SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17

[icarus]

If you have already read this scene, click [Next] for more. ;)





Happy birthday, Out Of Bounds.

Two years ago today I wrote: "You know you've been watching too much of the Olympics when...

I now want to read an SGA AU where John's a skater and Rodney's either ajudge or his coach. *facepalm* My humiliation knows no bounds."

It was a ficlet, I swear.

I don't know whether to be embarrassed that it's taken me two years to get this far, or proud that I've stuck with it (re: obsessed over it) for 100,000 words and an ocean of reserach. Either way, there must be a nice, long update. (Hopefully another tomorrow, too.)

And there must be cake.


Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John eyed the new pile as if it were an escaped rodent.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid (and overworked) betas, dossier and rabidfan. 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. Some of you may recognize a section I incorporated into this part. *shrugs* What can I say? The scene before it worked after all.

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 struggled to recover from his injury, having temporarily moved to Rodney's. Unfortunately, recovery took longer than planned. Hitting the end of his savings and not able to work yet, John accepted Rodney's offer to stay longer and gave up his apartment.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus



March 1999

"I've been meaning to ask you," John said, clicking the bedroom light on. He reached over and picked up the top hat on the nightstand, tapping the brim on his palm. "What's with the...?" He flicked the top hat and glanced over at Rodney with a glint of amusement.

Rodney had his sweater over his head, stripping off layers. He mumbled, "What?"

The sweater came off with the shirt underneath it and he tossed it onto the floor. John eyed the new pile as if it were an escaped rodent.

"Oh, that." Rodney tugged his t-shirt down, hands straightening the hem. "It's from a Nutcracker AIDS benefit I did back in the early 90s – although everyone participating called it the 'ball buster.' That's from the Dance of the Sugar Plum—" He wiggled his fingers in quote marks with a smirk. "—'Fairies.'"

"Oh, no...." John snickered.

"Oh yes, and virtually half my fans took my participation as confirmation that I was gay."

John flipped the top hat over in his hands. "Rodney, you're about as obvious as—"

"I know, I know, and I've made no secret of it, but you're not supposed to officially confirm it while you're competing. Not that I was competing much at that point." He sighed. "Anyhow, another portion of my fans thought it meant that I had AIDS."

John's smile slipped. "You're kidding."

"And the rest – in a remarkable show of obliviousness – decided that I was having a steamy affair with Sonja. Which proves that the skating fans' capacity to gossip far outstrips their powers of observation."

"Sonja?" John frowned, searching his mind for the name. He'd heard that somewhere....

Rodney spun his hand in an impatient circle, making a face. "She was my skating partner."

"Skating partner?" John's frown turned puzzled.

"Yes, I skated pairs for the benefit. Apparently we were pretty hot on the ice."

"Were you." John's eyes narrowed at Rodney and the hand toying with the top hat slipped lower.

"I have no idea!" Rodney said, wide-eyed. He pulled down his jeans and kicked them over to the pile, then reached around for the stack of dirty laundry behind the door. Which was gone, so Rodney pulled a fresh pair of sweatpants out of the dresser, leaving the drawer open. "I hadn't skated pairs in years – the choreographers went gaga when they learned I could do both – and it took every ounce of my concentration just to avoid making her a quadriplegic. You know that she was surprisingly light?" Rodney added with a fluffing gesture at the air, his expression wistful and pleased. "After lifting my sister she was like... thistledown."

"She was." Pairs skaters didn't always sleep with their partners, but it happened often enough that....

Rodney paused, finally looking at John. "You're not jealous of a skating partner I had six years ago, are you?" His wide smile tilted in amusement. He looked utterly charmed at the prospect.

"Only six?" John said, adding this up. Rodney had kept the top hat the same way he'd kept that stuffed unicorn....

"You are!" Rodney beamed.

"No, I'm not," John said quickly.

"Oh, here, I think I have the video around here someplace."

Rodney stepped over the bed into the no man's land on the other side. John cringed at the sound of the slip-n-slide of magazines Rodney knocked over, somehow zeroing in on a video at the bottom of a pile on the wicker chest. There was a small collapse of infrastructure as he removed it, though amazingly everything stayed on the basket.

"Are you actually enjoying this?" John crossed his arms. "Because I've been called a crazed stalker in the past, although to be fair he totally misjudged the situation." He leaned his hip against the dresser drawer and snapped it shut. "And how bad is this routine anyway?"

"Not just a routine," Rodney rocked the tape between his thumb and forefinger, taunting him, "an entire three-hour show." He plucked the top hat from John's hands and popped it onto John's head with a little pat. Too large, it slid sideways to one ear. John pulled it off. "We had a live big band. It was very well done. Count on the queers to be able to do flash with a touch of class. I spent weeks watching Gene Kelly films to get it just so." He pinched his fingers together.

Disgruntled, John settled on the couch, drawing both feet up protectively.

On the tape, the arena was dark as the big band started. Four spotlights singled out Rodney in a top hat and tails, hands in his pockets, carving wide circles, swinging his skate casually like he was whistling and kicking rocks. He shifted edges, gaining speed as he curved around – then he smoothly kicked himself up into a fast double toe, spinning tight in the air. He bounced into a quick tap dance move, spin-stepping sideways across the ice, hands low, arms away from his sides, the spatter kicked up from his blades catching the light. He stretched his back leg along the ice, skate dragging as he turned and dipped into jazz steps, left, and then right.

Then he pinwheeled into a Gene Kelly propeller spin, arms high and sweeping low.

With the blare of the trumpets, across the ice, a second group of spotlights picked out another skater in black skin tight shorts circling Rodney and....

"What is she wearing?" John said.

"We didn't go for period accuracy with the women's costumes. Though I thought the satin hot pants had a kind of—" Rodney rubbed his fingers together. On the screen, Rodney caught sight of Sonja and threw aside his top hat. "—Cabaret effect. But making the woman secondary and even bringing her in late is classic 1940s Hollywood. You just don't see that in pairs."

"Yeah, you like being the center of attention."

"Hey! I was the headliner! At the time she was only half of Gato and Michaels."

"What happened to her real partner?"

"Oh, he cheated on her."

"Ah."

"Then in retaliation she cheated on him."

"Yeah, I've heard this one before."

"It all escalated from there."

John frowned at the television, his gaze intent as Rodney approached her and swept his arms around her waist as he bent his knees for a pairs spin. "You're making eyes at each other."

Rodney rolled his eyes skyward. "It's called 'connection.' Eye contact is very important in pairs skating, and you know what? You should be very impressed with me right now." His hand swept towards the video. "I pulled that out of my ass after years of not doing pairs at all."

John had his arms wrapped around a throw pillow like it was a teddy bear and dented it with his chin. On the video, Rodney lifted her overhead into a difficult inverted leonine pose. Held it a long time, too. "Yeah. Very impressive. How come you've never told me about this 'connection'?"

"You're not a pairs skater."

"I'm skating pairs with you," John complained.

Rodney made a dismissive gesture. "That doesn't count."

John sighed heavily, slumping back into the couch.

"Anyhow, she and I only shared a hotel room," Rodney added. "It wasn't the big deal people made of it."

John's eyebrows raised now. "You shared a hotel room?" He turned to stare at Rodney.

"I was just helping her out! I was sleeping with Radek at the time."

"Who is...?"

"You're interrupting the show!"

Rodney and Sonja launched into a close side-by-side glide, legs extended, holding the spiral all the way across the ice.

"You couldn't fit a credit card between the two of you," John growled.

"Yes." Rodney gazed off, dreamily. "She shifted edges so naturally. It was like breathing."

The number concluded with her draped backward across Rodney's bent knee, her breasts rising and falling. After a long moment – a very long moment in John's estimation – Rodney lifted her and spun her out, their hands joined for a bow, beaming together.

"That wasn't all that sexy," John said, his shoulders stiff, mouth tight. He slanted a quick glance at Rodney.

"It wasn't?"

"Nah," John said, looking away.

"Oh," Rodney said, blinking and crestfallen. "Everyone said it was—well," he interrupted himself, chin raised in forced dignity. His hands spread in an open shrug and he let them fall. "I hadn't competed in a while so I wasn't in top form those days. I'd just decided to leave figure skating. It was my 'swan song,' so to speak." He made air quotes. "Amazing that I could even skate pairs after all those years."

"Yep," John nodded once, giving him that much. "Very impressive, Rodney."

"They might have been reading into it a tad."

"Absolutely."

~*~*~

John crunched happily on a handful of popcorn, his stocking feet on the coffee table as the closing credits of Pulp Fiction played. His socks were white, the elastic over-stretched and loose around his right ankle, gray footprint shapes on the bottom of his feet like he walked around in socks with no shoes a lot. Which was, in fact, true. Rodney was in a position to know now.

His foot bumped the stack of VHS videos and DVDs on the coffee table and Rodney caught them before they fell. They were bingeing on movies this afternoon, ignoring the fat raindrops against the windows. Late March in Toronto could be clear and cool, or it could be blustery and wet like today. (It could also snow but it was bad juju to mention the S-word in spring. Tempting fate, as it were.) Rodney set the stack upright.

"Oops, sorry," John said. He readjusted the too-large top hat at a rakish angle, eyes sparkling at Rodney as he downed another swallow of beer. He'd claimed the top hat as his own, which Rodney found endearing, if a little odd.

"So what's your favorite scene?" John set the beer on the coffee table.

"In Pulp Fiction? Oh," Rodney settled back next to John, hands on his stomach. "There are so many good ones."

"C'mon. No copping out now... the Royale with Cheese?"

"Okay," Rodney grinned.

He reached behind him to shift aside the usual clean laundry that he draped on the couch—to keep it separate from the dirty laundry in the bedroom—and found it was unnecessary. The couch was clear. Huh.

"The dance contest. They're just so spectacularly bad. I mean, not awful but so average, not in communication with each other at all. He's dour and slow while she intense and flirty and just...." Rodney shook his head. "Then the inside joke of it being John Travolta, the king of Disco, is the icing on the cake. He's such a sleek dancer and when he does that weird tiptoe thing...." He sniggered.

"I like the Royale with Cheese. And them complaining about the mess in the car."

"I wanted him to shoot the screechy woman in the diner in the final scene," Rodney commented, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of the bowl in John's lap. He pulled it between them as the closing music of Pulp Fiction played. "Stop hogging it."

"She was the most dangerous person there," John agreed, turning to him with a smirk. He quoted, "'Who does the greatest swordsman in the world fear?'"

"The world's worst swordsman—you clearly played too much Dungeons & Dragons as a kid."

John sighed with contentment and eyed the stack of videos, nudging them with a toe.

"What else do we have?"

"How about Mission Impossible? Tom Cruise is always easy on the eyes."

"The first was the best one," John agreed.

"And as it just so happens...." Rodney beamed and reached for the remote by John's feet.

"No, wait, not yet," John stopped him, snatching the remote first. He held it high. "I like this song."

"'Surf Rider'?"

"Yeah."

John leaned back, hands folded behind his head as the closing credits continued to roll. "I think that song makes the movie. I mean, they all learned to mellow out in the end, right? Even though they're still tough as nails."

After the laid-back 50's saxophone and airy guitar riffs trailed off, John backed the video to the beginning of the credits and played it once more. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

"I could skate this," John said.

"I—" Rodney paused. Then tilted his head. "You know. I can see that."

~*~*~

It was Rodney's night to cook dinner, and he reached over for a can of tomatoes from the stack next to the counter. The cans had doubled as foot stools, additional table space, and additional counter space when the dishes were out of control, but slowly the stack had shrunk to a less useful height. He stooped and his hand caught air. He glanced over.

They were gone. Surely he hadn't used them so quickly. No, he distinctly remembered a knee-high stack... he squinted and struggled with the memory of the last sighting... yes, at least two days ago.

His eyes swept the kitchen as he spun around. John was in his usual chair between the picture window and the door, leaned back on two legs, newspaper in hand, folded the way you'd read them on the bus.

"Where-?" Rodney began.

"In the pantry," John said, not looking up.

"What?"

"I figured that after eight weeks the cans weren't going to find it on their own. No idea why; they must not be quick on the uptake," John said.

By then Rodney had spotted the table. The surface of the table, rather. It was wood, a lighter oak than he remembered. He looked around for the stack of papers that must have been moved. Important papers. They were nowhere in sight.

"Wait," Rodney said, one hand up, still searching for the papers, but he was interrupted by the sight of the sink. Which he'd noticed before had been empty of dishes, and yes, he'd figured that John had been washing them, of course, but... where were the clean dishes that had been stacked on the counter?

The counters were clean, too.

"Where did the dishes go?"

"It's funny," John said, "but if you work hard enough at it, you can usually find a spot."

"My music—" Rodney said, panicking. He flung open the cabinet doors. He'd spent hours organizing....

"Didn't move any. Amazing how little space you were using down below." John nodded his chin at the sink. "You can stop washing those same two dishes over and over, by the way. I'd wondered about that but it looks like you just didn't notice."

Blinking, Rodney continued his search, stepping into the living room, which had felt more airy and spacious of late.

He turned slowly, taking it all in. The coffee table was clean, and the only glass on it rested on a coaster that Rodney hadn't known he owned. Maybe it belonged to John. The overflow that usually existed in the shelf below the coffee table was now a tasteful fan of sports magazines and "skating porn," as they called the glossy figure skating mags. The laundry no longer piled across the arm of the couch – there was no sign of it, in fact – and a normally rumpled blanket was folded over the back. Instead of the bed pillow from the bedroom, there were two throw pillows, arranged like they'd been set there by a decorator with a slide rule. The rug under the coffee table was centered and the edges no longer curled up. It looked lighter in color, too. Rodney frowned. Tapes were no longer piled on the TV, the floor. No more stacks next to the stuffed chair.

The strange airy feeling came from the disappearance of things Rodney had grown used to seeing scattered on every surface, and took for granted: business cards, lip balm, gum wrappers, the odd piece of cutlery, teetering stacks of books, ripped envelopes, pens, batteries, watches he'd broken, blank CDs, half-finished cups of coffee with green floaters, sports bottles, toenail clippers, empty sunglass cases, binoculars, lap counters (broken and not), the odd item discarded from his wallet, catalogues, wadded up plastic bags... the usual clutter of his life... was all gone.

That's when he realized the room must have been vacuumed – not today, no, there were no tell-tale vacuum scrapes along the rug – but recently.

Rodney staggered back to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head. He asked, "When did this happen?"

"When did what happen?" John said. He refolded his newspaper, his chair on the ground now.

"My papers," Rodney indicated the kitchen table. "Where are they?

John looked up, hazel eyes seeming brown in this light. "Relax. They've migrated to your office." Then he added, tilting his head in that almost Indian way he had, raising his eyebrows, "By the way, you should pay that phone bill someday. Probably someday soon."

Rodney opened and closed his mouth, looking around helplessly. "I didn't pay it because I didn't see it because it wasn't on the table. I'm a responsible adult. I don't fall behind on bills like that."

"How could you see it?" John said. "It was buried under five layers."

"I know where everything is!"

John put down his newspaper. "I can tell. That's how you didn't notice they'd been moved."

"I—" Rodney began, then said, "—just. Don't move my stuff."

"Fine," John said. He stood, setting the newspaper down firmly like it was a poker hand. With scary calm. "I'll put everything back." He stalked across the kitchen towards the pantry. "We'll start with the fucking cans."

A 28 ounce can of tomatoes launched across the room. Rodney hunched aside. It dented the wall and bounced off.

"Are you crazy?! You could have hit me!" Rodney squawked.

Another can rolled across the floor, kicked. John stepped out of the pantry with an armload of cans and let them drop with a noise like bowling balls.

"You're insane!"

"I am! I gave up my apartment!" John stepped over the cans, brushing past Rodney for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Away. Out." John grabbed his coat in one fist. "Before I commit justifiable homicide."

The door slammed behind him.

Rodney looked forlornly at the cans all over the kitchen. One slowly rolled to a stop over by the sink.

~*~*~

It was dark outside when John's keys rattled and turned in the lock. The cans were still on the floor – Rodney refused to pick them up in principle – and Rodney had his papers back on the table. In neat stacks. He was sitting in John's chair, and he'd sorted them by importance, thrown out the garbage, and was writing a check for the overdue phone bill.

The door shut with a quiet click in the next room.

John took his time. The sound of hangers heralded his hanging his coat in the closet instead of on the hook on the back of the door.

Rodney tried not to look up when he felt John's tall form behind him, leaning against the doorjamb. There was a long pause. Then John walked softly around the cans, pulled out Rodney's chair, and sat, his elbows on the table.

Rodney heard John sniff and glanced up with a confused frown. John hadn't been crying, had he? But John's eyes were clear, cheeks wind-burned and nose red. Nose running from the cold.

Rodney handed him a tissue.

"Thanks," John said.

He blew his nose, sniffling again. He cleared his throat.

"I wouldn't have hit you," John began.

"Okay."

"I mean it. I have very good aim." John wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "And... I'm sorry about the wall. The world just got ... a lot smaller. My options were limited."

Options? Rodney had no idea what he was talking about, but he got down to business. He'd been preparing his talk in case John came back.

"I need—" Somehow it was harder to say than he expected, with John staring intently at him across the table. The scruff of his five o'clock shadow seemed darker than usual, and his full lower lip was set in a surly line. "I need my bills out. Visible. I have to see them or else I forget. I am a busy man with a great deal on my mind and I have systems in place to make my life workable."

John huffed, a sound somewhere between sarcasm and humor. "Rodney. That thing's two months overdue. From before I even moved in here." He glanced around at the walls, at the dark window.

"All right," Rodney gave him that, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly, "sometimes the system doesn't work as well as it ought, optimally, but my point is, this is my home."

"Yeah," John said. "That's the problem."

This wasn't the negotiation Rodney had hoped for. "I don't mind your cleaning," he said, trying to define his terms more clearly. "I like it clean, even."

"Oh, really?" John's eyes widened in surprise and disbelief. "I seem to—"

"It's just the bills!" Rodney said. "Obviously I didn't mind because I didn't even notice, so therefore at the very least it didn't bother me."

John looked at Rodney, his head tilted in suspicion. "What about grocery receipts?"

"Trash."

"Catalogues?"

"Junk."

"Envelopes with phone numbers on them."

"Uh...." Rodney hesitated. John's eyes flashed in triumph. "Let me see them first. They could be potential clients. I tend to write things down on whatever's at hand."

"Oh, I, um, I thought they were dates and threw them out."

Rodney took a breath. "Okay. We'll start with a clean slate then."

John asked, "So I have carte blanche to toss anything except phone numbers and the bills?"

"Yes," Rodney said slowly and nodded, conceding more than he planned. "That sounds okay." He shook his head and squinted up at John, forehead rumpled in confusion. "I don't get it. I thought we weren't doing the Kato thing. I mean, you don't need to – the car's plenty."

"I can't live like this, Rodney."

"I'll do more of the cooking then," Rodney offered.

"Yeah. That's something else I can't live with." John tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.

"Oh."

John nodded slowly. He licked his lips and said, wincing, "I'll fix the wall."

"Fix?"

"Yeah. A little spackle, sand it, and some paint – good as new. Well. Almost. The paint won't match exactly but it'll be close enough."

"You can do that sort of thing?"

"Yes, Rodney. People do home repair all the time."

"Wow," Rodney said, impressed. "You look pretty butch but I didn't realize you actually were."

John sat up a little straighter in his chair and glanced around at the mess on the floor. "I'll pick up the cans, too."

"Yep," Rodney said, looking down at his bills. He flipped one over primly.

John snorted. A weak laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Then he bent to start on the cans.

"Oh," Rodney glanced up, startled. He leaned forward, reaching for John. "You don't have to do that instantly. They'll keep till tomorrow."

John gave him an exasperated look from where he knelt on the floor. "Rodney.... That's how these messes get started."

"Right, right. Okay, fine, Kato."

"Call me that again," John said, straightening to place a can on the countertop, "And I will jump you with a baseball bat, Inspector Clouseau."

Rodney tapped his fingers on the table a long moment as John worked. Glanced over at John. Then back at his hands. Then back at John, who had bent again to pick up the can that had rolled across the floor to the sink.

Finally, Rodney gave in and ducked down to get one of the cans under the kitchen table. It slipped his fingers and rolled out of reach, so he got off the chair to get a better grip. Then he handed cans off to John one at a time as he put them away in the pantry. That done, Rodney nudged into John's air space and John slung an arm over Rodney's shoulder with a soft sigh. John's spiky hair tickled the bald spot where Rodney's hairline had receded. It was much tidier in the pantry. John had found a surprising amount of room.

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Music: Hal Moody's 'Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.'

Comments

[rabidfan.livejournal.com]

Yes!

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

That's for the cake, right? *g*