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

[icarus]

You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.

Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you?" Rodney said, stepping on bracken as he backed against the fence.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas, dossier and rabidfan, who've earned their keep a dozen times over this week. A special thank you to the goddesses of randomness. You got your Tupperware, though I have no idea how puppies turned into hoses.

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. Following a serious injury, John temporarily moves in with Rodney and begins skating full time. Listening is one thing, but Rodney catches John imitating his style. Meanwhile, back in 1994, Radek Zelenka receives an unexpected invitation.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus



There was a smacking of lips, a clattering sound as someone fumbled with the phone, and then a weak voice answered, "Hello?"

"What, did you have to dig the phone out of the back yard? It must have rung fourteen times!"

"Rodney." Radek gave a sleepy sniff. "It's four thirty am. I am hanging up now."

"Nononononono, don't do that! I'm at my wit's end."

There was a groan.

"Stop sniveling, you owe me one. I told you to look into that judging thing."

"You encouraged me to respond to an existing invitation," Radek said, but he hadn't hung up.

"Correction: I strongly encouraged you," Rodney said, wagging a forefinger.

There was a put upon sigh. "What is it?"

"He's an empty shell of a skater," Rodney complained.

"Who is?"

"John, of course."

"The jumper?" In the background there was the sound of blankets shifting as if Radek were sitting up. "I thought you weren't going to teach him any more."

"Oh, ah. Yes. Things changed. Quite a bit as a matter of fact. Still, it's not that big a deal although yes, it could get me kicked out of figure skating forever but I'm sure I could just go to another country – like France, France would be good – the French don't still hate me, do they?"

"I don't think so."

"Good, good, then I could go to France since they're permissive and I doubt they have such strict rules as the uptight Canadians and the ever puritanical Americans. God, sometimes I envy you Europeans," Rodney ended in a mutter.

"What...?"

"It's just a little scary, that's all. Look. Can we not discuss this?"

"Of course. Since I have no idea what we are talking about."

"Good."

Radek puzzled a moment. "I thought this, ah, John didn't listen to you."

"Well, he is now, but he's listening wrong. He's trying to be me."

Radek yawned, then said, "Maybe he has lost his confidence."

"Him? Ha. He's as cocky as ever."

"Maybe he thinks that you're better. Knowing you, you have said so, yes?"

The phone line fell silent.

"Rodney?"

"I hate it when you're right."

~*~*~

April 1994


Radek gazed up at the rebelliously modern building in Prague, glass panes refracting at odd angles. It was a symbol of the new Czech Republic, although most of the expensive suites he passed appeared empty. He picked the button for the seventh floor in the silent elevator and rocked back on his heels, watching the numbers as he rose. At the receptionist's desk he gave his name and then sat in the waiting area, feet together, his hands folded in his lap. He itched his nose and adjusted his glasses. He was early.

The coffee table was a polygon of frosted glass spread with glossy European magazines in an artful fan.

A man in a beige suit strode around the corner to the receptionist. He was surprisingly young and excessively blond. He had an eager, bright face as he leaned over to talk to her, and moved with the anxious urgency of the new generation, as if after decades of communist rule they were in a hurry to catch up with the rest of the world. He blinked up when he caught sight of Radek, startled. "Oh. I thought we were going to meet at the restaurant. That's all right. I'll hire us a cab."

"It's not far." Radek gave him a puzzled glance. "We can walk."

The young man seemed nonplussed, but he recovered quickly. "It is a nice day."

He introduced himself as Petr. On the walk over he admitted with a nervous chuckle, "I usually walk, myself. Prague is an ideal city for walking." He tucked his chin down in apparent embarrassment at this hollow declaration, but fortunately they'd arrived at the restaurant. He and Radek reached for the door at the same time and they blundered for a moment as Petr, who had the longer arms, caught at it and held the door.

The restaurant was not at all what Radek had expected, although if he were honest with himself, he hadn't known what to expect. He simply had an opportunity to meet with the representative of the Czech Olympic committee and still had Rodney's advice echoing in his mind, "Don't blow it." Slovakia and the Czech Republic had recently separated, creating two Olympic teams. The tables were draped with linen and cloth napkins were folded into elaborate shapes on pale glistening china. The waiter took his order like Radek was a king issuing an edict. Petr gradually relaxed as they discussed their families.

As the plates were cleared and they nursed tiny cups of cappuccino – Radek felt the caffeine practically resonating in his hair – they came around to the point.

"I was only a trial judge, and that was eight years ago," Radek explained.

"Of course," Petr said, head bobbing as if he couldn't make up his mind between shaking his head or nodding.

"There was some controversy...." Radek felt it best he get this right out into the open.

Petr interrupted with a brushing gesture. "Yes, yes, we're aware of that—are you in town regularly? Many of our previous judges..." He winced, breath hissing through his teeth. "...now work overseas. We need people who can be here for the competitions." He frowned anxiously.

"Well, I am working for a United States company but my time is split between London and Warsaw," Radek tipped his head reluctantly, "and other travels. But I am not far."

Petr chuckled. "You must live out of your suitcase."

"My houseplants all die," Radek admitted. "Someday, I would like to have a dog. But it's not possible now." He gave Petr a shy smile.

Petr nodded, his mind obviously skipping ahead. He held up a forestalling hand. "You're aware that there's no honorarium?" He added quickly, "Although there is a per diem, no problems there."

"Trial judges have never received an honorarium," Radek said, bashful.

"Oh, this isn't for a trial judge."

Radek blinked, speechless.

Petr leaned forward. "You'll consider it?"

"Why...yes."

"Great. That's great."

On the walk to Radek's hotel (he'd refused a second offer of a taxi and Petr had visibly relaxed again), Petr asked if he knew any other judges who might be interested.

"Any friends you could recommend would be much appreciated," he said with a trace of breathless desperation as they stood outside Rodney's hotel.

"For ski jumping?" Radek asked, turning to him.

"For everything."

~*~*~

Petr swung through his office. He shut the door and dropped to his seat with a satisfied air. The chair spun gently as he snatched up the phone and dialed, leaning back with his elbow on the arm.

The secretary connected them.

"You're never going to believe this," he began. "Are you sitting down?" A wide smile spread across Petr's face. "We have Jiri Zelenka's brother...." He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it. "...Yes! I know!"

~*~*~

Radek startled them again by showing up with his list in person the next day. It had taken a night of head scratching in his hotel, but the Olympics were after all a memorable time in his life. He couldn't help with the summer team, but for the winter sports he was pleased to find he knew a large number. Especially the figure skating judges whom he'd pestered with questions.

Petr's office wasn't quite as modern as the waiting area, occupied by a new leather swivel chair, yes, but with a somewhat worn wooden desk that didn't quite match. It made Radek smile. Petr shut the door behind them and scanned down the list as he sat back in his chair, oblivious to everything else while Radek found a seat across from him.

Petr's cheerful manner drooped once he reached the end, and finally he cringed. "Yes, we are aware of most of these."

"They're not available?" Radek was surprised. He thought surely the older judges wouldn't have jobs.

Petr chewed his lip and looked at the ceiling. "They all have problematic histories."

"I don't understand. They're fine judges."

"Yes," Petr allowed. "But they have certain affiliations that are frowned upon. We need to be above reproach."

"Everyone was a member of the communist party. Even me. It was a requirement to even become a judge," Radek said, disturbed.

"Yes." And there was a world of frustration in Petr's voice. He added quickly, "Except for cases such as yourself, of course, where there was a clear lack of actual affiliation, despite your official connections."

Radek was silent.

"Unless they were involved – as friends of yours – in your disputation with the Kremlin?" Petr asked, his face brightening.

"Ah. No."

~*~*~

The phone rang many times until someone finally answered. And then Radek had to wait, counting off the Czech koruny in his mind as the cost of the call rose, until, "What?" Rodney snapped.

Calling Rodney at work usually caught him in a foul mood.

"I'm in. They want me to judge." Radek still couldn't quite believe it.

"Good. I hope you hate it. I'm going to kill all my students and find a way to pin it on you."

~*~*~

May 1999


John felt Rodney's hand run through his hair, patting him as he insisted John sleep in. John rolled over onto his back, blinking slowly, not quite awake enough to feel guilty. He rubbed the crust off his eyes with his forearm and shoved the blankets down. He pushed himself awake, grabbing the nearest shirt available – a dirty t-shirt of Rodney's, loose and cottony – and shambled into the livingroom.

"You know, that shirt doesn't cover anything essential." Rodney's voice came from the direction of the couch. The news announced it was five a.m.

John grumbled at him, eyes half-lidded against the bright kitchen lights. A bowl of cereal later, he walked through the livingroom, bowl and spoon in hand, eating on the way. He shut the bedroom door behind him. Moments later he set the empty bowl on the side table, climbed into bed and pulled the covers back up to his shoulder.

~*~*~

The house felt curiously empty when John jolted awake several hours later. It took him a moment to remember. Right. Saturday. Rodney's busiest day, thanks to school and parents' work schedules. Although at least the work was continuous and he got home a little earlier. John blinked hard and shook himself, and couldn't believe he'd slept until eleven. He hadn't had a weekend in a long time.

His hair was still wet from the shower by the time he rooted through the fridge for lunch.

The leftover turkey turned out to have green strings growing from the lid to the turkey—John pulled his face away, slapped the lid back on and tossed it, Tupperware and all, into the trash. A man on a mission, he hunted through all the plastic containers he usually ignored. White furred dots in spaghetti sauce. An empty container with nothing but a film of congealed grease. Some kind of vegetable that had liquefied. Stale frozen bones, inexplicably in the freezer. A container of rice that smelled fermented. Something brown that slid down the sides—mushrooms?—that he didn't dare open, and spotted bagels. John stacked them on the counter, then gathered the pile and dropped it into the trash.

Dusting off his hands, a musty smell hanging in the air, he decided to forego lunch for a while. Outside maybe.

~*~*~

Later that afternoon, the coiled hose tugged against John's shoulder, slippery and awkward as he dragged it across the lawn. That was the thing. He never found rest all that restful. He blamed his mom for making he and brother work every time she caught them sitting around, even during summer vacations. There were many days where John found himself on a ladder taking down screens, or carefully pinning fabric for one of her myriad sewing projects, her hand ruffling his messy hair when he overdid it on the pins.

The air was cool, a blue puffy cloud day, with a bit of breeze that made it a bit too chilly for John's T-shirt, but the sun on his arms made up for it. Rodney's lawn was already browner than everyone else's. The trouble with Scarborough Bluffs was that the winter melt-off ran downhill, away from them.

The water splashed around his sandals, cold, and it made the hose heavier, but it saved him from having to double back to the spigot.

John recognized the rumble of his Chevy before he saw it, glancing up as Rodney rolled into the driveway. He sat very straight behind the wheel, reminding John somehow of black and white movies back when cars were a luxury. He waved to Rodney, and got a wave in return, Rodney's hand falling, obviously tired. He got out as John squinted at him and unpacked gear from the back seat. Arms loaded, Rodney climbed the steps, the screen door hissing shut behind him. John returned to the lawn.

Water pattered on the ground and made a shimmering arc as John yanked and whipped the hose lose from where it had caught on Rodney's sad rose bushes. He dropped the sprinkler attachment on the grass then bent to take a sip from the hose, following it all the way down to the rim as the water slowly disappeared.

"Hey...." John pouted.

He turned to find Rodney standing in the rose bushes, bent over with a hand on the spigot, squeaking it tight. Rodney blinked at him, blank-faced with recognition.

"Oh. Sorry. You were wasting water—here." He spun it back on before John had a chance to recover.

John jerked his face away—too late. The hose surged and he got a face full of freezing cold water. John spluttered. And Rodney's bark of laughter was totally uncalled for.

Shirt soaked and dripping wet (and it wasn't that warm) John turned towards Rodney. Who had the good sense to run, though he forgot that John was armed. Thumb on the nozzle, he sprayed in a wide arc, enjoying Rodney's startled yelp as he scrambled free of the bushes, his shoulder hunched and a great target.

John chased as Rodney giggled madly—giggled!—dashing around the corner of the house. He turned with his hands up once John cornered him between the garage door, the garbage cans and the fence, slinking the hose behind him like a snake.

"You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you?" Rodney said, stepping on bracken as he backed against the fence. John tilted his head warningly, and smiled.

~*~*~

Orange sunlight trickled in through the dirty laundry room window above John, who stood in still-damp jeans. He balled up his soaked and muddy T-shirt, jumped up and tossed it into the open washing machine. Two points. He pumped his fist.

John tossed Rodney's T-shirt next. It landed with a wet slap.

Rodney poked his head down the pantry steps, naked with a towel wrapped around his waist. He scrubbed at thinning hair with a second towel, grumbling, "I'm going to catch cold, sicken, and die because of you."

Not even getting the shower first had shut him up. Rodney peered at the laundry in curiosity while John threw in more whites and measured the detergent. John answered his unspoken question. "They'll mildew if we put them in the laundry bag."

"Ah."

Moments later, John heard the water run in the kitchen. Then the TV clicked on.

He shut the lid and cranked the washing machine on. Then climbed the stairs to the kitchen, aiming for the shower—and damn it. The Tupperware containers had migrated to the sink. They'd been washed, and had pools of soapy water standing in them. The trash reeked.

John pulled the bag out, spun and sealed it, then dumped the water out of the Tupperware, his face jerking back from the smell. No, they were unsalvageable. He rinsed and tossed them into the recycling, where they should have gone in the first place, then slung the trash over his bare shoulder. It wasn't too cold for a short trip.

~*~*~

John returned from his usual fight with the garbage can, the lid didn't fit right, and found Rodney completely engrossed in his TV show, a nature program about lionesses. As he watched them move in for a kill, John realized he had accidentally skipped lunch. That antelope looked good. His stomach telegraphed "red meat" or, hell, leftover chicken Teriyaki would be great. John strode to the kitchen.

The Tupperware had returned, filled with soap again. John's jaw clenched. He considered his options. An attempt to carry the recycling out would surely escalate.

He yelled over the TV, "Hey, Rodney! We got any bleach?"

"The laundry room!" came Rodney's reply.

Several minutes later, John settled cross-legged on the couch next to Rodney, plate in his lap, head tipped as he took an over-sized bite of his chicken. The lionesses had come too near a local village and the wildlife caretakers were negotiating with the villagers to not shoot the lions.

In the next room, the scent of bleach rose from a sink full of floating Tupperware.



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Comments

[reedfem.livejournal.com]

Yay new! I love the Tupperware war. I'm torn, I hate cleaning up moldy food, but Tupperware is too darned expensive to just throw away... Vinegar might get out that smell.

[roaringmice.livejournal.com]

I tried bleach. I tried vinegar. I even tried lemons, and then tomato juice. All I did was get the smell of rotten food plus lemons, or tomatoes, or bleach, or vineger.

I soaked it, I scrubbed it. In the end, I tossed it.

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

Now see, tomato juice can kill skunk smell. Why can't it save Tupperware?

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

Vinegar's a good idea. I've never been able to do it, myself, althought I try every time.

It's funny. Everyone who reads this (betas included) has stand when it comes to Tupperware. *g*