nuts waiting for a beta on a fic in a different fandom.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. John recovers from his injury, but as the days slip by with no progress on choosing his music, Rodney thinks he has a little problem.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
In a relaxing haze of road noise, John drifted, his head rocking gently against the headrest as they thumped over the regular lines of uneven pavement. Cars hummed around them, passing on the right. The scenery had been nothing special. Farms, fences, trees, farms, fences. Rocks. More trees. The SUV suddenly rumbled, shaking them both.
"Sorry," Rodney said, neck ducked into his collar. He moved the vehicle back into the center of the lane. It figured he couldn't drive a straight line.
John tried to adjust the seat further back unsuccessfully - these new cars never had enough space for long legs, even without the cast – stretching for more room. It had turned out to be a good thing he had an extra supply of meds ("stash" was an exaggeration), but John was determined to prove he was not addicted by not taking them. He winced at his stiff knee, wondering about bathroom breaks, even as Rodney hit the turn signal and slowed, looking nervously over his shoulder. He dodged into the next lane and then lurched towards the nearest exit. Rodney had refused to stop for fast food, skipping one rest stop sign after another. Now he steered the vehicle unerringly towards an old store with a few camper trucks parked in front, bouncing over potholes in the parking lot.
"It's still here," Rodney said, his face lit up and distant.
"Great. So we can do some grocery shopping," John said, though really, he was just glad they'd stopped.
"No, no, there's a little – well, I don't know if they still have it, but—" Without finishing his sentence, Rodney squirmed out from behind the wheel, dropping to the sandy pavement. "Well, come on. No, wait. Stay there. I forgot about the cast." And with that, he dashed towards the store.
John ignored his instructions and got out, gratefully rolling his shoulders, crutch tucked under one arm though he wasn't putting all his weight on it. Colder wind than he was used to brushed his hair. The air smelled like oil, dirt, and damp wood, things John associated with farms and camp outs. John glanced around. The little store adjoined a two-pump gas station and a more modern mini-mart with glass walls. Rodney poked his head out the front door of the store, beaming, and waved John over. John dragged his other crutch out of the car.
"It's still here," Rodney said, clearly excited.
"Oh. That's good to know," John said as Rodney held the door for him. He had no idea what Rodney was talking about.
"I recognized the exit immediately, and that's some memory I've got, because I haven't been here in what-? Fifteen? Twenty years?"
"Like a homing pigeon," John said, his smile snide. Rodney shot him a dirty look.
Stepping inside, John surveyed the dusty wooden shelves with lonely boxes of cereal and stacks of tuna fish cans, the refrigerator full of styrofoam bait containers, all the fishing poles mounted to the wall, and nodded slowly. "This is a real find, Rodney."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's in the back."
The back had six or seven chipped formica tables, and even in the middle of the afternoon it was busy, filled with what looked like locals; men in work jackets on old-fashioned soda fountain stools; a mother herding a toddler back to their table; a group of kids talking loudly as they blew straw wrappers at each other. A teenage girl in an apron swerved between the tables, holding a pot of coffee over her head as John and Rodney sat down.
The menu on the blackboard behind the grill was simple, but promising, and the food smelled great. Mentally, John already had his fork and knife in hand.
"This place is word of mouth," Rodney said proudly. "Only the locals know about it -- and, of course, yours truly."
Never let it be said that Rodney's bragging was without cause.
The platter for John's cheeseburger was the size of a trough, cheese dripping down the side of a burger that was actually medium rare. The home fries were crisp, and Rodney waved John off when he reached for the ketchup. "I realize this is sacrilege, but, try their gravy first." He pointed to a little ceramic cup. "I don't know what they do to it, but no doubt someone's grandma won first prize at the county fair."
It was a little greasy and John had to wipe a drip off his chin but he suspected the moan conveyed his opinion, because Rodney grinned at him across the table before he dug into his own lunch. Their coffee was ordinary, black, and perfect -- hot enough to burn your windpipe. It was also bottomless. The coffee pot circled like a dish at Thanksgiving dinner, in constant motion. Some of the men at the counter cradled mugs in their hands, seeming to thaw in place. The owner certainly knew how to keep the customers coming back.
Finally, with a sigh, John leaned away from his plate, thinking he might need a forklift to get back into the SUV. Rodney picked his teeth with a toothpick, slumped in his chair. They'd blown any semblance of a diet and John was grateful neither of them were competing any time soon.
"Dessert?" Rodney smirked at him.
John groaned and laughed, tipping his head back in a plea for mercy.
They stayed later than they should have, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze, soaking up the homey atmosphere. Outside, the gray skies and flecks of cold rain against the window seemed unwelcoming.
Rodney set down his cup and dug a folded sheet out of his pocket. "Now let's see what I'll have to endure this weekend."
John half expected a map – he doubted Rodney had actually driven to the family cottage when he was twelve – but it turned out to be some sort of pamphlet.
"'Symptoms of withdrawal....'" Rodney read aloud.
"Oh, way to spoil a good time, McKay," John snarled, leaning forward, hunched, elbows on the table. He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "And would you keep it down? This is a family kind of place."
"Embarrassment, that's good. It's a step towards admitting you have a problem."
John scowled at him, eyes narrowed.
"Says so right here," Rodney added brightly, tipping the brochure towards him.
"I don't have a problem."
"One step forward, two steps back is the name of the game," Rodney said sagely with a shake of his head. He looked up from his reading. "That's in paragraph two."
"Gimme that," John said, snatching it out of his hands. He balled it up.
"Sure, keep that one. I have plenty," Rodney said, withdrawing another from an inside pocket. "They give these things out by the dozen."
John ran his hands through his bangs and gave in to the inevitable.
Rodney frowned, reading, his chin high, quick eyes skimming the page. "Hmm... remove the source, hello, obvious?... blah, blah, blah... avoid dehydration, yes, yes, taken care of that... no, I don't think a cavity search is entirely necessary..." John glared bloody murder at him and Rodney shifted nervously. "... or wise. Ah! Here we go: Symptoms. Irritability... restlessness...." Rodney looked up and stared at John. "But-- how am I supposed to be able to tell?"
"Maybe when I come after you with an ax?" John suggested, turning his coffee cup.
"Oh, ha. Try not to hurt yourself when you fall off your crutches, Freddie Kruger."
"I don't know, I've seen some pretty scary villains who limped," John said.
Rodney rubbed an eye and huffed. "I guess the goal here is to return you to normal. You've been entirely too sanguine."
"Funny, I'm feeling irritable already."
"Oh? Really?" Rodney perked up. "Does this mean it's working?"
~*~*~
Rodney so richly deserved it. And he really should have known better with all that greasy food.
They bought "supplies." John figured this was how the little restaurant made its real money as Rodney tossed several bags of groceries and a couple of cords of wood in the back. He assumed they must have a fireplace at that cabin of Rodney's, which did sound nice right about now with the cold seeping in around the doors. Rodney hopped into the cab, and they hit the road. John waited for his moment.
The SUV warmed up and there was good air circulation in the vehicle. Rodney rolled over the left lane on the highway (John decided he must feel safer there) and proceeded to hog it again. Traffic spilled around them.
Then Rodney turned off the heater and the air went still. Perfect.
John eased off the seat a little.
Rodney twitched, sitting up straight. He muttered to himself, nose high, looking around through the windows, "... must be a dairy farm around here somewhere." But there were rocks to either side of the freeway. "Or an overturned port-o-potty. Kids do that out in the country."
He shook his head to clear it. "God, that reeks!"
John couldn't help it, his shoulders started shaking. Rodney zeroed in on him.
"That's you?!" He fumbled with the buttons to roll down the window. His seat buzzed forward, the mirrors turned, before he finally hit one for the window.
John took a deep, voluptuous breath and then choked, his snickers exploding into laughter.
"I hate you!" Rodney said. He stuck his head out the window, sucking down air.
John cracked his own window. He had to admit, it was pretty bad.
"You shall rue the day!" Rodney swore.
He was pretty sure that was true, since Rodney had eaten the same lunch. But John had won the element of surprise.
It wasn't a hundred yards along the road before John rolled his window all the way down, one arm clawed over the side, gagging with laughter. "Oh, man, Rodney!"
[Previous][Next]
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Date: 2007-11-06 07:02 pm (UTC)::cracks up::