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

I'm being very, very good and focusing my fandom time on Out Of Bounds. So. Here you are. More Out Of Bounds.

You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.

Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Rodney remembered that an uncomfortable chair was another tactic. Who'd furnished this office, Niccolo Machiavelli?
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid betas,

dossier and

rabidfan, who made this section 200% better.

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. Their teasing friendship warms into something more and, following a seriously injury, John temporarily moves in with Rodney. Now John has returned to his annual summer job as a bicycle messenger ... plus yoga with Ronon, plus training with Teyla, plus skating.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

Rodney rooted through stacks of papers in the dank little hole of an office he shared with Caldwell, the hockey coach. There was nothing worse than coming back after just a few hours and finding everything moved. Caldwell's laconic, "Then don't leave your crap on the desk" didn't help at all. The old coot would probably have a heart attack if he saw Rodney manhandling his favorite baseball jacket but Rodney needed the chair free.

He put away stacks of papers as well, because he knew John would thumb down the pile and be distracted by them—and he needed John's full, undivided attention. In an official capacity.

There was a soft rap at the door and John peered in, slouching against the doorjamb. "Hey. I didn't even know you had an office."

"I don't," Rodney said, disgruntled, draping Caldwell's jacket over the desk chair. "Come in. I cleared a spot."

John edged around the door, which didn't quite have room to swing. It clanged into the trash can and hit the file cabinet behind it. Rodney moved the stack of file folders off the metal folding chair for John. He dumped them unceremoniously on the desk and sat on the edge, hands loosely clasped between his knees. This set him higher than John, which was unintentional but Rodney had read in a book somewhere—Swimming with the Sharks, perhaps?—that it was a good tactic for a confrontation so he stayed where he was. Of course, with actual sharks one would be struck from below but that was neither here nor there.

John somehow managed to slump bonelessly in the uncomfortable chair, giving Rodney a cautious look from under spiky black eyelashes, like he was suddenly aware that he'd been called to the principal's office. His response was calculated and casual though. "What's up?"

Rodney breathed. "I heard Ronon's message on the machine. You canceled your yoga session yesterday."

John snorted and leaned his elbow on the back of the chair. "I figured I was getting enough exercise."

"And you canceled your weekly tae kwon do class several days ago," Rodney said, building his case.

"I was running late. I knew I wasn't going to make it." John squirmed. Rodney remembered that an uncomfortable chair was another tactic. Who'd furnished this office, Niccolo Machiavelli? John's voice turned a shade defensive, his face pink. "I did call."

"Teyla was very upset." Rodney laced his hands together over one knee. "I got a lesson on self discipline and consistency."

"Why you?"

"Good question." Rodney gave a half laugh of disbelief. "But the fact of the matter is I happen to agree with her."

"Rodney. I have to work. Sometimes it's going to interfere," John said with a flippant wave, sitting up and sliding in the metal chair. "I haven't missed a single one of your sessions."

"Lucky me. I get to coach a dishrag on ice. You're here physically, but mentally?" He wiggled his fingers in the air, scrunching his face, squinting as if trying to make a difficult decision. "Hmm. Not so much." He let his hand drop.

John at rubbed the hollows of his eyes and leaned forward, sagged over his elbows on his knees. "I don't know what more you want from me," he said, looking up, chin balanced on his hands. "I suppose I could try skating on Sunday after I've had Saturday afternoon off...." He shook his head, obviously cognizant of the fact that this would never work.

"Please," Rodney said, brushing off the stupidity. "Human bodies need at least minimal time for recovery or else they'll be run completely into the ground."

John ran his hand over the top of his head like a tired teenager and stretched, looking at the ceiling with an exhausted sigh. "This is more training than I usually do during the summer." He made a vague gesture at the ceiling, probably referring to the skating rink above and around them. "I mean, not in terms of skating time, but everything else."

"Summer is the time when you develop your program. It sets up your entire year."

"I know that, Rodney. I just don't know what else to do." He considered. The chair creaked as he leaned back. "Maybe I can pick either the yoga or the martial arts, instead of both. I mean, we were only expecting her to keep me on for one or two classes."

"Yes, and that still amazes me, what with you being you."

"Thanks."

But Rodney let the sarcasm wash over him, assessing this very rational possibility which he hadn't considered, actually. He shook his head. "No. I want you to stick with them both." Going backwards in his training wasn't an option.

John rolled his head, and stood, the tilt of his smile exasperated and wan, clearly aware his training schedule was hopeless. Canceling his outside training was just John's way of managing it without consulting his coach, Rodney noted with rising irritation. "Well, if you don't mind, I need to get changed."

Rodney shook his head again and braced both palms on the desk, gripping it. "No. I want you to take tonight off. In fact, I want you to take the next two days off to recover some reserves." He let the fact that John had no reserves left go unspoken.

"I can't afford to lose the training time." And wasn't it telling that John didn't argue that he was at the end of his rope?

"Hear me out." Rodney settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the desk, preparing for the storm. "I want you take two days off completely. And then...." He took the plunge. "I want you to quit that job. Put away the ten speed... or, well, use it, but for anything other than delivering packages."

"Rodney...." John rolled his eyes, palms spread as he looked away. "I have to pay the rent somehow."

"Your rent is piddling and I haven't even cashed your checks."

John leveled a dark look at him. "I've noticed. I was hoping you were late."

"Nope," Rodney said defiantly. "Just... skip the pointless symbolic formalities, allow me to cover your pathetic and easily dealt with expenses so that you can skate."

"And what? I become your pool boy?" John had folded his arms and his long eyes had narrowed, jaw set and rebellious.

Rodney ignored John's deliberate distraction—they didn't have a pool—and stuck relentlessly with the point the way his own coach used to. "No. You become a real figure skater."

"I was just kidding with the sugar daddy jokes, Rodney."

"Your expenses are nothing!" Rodney persisted. "You have no student loans—you don't even own a credit card. I'm covering the car insurance. Aside from your quote unquote rent—which I don't need, by the way—what's left? Food?" Rodney's voice raised in frustration.

John kicked the door the rest of the way shut, and then said, "I pay my own way." He leaned close and threatening, one hand on the desk. "You don't seem to get it. This is how I pay my expenses for the rest of the year."

Rodney blinked. But he refused to be afraid of John when he got like this, because John only used anger as a defense mechanism, and to get his own way, and besides which Rodney hated to be bullied.

"No. You don't seem to get it." Rodney stabbed a pointer finger in his direction, invading his space and John straightened. Rodney pressed his advantage. "In case you've deluded yourself that you're making progress, let me clarify: you are dead in the water. You have been since you started this job."

He sat further back on the desk to give himself breathing room, folding his own arms. "Now I admit, I may have on occasion wished that students were programmable automatons that would simply, finally, do as I say. But now that I have one I'd like a full refund please, or else a replacement AI model—or you know, real intelligence because I have no idea how to program creativity into a mindless piece of meat." John opened his mouth in shock, but Rodney kept going, on a roll—his ability to speak at machine gun speed was his greatest asset in an argument. "When I was competing my entire summer was dedicated to training—"

"You were in high school...." John cut in.

But Rodney ignored him with sweeping gestures. "—I gave up science, I gave up friends, I sacrificed everything, and yes, I was exceptionally talented, but my equally exceptional dedication is what translated that talent into two world championships and the Olympics by age seventeen.

"With the injury you're already weeks behind schedule in developing your programs—and that's if you were Bethany and I had two to four years to gradually develop your artistry. But you're no Bethany. I don't have four years. So we need to make astronomical, near miraculous progress for you to be where you need to be by fall. I don't see how you're going to do it, frankly—" A raw laugh escaped him. "—but I know how you're not going to, and that's by doing what you're doing now. I find it incredible that you've ever reached Nationals at all if this is any example of your summer training."

"I put in good effort in August and September," John said, turning defensive again.

"Then you've played catch up ball and slapped together a program at the last minute. I was under the impression you wanted to do more this time." Rodney raised his chin. He rammed the point home. "This is not generosity on my part, by the way. I'm being very, very selfish. Right now you are wasting my time, treading water, and it is unbelievably frustrating for me."

John took a long breath, looking down. His head came up and he looked at Rodney, eyes intent.

"Rodney. I hear what you're saying," John said with immense—and surprising—patience, fueling Rodney's suspicions that John's temper was deliberate. He peered at Rodney, head tilted suspiciously. "Maybe I can cut my hours a bit. But I'm going to pay my own way."

Rodney felt the utter dismay and frustration break across his face. His sister called him a human billboard, yet he couldn't help it. "But..." He slumped, limp with worry. "...you're killing yourself."

And that hit home, at least based on John's look of naked shock.

~*~*~

A pair of skates leaned against the wall beside the front door. Gray early twilight filtered into the livingroom which was empty aside from a yellow lined notepad on the coffee table, a pen, and several wadded up balls of paper. John's tennis shoes were kicked off by the couch, one laying on its side. The notepad had two lists scratched on it, with PRO and CON double-underlined at the top in sharp strokes. Figures were scattered all over the page in small illegible handwriting at various angles, half-finished long division and strings of calculation.

John's feet could be seen through the kitchen doorway, his legs crossed where he sat back in his chair. The phone cord stretched between him and the wall in a low arc. He tapped on the table in an irregular rhythm, then stopped, a hand lifting to trace his full lower lip, the dark trace of a beard growing in. He leaned on his fist on the table.

Finally, he uncrossed his legs, took his hand off the button on the phone, and dialed.

"Hi. It's me... yeah. Hey, look, I'm going to have to cancel that delivery tomorrow. An old injury flared up... no." He shook his head. "This is going to be long term. I can put you in touch with an old friend of mine for this summer... Yeah." He ran his hand through his hair, shoulders hunched. "It sucks. On many levels," he said, raising his eyebrows with a roll of his head. "But you've got to do what you've got to do."

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No music this time. But soon.

Current Mood: awake

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

jimpage363.livejournal.com

YAY!
I love Rodney's formal approach failing but his emotional plea is what finally gets through.
And the description of the office was spot-on. I have sat in those meetings myself and wondered about Machiavelli and torture.

From:

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

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

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