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icarusOkay, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sga_santa fic ready. Now. *rubs hands together* My other projects.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Zůstaň u své mámy!"
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. Special thanks to sarka for all the help with Czech history and language (not to mention the cool music).
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
March 1990
Radek Zelenka wore a short tan jacket that was too warm for the New York spring, the sweat sticking his over-long bangs together. At the crosswalk he paused and tried to look around to get his bearings, adjusting his glasses. He found himself jostled by the flood of humanity which shoved him a step sideways into the street. The crosswalk sign blinked: Walk. Unable to see around the mass of people, Radek crossed with the crowd, then stepped under an awning and sighted the billboard again.
Eight weeks in North America and he had had no way to contact Rodney. The last thing he'd expected was to see a picture of him, three meters high, announcing "Skate with the stars!"
When Radek finally reached it, there was no skating arena in sight. But he pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt from his pocket and wrote down the address, the 800 number, and performance dates, looking back and forth from the billboard to his palm. A large man with bloodshot eyes stumbled forward.
"Hey! Hey, man, you got a quarter?"
"Um. No," Radek said, tucking his hands in his pockets.
"Well, fuck you, then."
Radek hurried, head down as he studiously ignored the man. He needed to learn not to answer.
~*~*~
The woman at the ticket counter sat behind plexiglass and spoke to Radek through a hole like the grate one would use for animals on a train.
"That'll be fifteen dollars," she said in a clipped voice.
"Oh." Radek's mouth made a small moue as he pretended to search for his wallet, patting his back pockets. He didn't have fifteen dollars. Somehow he'd hoped that he would be able to catch sight of Rodney nearby or else be let in as a friend.
"That's the matinee price. Twenty-three bucks for the evening show," she continued.
"What if you do not want to see the show?" he asked.
"Then don't buy the ticket," she said, flipping her hands upward as if he were the greatest idiot in the world.
There were several people waiting in line behind him, so he shuffled aside, looking over at the cardboard cutout of a really bad picture of Rodney next to the glass doors. Rodney had gained weight, it seemed, and had a manic forced smile. But then it could be just a really terrible photo.
A small child brushed by him, running.
"Ian!" a sharp voice called out from the line.
The sound of a mother's voice was universal.
"Zůstaň u své mámy!" Radek ordered the child, catching the boy's arm before he could run into the street. New York was no place for a child alone.
The little boy, in a t-shirt and ball cap, paused to stare at him in surprise. Radek realized he must have slipped into Czech, blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. "Stay with your mother," he repeated, this time in English.
A buxom woman in a hooded sweatshirt came rushing up, a smaller child and a huge diaper bag bouncing on her hip, a second child stumbling behind her in tow. A third older child followed more slowly, his attention diverted by a hand-held video game. It made small blipping noises. She snatched "Ian" away.
"I told you to say right there! Now we're late, we've lost our place in line, you could have been hit by a bus and what were you thinking?" She didn't wait for an answer but turned to Radek and gushed. "Thank you so much. I swear, they've been impossible today. Their father was supposed to be here but he changed his mind at the last minute and he thinks I don't know it's because he doesn't want to watch figure skating. Oh, I'm sorry," she interrupted herself. "I'm talking your ear off and I haven't even introduced myself." She held out her hand, clutching the smallest child in the crook of her elbow, and Radek shook it, bemused. "I'm Sue, this is Ian – of course you two have already met – and Brian," she motioned to the older boy who didn't look up, "and Britt." She bounced the little girl in her arms. She forgot to mention the middle child beside her. "It's about time I met a nice New Yorker, I tell you, these people are so rude—"
Radek gave a rueful chuckle. He'd noticed, but he hadn't been sure if all Americans were this way.
"—and I've had worst time getting here. Can you believe the traffic? You can't get from point A to point B and my rental has been worse than useless. I finally had to walk from the hotel. So much for pre-paid parking at the arena."
Radek found he'd walked with her back to the line. She hefted little Britt higher with a grunt. Her head suddenly jerked around. "Brian?"
"He's right there," Radek assured her. Brian had fallen behind, lost in his video game.
The line inched forward. Radek learned Sue was from Lansing, that her husband was in town on business, that she hated the hot weather and wished someone had told her about the garbage strike... and that she was a big fan of Rodney McKay.
Radek listened with interest as she described his injury – "It's either his back or his leg, no one's quite clear" – but that he was supposed to be returning to competition soon – "Of course, that's what they said last year." Then she speculated openly about his sexual preferences – "My best friend says that he flames. Does he seem gay to you? I can never tell" – leaving Radek feeling awkward. By then they had reached the ticket counter and Radek's least favorite ticket lady.
"Here," Sue said, and stuffed Britt into his arms. The child took it calmly, blowing a spit bubble and looking around dazed, as if used to being handed off to perfect strangers. Radek regarded the spit bubble with disgust and pulled his face out of range.
Sue dug around in the giant diaper bag. "They were right here," she told the irritated ticket lady as she rooted through it. Radek made his face perfectly smooth but he was smiling on the inside.
From behind them came a soft thwack. Ian had knocked over the cardboard Rodney. Finally, Sue produced a long string of connected tickets like paper dolls – and demanded the ticket lady refund her pre-paid parking. "They told me on the 800 number that I had to do this in person!"
The line grew longer, patrons leaning to the side to catch a glimpse of the cause of the delay.
"You have to take of this at the central office," the ticket lady said. "You call the 800 number—"
"I already called the 800 number! They sent me to you," Sue said.
"Hey!" a man further back in line called out. "Give her the damned parking and let's get this show on the road. It's not like it's your money."
"Yeah, c'mon," a woman in front of him said.
"Really."
It was the first time Radek had ever liked New Yorkers.
The ticket lady gave up, refunded the $10.50, and Radek found himself smug and inside, holding a diaper bag and a messy three-year-old child. They ascended several flights of stairs to the upper levels – Radek was unsurprised Sue had the cheaper seats – and found row 38.
"Oh, you probably need to find your own seat, don't you?" Sue said. "You have an accent. Are you Russian? Or former Soviet Union I guess I should say, wow, I couldn't believe it when the wall fell. I watched it on TV. My best friend says the Russians are the nicest people."
By now, Radek was used to people asking if he were Russian and no longer bristled at the insult. "No, I'm Czech. And we were rather surprised ourselves that it went so far, so quickly, although the signs were there...."
But she, like most Americans, was uninterested in discussing one of the seminal events of his life. Often they even sighed that they had missed seeing the Berlin wall, as if it were a lost treasure and not a symptom of everything that had been bad in Radek's life.
~*~*~
Radek worked his way down levels of stairs to the ice, squeezing around excited children and overweight women carrying tubs of popcorn. He felt like the ball in a wooden maze toy his brother once had, caught in one dead end, then another, then finally finding a path through.
He tried to keep his head down and pretend he was where he belonged, shoulders hunched as he passed a security guard.
"Excuse me, sir—"
"Radek?" There was the slicing hiss of skates.
Radek spun at the familiar voice, brightening. "Rodney?"
"Sir, we'll need to see your badge...."
Rodney was warming up on the ice. He had gained weight, his hair was shorter, and he looked more solid, older and more sturdy. He wore a ridiculous lace ascot with a skin-tight turquoise satin knickers. But those eyes were the same, bright and searching Radek's face in an expression of wonder and utter disbelief. "What are you doing here?"
Radek spread his arms. "I have a passport!" Rodney would understand how incredible that was.
"Sir, I just need—"
"Don't even think about it!" Rodney snapped at the guard with a stabbing gesture, and no, Rodney hadn't changed one bit. He tapped his chest with his thumb. "Recall that I'm the star here, and that," he pointed at Radek, "is my gay Czechoslovakian lover."
Radek looked at the floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to ... Rodney McKay!" the announcer intoned.
"I'm on," Rodney said, then leaned over the boards to add in Radek's ear, "Get the name of anyone who doesn't throw rose petals at your feet, and I'll have their nuts embalmed." He winked, then skated to the spotlight at center ice.
He struck a pose holding his lapels, his chest out like a peacock, or the picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware. Rodney began with dainty footwork in little mocking turns, his free leg swinging, ending with a bow to an imaginary partner. He repeated the whole thing, turning in little jumps, then pushing himself into a gliding swan pose. The audience giggled.
Then Rodney pushed off into a double jump, smoothly landing it as if it were nothing, turning backward in a complicated series of moves. He gathered speed from nowhere, swinging his leg around in a sharp 360, then switched, his arms spread as the crowd clapped, suddenly taking him seriously.
Radek clapped also, and took it as a good sign that Rodney was skating to "Humoresque" by Dvorak, 1894. A fine Czech composer.
[Previous][Next]
Way cool Czech music: Traband - Cernej Pasažér
sga_santa fic ready. Now. *rubs hands together* My other projects. You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Zůstaň u své mámy!"
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. Special thanks to sarka for all the help with Czech history and language (not to mention the cool music).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. Three years after Rodney's failure at the 1986 Olympics, Zelenka finds himself in a changed world.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
March 1990
Radek Zelenka wore a short tan jacket that was too warm for the New York spring, the sweat sticking his over-long bangs together. At the crosswalk he paused and tried to look around to get his bearings, adjusting his glasses. He found himself jostled by the flood of humanity which shoved him a step sideways into the street. The crosswalk sign blinked: Walk. Unable to see around the mass of people, Radek crossed with the crowd, then stepped under an awning and sighted the billboard again.
Eight weeks in North America and he had had no way to contact Rodney. The last thing he'd expected was to see a picture of him, three meters high, announcing "Skate with the stars!"
When Radek finally reached it, there was no skating arena in sight. But he pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt from his pocket and wrote down the address, the 800 number, and performance dates, looking back and forth from the billboard to his palm. A large man with bloodshot eyes stumbled forward.
"Hey! Hey, man, you got a quarter?"
"Um. No," Radek said, tucking his hands in his pockets.
"Well, fuck you, then."
Radek hurried, head down as he studiously ignored the man. He needed to learn not to answer.
~*~*~
The woman at the ticket counter sat behind plexiglass and spoke to Radek through a hole like the grate one would use for animals on a train.
"That'll be fifteen dollars," she said in a clipped voice.
"Oh." Radek's mouth made a small moue as he pretended to search for his wallet, patting his back pockets. He didn't have fifteen dollars. Somehow he'd hoped that he would be able to catch sight of Rodney nearby or else be let in as a friend.
"That's the matinee price. Twenty-three bucks for the evening show," she continued.
"What if you do not want to see the show?" he asked.
"Then don't buy the ticket," she said, flipping her hands upward as if he were the greatest idiot in the world.
There were several people waiting in line behind him, so he shuffled aside, looking over at the cardboard cutout of a really bad picture of Rodney next to the glass doors. Rodney had gained weight, it seemed, and had a manic forced smile. But then it could be just a really terrible photo.
A small child brushed by him, running.
"Ian!" a sharp voice called out from the line.
The sound of a mother's voice was universal.
"Zůstaň u své mámy!" Radek ordered the child, catching the boy's arm before he could run into the street. New York was no place for a child alone.
The little boy, in a t-shirt and ball cap, paused to stare at him in surprise. Radek realized he must have slipped into Czech, blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. "Stay with your mother," he repeated, this time in English.
A buxom woman in a hooded sweatshirt came rushing up, a smaller child and a huge diaper bag bouncing on her hip, a second child stumbling behind her in tow. A third older child followed more slowly, his attention diverted by a hand-held video game. It made small blipping noises. She snatched "Ian" away.
"I told you to say right there! Now we're late, we've lost our place in line, you could have been hit by a bus and what were you thinking?" She didn't wait for an answer but turned to Radek and gushed. "Thank you so much. I swear, they've been impossible today. Their father was supposed to be here but he changed his mind at the last minute and he thinks I don't know it's because he doesn't want to watch figure skating. Oh, I'm sorry," she interrupted herself. "I'm talking your ear off and I haven't even introduced myself." She held out her hand, clutching the smallest child in the crook of her elbow, and Radek shook it, bemused. "I'm Sue, this is Ian – of course you two have already met – and Brian," she motioned to the older boy who didn't look up, "and Britt." She bounced the little girl in her arms. She forgot to mention the middle child beside her. "It's about time I met a nice New Yorker, I tell you, these people are so rude—"
Radek gave a rueful chuckle. He'd noticed, but he hadn't been sure if all Americans were this way.
"—and I've had worst time getting here. Can you believe the traffic? You can't get from point A to point B and my rental has been worse than useless. I finally had to walk from the hotel. So much for pre-paid parking at the arena."
Radek found he'd walked with her back to the line. She hefted little Britt higher with a grunt. Her head suddenly jerked around. "Brian?"
"He's right there," Radek assured her. Brian had fallen behind, lost in his video game.
The line inched forward. Radek learned Sue was from Lansing, that her husband was in town on business, that she hated the hot weather and wished someone had told her about the garbage strike... and that she was a big fan of Rodney McKay.
Radek listened with interest as she described his injury – "It's either his back or his leg, no one's quite clear" – but that he was supposed to be returning to competition soon – "Of course, that's what they said last year." Then she speculated openly about his sexual preferences – "My best friend says that he flames. Does he seem gay to you? I can never tell" – leaving Radek feeling awkward. By then they had reached the ticket counter and Radek's least favorite ticket lady.
"Here," Sue said, and stuffed Britt into his arms. The child took it calmly, blowing a spit bubble and looking around dazed, as if used to being handed off to perfect strangers. Radek regarded the spit bubble with disgust and pulled his face out of range.
Sue dug around in the giant diaper bag. "They were right here," she told the irritated ticket lady as she rooted through it. Radek made his face perfectly smooth but he was smiling on the inside.
From behind them came a soft thwack. Ian had knocked over the cardboard Rodney. Finally, Sue produced a long string of connected tickets like paper dolls – and demanded the ticket lady refund her pre-paid parking. "They told me on the 800 number that I had to do this in person!"
The line grew longer, patrons leaning to the side to catch a glimpse of the cause of the delay.
"You have to take of this at the central office," the ticket lady said. "You call the 800 number—"
"I already called the 800 number! They sent me to you," Sue said.
"Hey!" a man further back in line called out. "Give her the damned parking and let's get this show on the road. It's not like it's your money."
"Yeah, c'mon," a woman in front of him said.
"Really."
It was the first time Radek had ever liked New Yorkers.
The ticket lady gave up, refunded the $10.50, and Radek found himself smug and inside, holding a diaper bag and a messy three-year-old child. They ascended several flights of stairs to the upper levels – Radek was unsurprised Sue had the cheaper seats – and found row 38.
"Oh, you probably need to find your own seat, don't you?" Sue said. "You have an accent. Are you Russian? Or former Soviet Union I guess I should say, wow, I couldn't believe it when the wall fell. I watched it on TV. My best friend says the Russians are the nicest people."
By now, Radek was used to people asking if he were Russian and no longer bristled at the insult. "No, I'm Czech. And we were rather surprised ourselves that it went so far, so quickly, although the signs were there...."
But she, like most Americans, was uninterested in discussing one of the seminal events of his life. Often they even sighed that they had missed seeing the Berlin wall, as if it were a lost treasure and not a symptom of everything that had been bad in Radek's life.
~*~*~
Radek worked his way down levels of stairs to the ice, squeezing around excited children and overweight women carrying tubs of popcorn. He felt like the ball in a wooden maze toy his brother once had, caught in one dead end, then another, then finally finding a path through.
He tried to keep his head down and pretend he was where he belonged, shoulders hunched as he passed a security guard.
"Excuse me, sir—"
"Radek?" There was the slicing hiss of skates.
Radek spun at the familiar voice, brightening. "Rodney?"
"Sir, we'll need to see your badge...."
Rodney was warming up on the ice. He had gained weight, his hair was shorter, and he looked more solid, older and more sturdy. He wore a ridiculous lace ascot with a skin-tight turquoise satin knickers. But those eyes were the same, bright and searching Radek's face in an expression of wonder and utter disbelief. "What are you doing here?"
Radek spread his arms. "I have a passport!" Rodney would understand how incredible that was.
"Sir, I just need—"
"Don't even think about it!" Rodney snapped at the guard with a stabbing gesture, and no, Rodney hadn't changed one bit. He tapped his chest with his thumb. "Recall that I'm the star here, and that," he pointed at Radek, "is my gay Czechoslovakian lover."
Radek looked at the floor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to ... Rodney McKay!" the announcer intoned.
"I'm on," Rodney said, then leaned over the boards to add in Radek's ear, "Get the name of anyone who doesn't throw rose petals at your feet, and I'll have their nuts embalmed." He winked, then skated to the spotlight at center ice.
He struck a pose holding his lapels, his chest out like a peacock, or the picture of George Washington crossing the Delaware. Rodney began with dainty footwork in little mocking turns, his free leg swinging, ending with a bow to an imaginary partner. He repeated the whole thing, turning in little jumps, then pushing himself into a gliding swan pose. The audience giggled.
Then Rodney pushed off into a double jump, smoothly landing it as if it were nothing, turning backward in a complicated series of moves. He gathered speed from nowhere, swinging his leg around in a sharp 360, then switched, his arms spread as the crowd clapped, suddenly taking him seriously.
Radek clapped also, and took it as a good sign that Rodney was skating to "Humoresque" by Dvorak, 1894. A fine Czech composer.
[Previous][Next]
Way cool Czech music: Traband - Cernej Pasažér
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Date: 2007-12-25 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-03 07:11 am (UTC)