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icarusTotally behind on everything. Still struggling with the overdue ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_santa fic. Got the problem sorted with my registration -- just needed to return the scanner and they took the hold off. The counselor let me count the history of early China for my civilization course and counted the class on the Lotus Sutra. That means I have one class plus the language requirement, and the qualifying paper for Asian studies. I have three classes plus the paper for the English degree. I have several of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wildernessguru's presents here and ready to wrap -- shit, I've got to email my professor, and buy a tree before they're all gone -- luckily, I have a scene of Out Of Bounds now ready to post. This one's been ready since the summer. Man, that took a long time.
I'm falling gradually behind in replying to comments, but I'm reading them, appreciating them, purring over them like a cat-dragon over a pile of gems. I hope you'll won't mind my opting to just write more for you in response.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "It's called the 'Imperial March' and you do not get to skate as a storm trooper. This is figure skating, not Halloween, difficult as it is to tell the difference sometimes."
A/N: Thank you toperfica for playing OOB beta badminton with me all these months. Thank you to libitina and roaringmice for inside intel and spywork at Skate America.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The thundering bass drum shook the front porch. Rodney could feel the storm door vibrating to the Terminator 2 theme music, the hum of the synthesizers. He switched the carry-out to his other hand as he shouldered into the door, tossing the keys onto the coffee table.
"What do you think?" John said, perking up from the couch. He turned the music down a touch.
"It's good for spins," Rodney said charitably, tipping his head. "Mmmm... I can see you doing this."
"Two minutes though... it's a little short," John admitted, ducking down as he restarted it. "But maybe there's a longer version somewhere." The CD cases clicked as he flipped through them. The hopeful synthesizers chimed in again.
The heavy bass line pounded to a close.
"Great ending," Rodney nodded.
"A little over dramatic," John said, the corners of his eyes flinching.
"Not for you it isn't." Rodney dropped his gym bag on the floor and sat with his hands braced on the deep windowsill as he sat on its edge. He brushed his hand on the sill to move things aside but found there was more room than normal. "Besides, you can never been too dramatic in figure skating. That's why Carmen is such a standard."
"And yet, the man nixed Star Wars...." John complained to the air.
Rodney snorted. "There's dramatic and then there's sickening cliche."
"It was the Death Star theme! That one's cool."
"It's called the 'Imperial March' and you do not get to skate as a storm trooper. This is figure skating, not Halloween, difficult as it is to tell the difference sometimes." He tipped his head. "If you want to mix music, we can probably stretch the Terminator theme but it's probably better not to. Anyhow, I have a suggestion." Rodney waved a CD between his fingers. "I found this stuck in a file folder at work."
John stood and stacked the CD jewel cases neatly, picking up the keys with a jingle as he wiped down the coffee table with a sleeve. Rodney realized that the coffee table was completely clear except for the CDs. "Sure. Because I didn't have enough options as it is," he said sarcastically, but accepted the disk anyway. E. S. Posthumos. It was cued to "Harrappa."
Over dinner they listened to the choral music. John shook his head. "I don't like it. I mean, it's nice, but the ending's limp."
"True. I remember it being different."
"This is getting frustrating. Can't we just... pick something at random?" John said. "I mean, it really is all about the choreography and skating. Great music isn't worth jack if you can't skate it, and anything can be made to look stupid."
"Try the next one."
John gave Rodney a doubtful frown over the table. The hushed strains of "Nara" played. The rocking beat grew steadily more intense.
"Oh. Now it's getting good," John said.
"Shh."
The volume increased with a subtle electric guitar riff and flute that reminded John of something Native American. Then it tapered off with a thrumming guitar.
He made a face, pursed his lips and shook his head. "That's a no."
"You sure?"
"Am I deciding or is this by committee?" John asked.
"I'm the president of this endeavor: I can propose legislation, I have the right to veto any crap – like Star Wars, and you should know that half my twelve year-olds request it – but otherwise? It's your decision."
"Good. Then no."
Rodney sighed and put his head down on his arms. "Sonja's going to kill me if this takes much longer...."
"Who?" John asked. "Rodney, that was something you'd skate to. Let me do this."
~*~*~
John was a little surprised when the doorknob turned easily. The room was always shut and John had never seen Rodney set foot in here. The central heating kicked on, startling him, stirring up golden dust motes to dance in morning sunbeams as he opened the door with a soft click.
He paused, waiting for a sound from Rodney’s bedroom; sudden footsteps on the hall carpet, a bleary shocked Rodney rubbing his eyes, asking, "What are you doing?" But there was nothing, just the feeling of warmth, of presence; Rodney took up a lot of room even when he was asleep.
John flinched as the door squeaked, and carefully shut it behind him. The room smelled dusty and close. It was on the north side, its only window buried behind a hedge and a pine tree, the screen dirty, the light filtered green.
Dust covered wooden shelves, row upon row of them. Grey fuzz filmed the top edges of gold plaques, dulled gold and silver trophies of varying heights, all etched with the year and the name: Rodney McKay.
John gazed around the room in awe, turning slowly.
Some of these dated back as far as 1975, tiny pairs skating medals when Rodney had to have been a little kid, because he really wasn’t that much older than John. Sectional and Regional wins. The Canadian Nationals. Newspaper clippings were matted in wooden frames. Hometown articles that used his first name in the headline. Skating magazines. A write-up in The Toronto Sun with a grinning 14-year-old Rodney McKay in 1983.
With a blink, John realized that a lot of the trophies had the same year.
The center wall was taken up by two framed medals in shadowboxes, one over the other. World Championship gold medals. Two years in a row. John wanted to touch them, drifted forward an inch, but stopped and stared breathlessly.
John had known Rodney’s bio of course. But this was different. No wonder he’d been a favorite to win at the Olympics.
The entire far left wall over a low dresser was dedicated to just one event: the Olympics. A red jacket with a maple leaf patch lovingly hung up. More newspaper articles. Photos from an interview on CNN. A bright-eyed Rodney squeezed between some movie celebrities at a restaurant, familiar faces John couldn't put a name to. Rodney at the airport in his bright red Team Canada uniform, beaming. More interviews, in several languages. Rodney with a lot more hair, cutting the ribbon on the new elite skating center, similar to the photo at the Schmidt center but taken at a different angle. No medals.
The top drawer of the dresser wasn't shut and slid open easily. John wasn’t surprised to find still more articles. An entire drawer full of them. These weren’t framed, but the yellowed newspapers and magazines were folded open to the photos of Rodney. A detailed page-long analysis of why Rodney fell, with a diagram of the triple Lutz and how Rodney had over-rotated. Questions about his conduct at the Olympic games. Dissections of his style: Has he peaked? Comparisons with other failed skaters. Questions of burn-out.
Then John skimmed other, nastier articles headlining that Rodney had been overrated all along, or that "life in the fast lane" had spoiled the "young Canadian star." Gossip from another skater about Rodney's drinking during the Olympics and a missed practice. Speculation about why Rodney's coach had been fired, "Coaches are often blamed for the failures of the skater." More gleeful articles about subsequent injuries, "Can McKay make a comeback?"
"Oh, c’mon," John said out loud. A comeback? After just one bad year? The change of coaches alone would explain that.
A USA Today piece on the top skaters for Worlds the following year titled, "In Like Flynn," with McKay listed on the bottom under the heading, "A Ghost Of A Chance." More injuries in smaller, shorter articles.
Two years later a short local piece on Rodney’s decision to turn pro so he could "grow as a skater," with some editorializing – "McKay can’t lay down the big moves any more." John winced, recognizing his own words from months ago. "McKay hasn’t outgrown the sport," the writer adds, "figure skating has outgrown McKay."
John shut the drawer, struck by how this was all going on back when John had only begun learning his first jumps. "Jesus. He was just a kid."
[Previous][Next]
Oh. Right. There's music coming for this part but it'll have to be later tonight.
Theme from Terminator 2
E.S. Postumus - Nara
John williams - Star Wars Imperial March (heh)
sga_santa fic. Got the problem sorted with my registration -- just needed to return the scanner and they took the hold off. The counselor let me count the history of early China for my civilization course and counted the class on the Lotus Sutra. That means I have one class plus the language requirement, and the qualifying paper for Asian studies. I have three classes plus the paper for the English degree. I have several of wildernessguru's presents here and ready to wrap -- shit, I've got to email my professor, and buy a tree before they're all gone -- luckily, I have a scene of Out Of Bounds now ready to post. This one's been ready since the summer. Man, that took a long time.I'm falling gradually behind in replying to comments, but I'm reading them, appreciating them, purring over them like a cat-dragon over a pile of gems. I hope you'll won't mind my opting to just write more for you in response.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "It's called the 'Imperial March' and you do not get to skate as a storm trooper. This is figure skating, not Halloween, difficult as it is to tell the difference sometimes."
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. 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 temporarily moves in with Rodney... and begins to explore his new pad.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The thundering bass drum shook the front porch. Rodney could feel the storm door vibrating to the Terminator 2 theme music, the hum of the synthesizers. He switched the carry-out to his other hand as he shouldered into the door, tossing the keys onto the coffee table.
"What do you think?" John said, perking up from the couch. He turned the music down a touch.
"It's good for spins," Rodney said charitably, tipping his head. "Mmmm... I can see you doing this."
"Two minutes though... it's a little short," John admitted, ducking down as he restarted it. "But maybe there's a longer version somewhere." The CD cases clicked as he flipped through them. The hopeful synthesizers chimed in again.
The heavy bass line pounded to a close.
"Great ending," Rodney nodded.
"A little over dramatic," John said, the corners of his eyes flinching.
"Not for you it isn't." Rodney dropped his gym bag on the floor and sat with his hands braced on the deep windowsill as he sat on its edge. He brushed his hand on the sill to move things aside but found there was more room than normal. "Besides, you can never been too dramatic in figure skating. That's why Carmen is such a standard."
"And yet, the man nixed Star Wars...." John complained to the air.
Rodney snorted. "There's dramatic and then there's sickening cliche."
"It was the Death Star theme! That one's cool."
"It's called the 'Imperial March' and you do not get to skate as a storm trooper. This is figure skating, not Halloween, difficult as it is to tell the difference sometimes." He tipped his head. "If you want to mix music, we can probably stretch the Terminator theme but it's probably better not to. Anyhow, I have a suggestion." Rodney waved a CD between his fingers. "I found this stuck in a file folder at work."
John stood and stacked the CD jewel cases neatly, picking up the keys with a jingle as he wiped down the coffee table with a sleeve. Rodney realized that the coffee table was completely clear except for the CDs. "Sure. Because I didn't have enough options as it is," he said sarcastically, but accepted the disk anyway. E. S. Posthumos. It was cued to "Harrappa."
Over dinner they listened to the choral music. John shook his head. "I don't like it. I mean, it's nice, but the ending's limp."
"True. I remember it being different."
"This is getting frustrating. Can't we just... pick something at random?" John said. "I mean, it really is all about the choreography and skating. Great music isn't worth jack if you can't skate it, and anything can be made to look stupid."
"Try the next one."
John gave Rodney a doubtful frown over the table. The hushed strains of "Nara" played. The rocking beat grew steadily more intense.
"Oh. Now it's getting good," John said.
"Shh."
The volume increased with a subtle electric guitar riff and flute that reminded John of something Native American. Then it tapered off with a thrumming guitar.
He made a face, pursed his lips and shook his head. "That's a no."
"You sure?"
"Am I deciding or is this by committee?" John asked.
"I'm the president of this endeavor: I can propose legislation, I have the right to veto any crap – like Star Wars, and you should know that half my twelve year-olds request it – but otherwise? It's your decision."
"Good. Then no."
Rodney sighed and put his head down on his arms. "Sonja's going to kill me if this takes much longer...."
"Who?" John asked. "Rodney, that was something you'd skate to. Let me do this."
~*~*~
John was a little surprised when the doorknob turned easily. The room was always shut and John had never seen Rodney set foot in here. The central heating kicked on, startling him, stirring up golden dust motes to dance in morning sunbeams as he opened the door with a soft click.
He paused, waiting for a sound from Rodney’s bedroom; sudden footsteps on the hall carpet, a bleary shocked Rodney rubbing his eyes, asking, "What are you doing?" But there was nothing, just the feeling of warmth, of presence; Rodney took up a lot of room even when he was asleep.
John flinched as the door squeaked, and carefully shut it behind him. The room smelled dusty and close. It was on the north side, its only window buried behind a hedge and a pine tree, the screen dirty, the light filtered green.
Dust covered wooden shelves, row upon row of them. Grey fuzz filmed the top edges of gold plaques, dulled gold and silver trophies of varying heights, all etched with the year and the name: Rodney McKay.
John gazed around the room in awe, turning slowly.
Some of these dated back as far as 1975, tiny pairs skating medals when Rodney had to have been a little kid, because he really wasn’t that much older than John. Sectional and Regional wins. The Canadian Nationals. Newspaper clippings were matted in wooden frames. Hometown articles that used his first name in the headline. Skating magazines. A write-up in The Toronto Sun with a grinning 14-year-old Rodney McKay in 1983.
With a blink, John realized that a lot of the trophies had the same year.
The center wall was taken up by two framed medals in shadowboxes, one over the other. World Championship gold medals. Two years in a row. John wanted to touch them, drifted forward an inch, but stopped and stared breathlessly.
John had known Rodney’s bio of course. But this was different. No wonder he’d been a favorite to win at the Olympics.
The entire far left wall over a low dresser was dedicated to just one event: the Olympics. A red jacket with a maple leaf patch lovingly hung up. More newspaper articles. Photos from an interview on CNN. A bright-eyed Rodney squeezed between some movie celebrities at a restaurant, familiar faces John couldn't put a name to. Rodney at the airport in his bright red Team Canada uniform, beaming. More interviews, in several languages. Rodney with a lot more hair, cutting the ribbon on the new elite skating center, similar to the photo at the Schmidt center but taken at a different angle. No medals.
The top drawer of the dresser wasn't shut and slid open easily. John wasn’t surprised to find still more articles. An entire drawer full of them. These weren’t framed, but the yellowed newspapers and magazines were folded open to the photos of Rodney. A detailed page-long analysis of why Rodney fell, with a diagram of the triple Lutz and how Rodney had over-rotated. Questions about his conduct at the Olympic games. Dissections of his style: Has he peaked? Comparisons with other failed skaters. Questions of burn-out.
Then John skimmed other, nastier articles headlining that Rodney had been overrated all along, or that "life in the fast lane" had spoiled the "young Canadian star." Gossip from another skater about Rodney's drinking during the Olympics and a missed practice. Speculation about why Rodney's coach had been fired, "Coaches are often blamed for the failures of the skater." More gleeful articles about subsequent injuries, "Can McKay make a comeback?"
"Oh, c’mon," John said out loud. A comeback? After just one bad year? The change of coaches alone would explain that.
A USA Today piece on the top skaters for Worlds the following year titled, "In Like Flynn," with McKay listed on the bottom under the heading, "A Ghost Of A Chance." More injuries in smaller, shorter articles.
Two years later a short local piece on Rodney’s decision to turn pro so he could "grow as a skater," with some editorializing – "McKay can’t lay down the big moves any more." John winced, recognizing his own words from months ago. "McKay hasn’t outgrown the sport," the writer adds, "figure skating has outgrown McKay."
John shut the drawer, struck by how this was all going on back when John had only begun learning his first jumps. "Jesus. He was just a kid."
[Previous][Next]
Oh. Right. There's music coming for this part but it'll have to be later tonight.
Theme from Terminator 2
E.S. Postumus - Nara
John williams - Star Wars Imperial March (heh)
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Date: 2007-12-18 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-12-18 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-19 03:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-19 03:39 am (UTC)I love that Rodney has all those articles and trophies and such in that room, even though he never seems to go in there.
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Date: 2008-03-03 07:20 am (UTC)It's the only clean room in the house because Rodney avoids it.
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Date: 2007-12-19 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:20 am (UTC)