icarus | SGA FIC: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney

What's better than birthday cake?

Leftover birthday cake!

Here is the rest of that section I wanted to post for you last week for Out Of Bounds' birthday, but one scene needed a rewrite.

You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.

Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "Please. Go easy at first." -- "Oh, sure. Absolutely."
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. Okay, so I did a teenie, tiny bit of scene reorganization. You'll barely notice it. I promise.

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. John temporarily moves into Rodney's house, but his recovery takes longer than planned. John pays a visit to Doctor Beckett.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

John slid his leg off the table and tugged his pant leg back down. "So?"

Doctor Beckett's hand cupped his chin as he considered the X-rays clipped to the light panel. Rodney stood behind him with his head tilted, the corner of his mouth drawn into a frown, studying them as if he were the one with the medical degree. The first set of X-rays showed a jagged thin fault line through the white of John's bones. The second set, below, showed a similar line, only now the line was white.

The doctor turned back to John and conceded with gentle tip of his head, "Well. One cannot fault your conservative choice of treatment. Completely immobilizing the leg is not what I would consider necessary."

Rodney smirked triumphantly at John.

"And it is quite clear that you've followed directions and given it plenty of time to heal." The raised eyebrows and sardonic blink showed his surprise.

"That's Rodney's fault," John drawled, his folded fingers hooked over his knee.

The doctor licked his lips, opened his hands and finally let them fall helplessly. He took a careful breath ... and gave in. "I can see no reason why not." John and Rodney shared an excited glance as he nodded confirmation, saying patiently, "Yes, you may continue your skating."

John had already hopped off the table, his windbreaker balled up in his hands.

"—But please," Doctor Beckett urged, his eyes wide and earnest. John pushed open the door and was halfway through. He looked back. "—Go easy at first."

"Oh, sure. Absolutely."

~*~*~

John jumped the curb, slamming the roller blades into blacktop with a grunt. He pushed off, carving the down slope from Rodney's house. Hitting his stride, he curved right to a side street, leaving startled kids in his wake as he cut through their ball game and in between and around teams jumping rope. That was fun. He almost wished for more kids to complicate the route.

He hit the bottom of the hill and bottomed out onto a one-way road, ducking low. He picked up speed—then a car came around the bend, grill barreling down. He dove out of the way. Didn't people pay attention to speed limits? He snarled inwardly and lost time on the gravel margin as he took to the residential streets again, stroking hard up tree-lined streets before he found another downhill grade.

A cluster of teenagers on bikes tracked him from the sidewalk. They hunched away as he flew up their speedbump ramp, feet together, arm swinging for balance, up one side and down the other like a teeter-totter. He popped off the end of the board without a glance back.

On flat ground John hopped into a backward glide, shoulder to the wind. Setting his blades in a curve, he whipped around, then again, his arm raised. He pumped forward, angling into a wide circle like he would at the rink.

Hands on his hips as he breathed, he spotted an overgrown yard with a "For Sale" sign.

He knew that house. He'd seen the backyard from his bedroom window.

He doubled back to that driveway with a quick check over his shoulder. Slowed by grassy ruts, he bumped across the limestone patio until, one hand gripping the edge, he hopped into the empty swimming pool. He let go and landed with a hollow thump. With a deep rumbling he ground over the curve of the walls as high as he could before turning, wheels placed precisely, to roll back down the other side, rocked with G's as he bent. Up the other side to gain momentum, turn, to roar back down, knees dipped.

Over the sound of echoing concrete there came a piercing steady bark. Close.

John's head peeked over the edge of the pool with a surprised glance in the direction of the suddenly not-so-unoccupied house. At a window not twenty feet away, a fluffy mop of a dog barked, shifting the curtains aside, going nuts.

John's shoulders reappeared up the glide of the shallow end and, grabbing the ladder as a handrail, he vaulted onto the lawn to get out of there, wide-eyed. He only hoped that no one was home. He squeezed through trash cans to an alley, and spotted, on the opposite side... paradise.

A cascading series of stairs, handicap ramps, and railings, that led all the way down to basketball and tennis courts and an elementary school parking lot.

~*~*~

Rodney sat in the car, elbow on the steering wheel, wondering if everyone who'd ever given him a ride was now going to ask him to return the favor, because if so, that was a very long list. But he couldn't very well refuse since the elementary school was, in fact, on his way. He sighed as Colleen squirmed in the front seat, slinging her little purse strap over her shoulder, gathering her bag with the skates. Then she scooped up some sort of musical instrument and held a dry-cleaning plastic bag with a pink dress over her head. She dropped her sheet music, scattering it all over the floor. "I got it! I got it!" she said, ducking down.

Maybe he should charge a fee for taxi service.

Across the cascading concrete terraces leading down to the school, a young man in a white sweatshirt and jeans blazed down a ramp. Great speed, intensity, and ... sheer presence.

Rodney watched with interest, adding balance to the list as the kid – he was eighteen or so, he guessed, though it was hard to tell at this distance – leapt up onto a rail and slid down it. On roller skates. Rodney straightened. With a center of gravity that solid, imagine what he could do with the jumps.

Then the kid hit a flat section and circled his skates into an 'L', turning his hips, left, right, kicking his leg out in a well-practiced choctaw. He was a figure skater. Though he lost the intensity on the complicated moves.

And that's when Rodney recognized the wild dark hair and pointed ears.

John dug up some more speed and flew, jumping an entire stair to land in the wet grass. And Rodney forgot to be mad at him somewhere between the jump and the landing.

~*~*~

John brushed the mud off his knee and got up, aiming for the blacktop of the school parking lot. He played with footwork, blades pigeon-toed as he step-turned, shifted to an easy crossover, kicked his foot out, and turned with the momentum, unaware of the curious eyes watching him.

At the other side of the circle, he stopped short. There was a familiar car parked in front of the school. On a Saturday.

His Chevy.

The passenger side door was open to let out a preteen carrying skates in one hand and a dry-cleaning plastic bag with a pink dress in the other. A high, perky voice was saying, "... I've got dress rehearsal for band and then—"

"Doesn't your mother leave you one millisecond unoccupied? To rot your brain with television -- or maybe a video game?" said a tired-sounding Rodney.

"What do you mean?" the little girl puzzled at him, her words so bird-quick John could barely make them out.

"Never mind."

The door shut behind her and the plastic rustled as she scurried to front door of the school. She rang the front bell to be let in, bouncing anxiously in place.

John glided over and trailed a foot behind him to stop. He knocked on Rodney's window -- disappointed when he didn't startle. Rodney's arm worked as he rolled down the window.

"You happen to notice a lunatic flying by on roller skates?" Rodney asked him with a dry smirk.

"Can't say that I have," John said, leaning his hip against the door. He dug the heel of his blade into the blacktop. "I'm on roller blades myself."

"So you can do choctaws on those?"

"That, and all my jumps except the Lutz."

"Hmm," Rodney said. "Hop in. We'll hit the sandwich place for lunch."

~*~*~

Beep.

"Hi, John, it's me, Daniel at U of T. Glad to hear you're available again. I have a pick-up at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Give me a call and tell me how you're doing."

Beep.

"John, Jessica here at Max Printing, welcome back. If you can do a 10 o'clock, that would be great. Yes, it's the usual noon thing."

Beep.

"Hello? John Sheppard? I'm sorry, the message doesn't have your name; I hope this is the right number. I was told to call you for a same-day if you can do it...."

Rodney stared at his answering machine, nonplused. Twelve messages. He hit the button for the next one. It wasn't for him either.

John emerged from the bathroom in a wash of steam, towel around his neck, wearing nothing else. He slung the towel around his hips, his only concession to the picture windows in the kitchen.

"Um." Rodney made a strange face. "You seem to have a few messages."

"Cool."

John grabbed a pen, pad of paper and a chair, and rewound the messages, eagerly writing them down, eyes sharp, an elbow leaned on his knee.

"Old chums-?"

"Hmm? No," John said. "Well, sort of. You see, most companies don't care who delivers their packages just as long as they get there. So it's the secretaries who decide who they want to work with. And they like me." He gave a wide smirking grin and turned toward Rodney. "The bike messenger company I used to work for never figured it out. They always pitched to the head honchos when the decision makers were right in front of them."

"Bike messenger?"

"Yep. Got my ten speed tuned up today."

"You're not Canadian. Can you work—I mean, is that even legal?"

"Well. It was back when I had the visa in college." John winced. "I may have over-stayed that a little. But what they don't know won't hurt them."

~*~*~

The ten speed wobbled as John pushed off, the wheels hissing as he rode down wet pavement. He dipped his head to tuck a last strand of hair under his helmet, bent over the handle bars and stood into the wind. He was cold in the bike shorts but that wouldn't last.

His feet pumped at the pedals, circling, till he reached downtown. He glided between red taillights, car windshield wipers beating slowly. He went over the curb and hopped off, his breath steaming, a fine mist of sweat beading on his forehead. He skidded to a stop and slung the bike up onto his shoulder to race up a long series of steps. He ducked, the bike bouncing a little as he dropped it, and then swept the bike chain in place. He slipped past the night guard still on duty and impatiently paced in the elevator with the brass rails.

At seven a.m. the morning receptionist at Bogle & Folkes, Attorneys at Law, Ltd. was already at work. Her eyes went right past John's face to the messenger bag on his back. He signed for two packages to be delivered by nine a.m.

He unchained his bike. The next stop was on ground level, a direct door to the bright lights and hum of copy machines – a balding guy handed him a package, also due by nine. Of course all three were at opposite ends of the city. But at least the fourth pick up was on the way to one of the deliveries. Back on his bike, John settled into his ground-covering pace, cutting off a driver who couldn't make up his mind whether he was turning right or left, the turn signal switching. He ignored the guy's frustrated gesture, hunching his shoulders against the anger. As he learned in college when he worked for the professional messenger company, anyone who had time to park a car in Toronto didn't have their kind of deadline.

He checked in to his answering machine, an arm leaned on the cold payphone. Two calls, for a ten a.m. pick up and one at noon. He called them back and accepted, the pad of paper balanced on his knee, though he'd barely make the ten a.m. from where he was. But he couldn't afford to lose a client. The work was only a trickle right now.

He grabbed coffee and a sandwich at eleven.

After the lunch rush, he rolled his bike up to the yoga studio. Other than pulling off the messenger bag and windbreaker, John didn't change, just rolled out his mat in the back of the room. There were two other people in the early afternoon class.

Ronon wandered by, his dreadlocks hanging low as he adjusted John's knee. He said casually, "You stink."

John deepened his stretch, shifting his foot into the next position, arms over his head. "Sorry. Had to work."

Ronon nodded, accepting this. "Longer arms," he said. John shot him a funny look then tried to comply, stretching his arms more. "Good. Don't arch your neck."

Afterward, Ronon let him use the phone at the yoga studio, where it was nice and warm, to check his messages again. It was a long trip on his bike, swinging through downtown traffic to his next pick up, the wind rippling his windbreaker. A rush delivery paid him out of their petty cash and expected him to be able to break a twenty, wasting time in the confusion.

The sun came out in the late afternoon, striping the clouds gold and purple. He bent over the handlebars on a long downhill stretch into the wind to drop off a boutique package almost out of the city. The return was a long meandering thread through rush hour traffic, uphill, but with the wind at his back, sun on his face. With a sigh, he took off his bike helmet and stuffed it in his messenger bag, enjoying the wind in his sweaty hair.

It was a slow uphill ride to the skating rink.

His skates were in a locker at the rink, something he didn't pay for during the winter season. Dragging his gym bag out, he stuffed the messenger bag in and slammed it shut. He pulled fleece pants over the bicycle shorts and was still pulling on the sweatshirt as he trampled down the steps to the ice, skates in hand.

Rodney sat on the bench, rink-side, looking irritated and impatient.

"You're late," Rodney griped as he stood.

"Sorry," John said, lacing up fast. He'd had a week to learn Rodney would interrupt any explanation he gave. He slid out onto the ice and rolled his shoulders to get out the stiffness from hours bent over the bike.

"You getting enough cardio?" Rodney asked, reviewing his training schedule.

"Pretty sure," John said. He let Rodney's insistence that they return to his four a.m. skate time "when you're fresh; you're useless like this" wash over him.

John spun into the new circular sequence, a step and spin, arms wide as he stepped and turned again and again, kicking up ice spray behind him. Rodney gave up his tirade to hold John's arm and shoulder to sketch the dance move again. He glided backward with a nod for John to continue.

The following week was sunny and cold, the sharp wind biting his lungs.

His days alternated between bracing himself for the upwind routes and speeding along with the downwind routes, cheeks cold, grateful to dodge between buildings when he could. Lunch was too busy to eat, so he had a sandwich in hand when he showed up at the Tae Kwon Do school. He'd forgotten his uniform so Teyla loaned him one, ripping open the plastic bag. (Who knew you weren't allowed to do kung-fu out of uniform?)

He approached his sidekicks the way he approached his jumps, emptying his mind and focusing as he extended his foot and held it out.

"Good," she said. "But you are not breathing properly."

Both she and Ronon were big on breathing.

Back on his bike, John thought about breathing, letting the air empty from his lungs as he sat up straight, balanced easily on his bike – it had already become an extension of his body again – as he pedaled to his afternoon deliveries. But it was rush hour, when the drivers were particularly nasty, so he was forced to pay attention again. Outside a tall concrete office building he dropped to one knee and chained up, then threaded upstream through office workers in suits who only glanced at him briefly on their way home.

Five p.m. was the worst because the elevators were slow, stopping at every floor. After the pick up, John shouldered his messenger pack and took the eight flights of stairs at a run, jumping the last two at every turn.

Stepping outside after the last delivery, the sun had set, though the sky was still orange and gold on the horizon. John's breath steamed into the air as he looked up at the sky, considering Rodney's suggestion they go back to skating at four a.m. The phone was cold on his ear when he dialed Rodney, who was just as happy to cancel tonight.

He splurged and took the bus home, hooking the ten speed on the rack in front. He slumped in the seat and let himself soak in the welcome heat. Climbing off the bus into the dark, he walked his bike the last two blocks home, leaning it against the wall on the front porch.

Inside, Rodney had on some music and was bustling around the kitchen. John couldn't tell what he was doing though it seemed to involve him talking on the phone and waving around a sheet of paper. Arms folded on the kitchen doorjamb, John leaned his forehead against cool wood and let his mind go blank.

Moments later his arm was jostled in a warm grip. John blinked awake.

"I thought only horses slept standing," Rodney said. He waved a menu in John's face. "Thai?"

John just nodded and aimed himself in the direction of the couch, nodding yes to whatever Rodney ordered. He barely woke up at the tug on his foot, first one, then the other. The soft thump of his shoes.

Later, the room was dark when he opened his eyes again, fuzzy on what day it was, Rodney asleep at his side, his watch on the table by the bed. He was in bed. Rodney must have coaxed him from the couch. John narrowed his eyes and realized he was hungry. He couldn't remember eating.

Rodney's place was cold so he grabbed a random shirt and wandered to the kitchen. Shirt open and draped over his shoulders, John leaned his back against the kitchen counter as he ate Thai food direct from the container, digging into it with a fork. It was two a.m.

They had to be at the rink in a couple hours.

Yes, music!

For John's rollerblading: Blink 182 - Punk Cover of The Phantom of the Opera

For John working: Touch & Go - Tango In Harlem

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~~Music to be uploaded in a minute or two.~~

Current Music: Blink 182 - Punk Covers- Phantom of the Opera

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

jade-1459.livejournal.com

Two updates!

I didn't even realise I was going through withdrawl for this story until I started reading it again.

Awesome pace with this addition. Your discriptions of John working were detailed and yet still kept a quick step to them. I could practically feel the rush-rush-rush of weaving between cars and up side walks to the next drop off/pick up.

From:

Students? I like to think of them as "test subjects".....

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

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