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icarusWe are cruising. Tomorrow the name of the game is: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_santa.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "It's a loan."
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. Thank you to libitina and roaringmice for inside intel and spywork at Skate America. Any similarities to my dad's cabin on Lake Kashabog is completely coincidental, of course.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney's eyes were puffy and the wide line of his mouth pulled to the side in a little frown as he slept. The corner gapped a little and his breaths were almost loud enough to be a snore. The room was warm – and wow, John had learned to appreciate being warm. After they had tumbled in from the car, they'd crashed, falling asleep with the lights on. A book sprawled over John's chest, one page bent. John took in the room.
A bunch of magazines, with an inexplicable top hat balanced on top, were shoved up against the lamp on the bed side table, Rodney's usual snot rags wadded up in front of the clock. A few had been tossed towards the trash can by the closet in a little trail of near misses. On the floor a line of old record LPs leaned against the end table, book-ended by a pair of boots. More magazines had been knocked over in a slick at the end of the bed, blocking the closet, though a space was left clear from the bed to the door.
Rodney's underwear was in the middle of the floor, while his pants lay draped over the end of the bed. Alongside John's. He had to admit, he'd gotten into the habit, too. Not that there was anywhere else to put them: the hamper by the door was full and dirty clothes collected like a snow bank around it. That had become a hazard lately.
On the other side of the bed by the window was a rattan armchair piled with stuff in layers that would take an archeological dig to uncover. Beside it sat a wicker chest which supported a wilted plant. Threatening to overwhelm the plant was a stack of computer printouts on top of what looked like hand-labeled VHS tapes, audio tapes, and under those, more magazines. An overflowing box of photos sat in front of the chair. Magazines, shoes, a few stacks of books, some boxes, and more scattered clothes filled up the intervening space.
It was a lot messier than he remembered. Part of it was from packing but the rest... John had just gotten used to chaos. He marked his page in the book and set it on the floor (the only space available), and sat up on his elbow and watched Rodney a long moment, tuning out the visual noise. Then he eased deeper into the pillow. He shifted his hips to a more comfortable position, reached over and shut off the light.
~*~*~
Balanced on his crutches, John crossed through the living room, bumping the door open to Rodney's den. He peered around a pile of boxes. Rodney sat perched at a computer, crouched in a position that made John's back twinge in sympathy.
"You ever consider unpacking these?" John maneuvered around a precarious stack. They were still taped shut.
Rodney waved him in, not looking up. "What for? I don't need anything in them." He continued typing, eyes weirdly blue in the light from the computer. "I'll be finished in a minute – just doing some accounts. I am, after all, more or less in business for myself." He entered some information into the computer, tapping away, and the machine chirped in response. "Whoever designed Quicken knew just how to motivate people. A little happy sound every time you're nice and responsible." He beamed at John, who'd worked his way around the desk. "I try to send each of my clients a statement every month."
"I know. Your statements are painful," John peeked over his shoulder, then drew back. "Whoa. No way is your mortgage less than my rent."
"Hey! That's privileged information." Rodney blocked the screen with his shoulder. "Anyhow, I find that if I seem professional people tend to be more consistent about paying me. Present company excluded, of course." He rooted through the pile until he reached a sheet near the bottom. "Here's yours by the way." Rodney presented it magnanimously.
John winced.
"I can deduct the price of the stamp you just saved me if you like," Rodney offered.
"Don't bother."
John sat on the edge of Rodney's desk, shifting aside a stack of papers. "Rodney. I appreciate all you're doing, I really do, and I get that you mean well," John snorted, "but I can't stay here. I'm not even chipping in for groceries."
"Oh, but you can pay your rent in so many creative ways." Rodney grinned.
John gave him a dark look.
"It was a joke. A little lewd humor?"
"Rodney...."
"To lighten the mood?"
John sighed. "I admit, I like it here, but enough's enough," he said. Then assured him, "I promise I won't climb any more stairs or, you know, the other thing. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."
"You can help out with the food, that's no problem," Rodney said, looking anxious.
"It's more than that. I should be going home." John squirmed.
"But it's so much more convenient with you here. I only have to make one trip for the grocery shopping, no more hassle finding two rides in the afternoons, no bus trips...."
"You were taking the bus?"
"Sometimes," Rodney said. Then cringed and corrected himself, "Okay, just the once. Look. It's only a couple more weeks till you get your cast off. You can go home then."
"I can't live off you, Rodney." John rolled his eyes.
"But you just got here...." Rodney whined.
John looked down at his hands a long moment, then heaved a sigh like he was making a decision. Opened his mouth once, then stopped. Then he started again, looking around the room, opening his hands helplessly. "The rent's coming due on my place."
"So?"
"I haven't been working," John explained.
"You work?"
"By now, usually, yes. I've got my own business too."
"Really?"
"Kinda. Look, the point is, I haven't been doing it." John ran his fingers along the desk. It left two stripes in the dust, revealing darker wood. "So, I'm going to have to ask my family for help again – it's a loan," he added, before Rodney could say anything. "I can't ask my parents to help me keep my pad and then not even live there."
"How much is it?" Rodney asked, pushing away from the desk, turning slightly.
"You're not paying for my apartment, Rodney."
"You saw my mortgage." He waved to the computer. "It's not like it's any kind of hardship, I bought this place back when it in was the middle of nowhere, thank you suburban sprawl...."
"No."
Rodney frowned, flustered. "Um," he spluttered, forehead creased. "I hate to tell you this but a 28 year old man asking for money from mom and dad is just, well, pathetic."
"It's a loan," John said.
"Have you ever paid back any of your 'loans' from your parents?"
"That's none of your business." John shot him a dirty look. "And what the fuck else am I supposed to do? I've been injured." Again. Oh, god, he did not want to tell his folks. John shut his eyes. The lecture he was going to get from his dad – about responsibility and getting on with his life, relegating skating to a hobby – was nothing he wanted to hear.
"How attached are you to that apartment?"
John gave him a confused frown. Then he saw where Rodney was headed with this. "Now we're back to me living off you again."
"I'm sure we can come to an equitable arrangement. You can take care of the cooking, for example."
"Cook for you."
"Well. Maybe the dishes, too. You can be Kato." Rodney lit up with amusement.
"You realize that makes you Inspector Clouseau, right?" John smiled and shook his head slowly. "I dunno. I don't think I like the idea of being your little slave boy."
"Not into that kind of thing, eh?"
John snorted and his eyes slid away in an embarrassed expression. "Not in this context."
Rodney snapped his fingers and pointed them like a gun at John. "I have the perfect solution."
~*~*~
John sat in the passenger seat of his Chevy, shoulders tight, not liking this one bit. He dangled the keys in front of Rodney who sat on the driver's side and then pulled them away, wrapping them in his palm. "Now this deal is contingent on you being able to drive a stick," he said.
"I will not harm a single bolt, piston, or screw in your precious baby." Rodney patted the car, then wiggled his fingers, palm up. "Now gimme."
John hesitated even as he handed over the keys. "It's the transmission I'm worried about."
"You just spent an entire weekend watching me drive to hell and back. I'm a very safe driver."
The Chevy lurched forward into the street and yanked to a stop right before they hit the mailbox, jolting them like ragdolls. The engine died.
"Hang on, hang on, it's been a while!"
[Previous][Next]
sga_santa. You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "It's a loan."
A/N: Thank you to
perfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me all these months. Thank you to libitina and roaringmice for inside intel and spywork at Skate America. Any similarities to my dad's cabin on Lake Kashabog is completely coincidental, of course.Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. After a serious injury, John moves in with Rodney.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Rodney's eyes were puffy and the wide line of his mouth pulled to the side in a little frown as he slept. The corner gapped a little and his breaths were almost loud enough to be a snore. The room was warm – and wow, John had learned to appreciate being warm. After they had tumbled in from the car, they'd crashed, falling asleep with the lights on. A book sprawled over John's chest, one page bent. John took in the room.
A bunch of magazines, with an inexplicable top hat balanced on top, were shoved up against the lamp on the bed side table, Rodney's usual snot rags wadded up in front of the clock. A few had been tossed towards the trash can by the closet in a little trail of near misses. On the floor a line of old record LPs leaned against the end table, book-ended by a pair of boots. More magazines had been knocked over in a slick at the end of the bed, blocking the closet, though a space was left clear from the bed to the door.
Rodney's underwear was in the middle of the floor, while his pants lay draped over the end of the bed. Alongside John's. He had to admit, he'd gotten into the habit, too. Not that there was anywhere else to put them: the hamper by the door was full and dirty clothes collected like a snow bank around it. That had become a hazard lately.
On the other side of the bed by the window was a rattan armchair piled with stuff in layers that would take an archeological dig to uncover. Beside it sat a wicker chest which supported a wilted plant. Threatening to overwhelm the plant was a stack of computer printouts on top of what looked like hand-labeled VHS tapes, audio tapes, and under those, more magazines. An overflowing box of photos sat in front of the chair. Magazines, shoes, a few stacks of books, some boxes, and more scattered clothes filled up the intervening space.
It was a lot messier than he remembered. Part of it was from packing but the rest... John had just gotten used to chaos. He marked his page in the book and set it on the floor (the only space available), and sat up on his elbow and watched Rodney a long moment, tuning out the visual noise. Then he eased deeper into the pillow. He shifted his hips to a more comfortable position, reached over and shut off the light.
~*~*~
Balanced on his crutches, John crossed through the living room, bumping the door open to Rodney's den. He peered around a pile of boxes. Rodney sat perched at a computer, crouched in a position that made John's back twinge in sympathy.
"You ever consider unpacking these?" John maneuvered around a precarious stack. They were still taped shut.
Rodney waved him in, not looking up. "What for? I don't need anything in them." He continued typing, eyes weirdly blue in the light from the computer. "I'll be finished in a minute – just doing some accounts. I am, after all, more or less in business for myself." He entered some information into the computer, tapping away, and the machine chirped in response. "Whoever designed Quicken knew just how to motivate people. A little happy sound every time you're nice and responsible." He beamed at John, who'd worked his way around the desk. "I try to send each of my clients a statement every month."
"I know. Your statements are painful," John peeked over his shoulder, then drew back. "Whoa. No way is your mortgage less than my rent."
"Hey! That's privileged information." Rodney blocked the screen with his shoulder. "Anyhow, I find that if I seem professional people tend to be more consistent about paying me. Present company excluded, of course." He rooted through the pile until he reached a sheet near the bottom. "Here's yours by the way." Rodney presented it magnanimously.
John winced.
"I can deduct the price of the stamp you just saved me if you like," Rodney offered.
"Don't bother."
John sat on the edge of Rodney's desk, shifting aside a stack of papers. "Rodney. I appreciate all you're doing, I really do, and I get that you mean well," John snorted, "but I can't stay here. I'm not even chipping in for groceries."
"Oh, but you can pay your rent in so many creative ways." Rodney grinned.
John gave him a dark look.
"It was a joke. A little lewd humor?"
"Rodney...."
"To lighten the mood?"
John sighed. "I admit, I like it here, but enough's enough," he said. Then assured him, "I promise I won't climb any more stairs or, you know, the other thing. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye."
"You can help out with the food, that's no problem," Rodney said, looking anxious.
"It's more than that. I should be going home." John squirmed.
"But it's so much more convenient with you here. I only have to make one trip for the grocery shopping, no more hassle finding two rides in the afternoons, no bus trips...."
"You were taking the bus?"
"Sometimes," Rodney said. Then cringed and corrected himself, "Okay, just the once. Look. It's only a couple more weeks till you get your cast off. You can go home then."
"I can't live off you, Rodney." John rolled his eyes.
"But you just got here...." Rodney whined.
John looked down at his hands a long moment, then heaved a sigh like he was making a decision. Opened his mouth once, then stopped. Then he started again, looking around the room, opening his hands helplessly. "The rent's coming due on my place."
"So?"
"I haven't been working," John explained.
"You work?"
"By now, usually, yes. I've got my own business too."
"Really?"
"Kinda. Look, the point is, I haven't been doing it." John ran his fingers along the desk. It left two stripes in the dust, revealing darker wood. "So, I'm going to have to ask my family for help again – it's a loan," he added, before Rodney could say anything. "I can't ask my parents to help me keep my pad and then not even live there."
"How much is it?" Rodney asked, pushing away from the desk, turning slightly.
"You're not paying for my apartment, Rodney."
"You saw my mortgage." He waved to the computer. "It's not like it's any kind of hardship, I bought this place back when it in was the middle of nowhere, thank you suburban sprawl...."
"No."
Rodney frowned, flustered. "Um," he spluttered, forehead creased. "I hate to tell you this but a 28 year old man asking for money from mom and dad is just, well, pathetic."
"It's a loan," John said.
"Have you ever paid back any of your 'loans' from your parents?"
"That's none of your business." John shot him a dirty look. "And what the fuck else am I supposed to do? I've been injured." Again. Oh, god, he did not want to tell his folks. John shut his eyes. The lecture he was going to get from his dad – about responsibility and getting on with his life, relegating skating to a hobby – was nothing he wanted to hear.
"How attached are you to that apartment?"
John gave him a confused frown. Then he saw where Rodney was headed with this. "Now we're back to me living off you again."
"I'm sure we can come to an equitable arrangement. You can take care of the cooking, for example."
"Cook for you."
"Well. Maybe the dishes, too. You can be Kato." Rodney lit up with amusement.
"You realize that makes you Inspector Clouseau, right?" John smiled and shook his head slowly. "I dunno. I don't think I like the idea of being your little slave boy."
"Not into that kind of thing, eh?"
John snorted and his eyes slid away in an embarrassed expression. "Not in this context."
Rodney snapped his fingers and pointed them like a gun at John. "I have the perfect solution."
~*~*~
John sat in the passenger seat of his Chevy, shoulders tight, not liking this one bit. He dangled the keys in front of Rodney who sat on the driver's side and then pulled them away, wrapping them in his palm. "Now this deal is contingent on you being able to drive a stick," he said.
"I will not harm a single bolt, piston, or screw in your precious baby." Rodney patted the car, then wiggled his fingers, palm up. "Now gimme."
John hesitated even as he handed over the keys. "It's the transmission I'm worried about."
"You just spent an entire weekend watching me drive to hell and back. I'm a very safe driver."
The Chevy lurched forward into the street and yanked to a stop right before they hit the mailbox, jolting them like ragdolls. The engine died.
"Hang on, hang on, it's been a while!"
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Date: 2007-12-18 03:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:23 am (UTC)