![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusAh. Just before the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sgabigbang rush hour. Week. Month. Would you like 5,209 words of Out Of Bounds today? Yes?
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John cut a swathe of ice to stand tall, hands behind his back, elbows out, as the bagpipes from "Braveheart" began.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dossier and rabidfan, who've earned their keep a dozen times over this week. A bow to kung-fu master, enname.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was a Tuesday evening and they were home from the rink earlier than usual, thanks to summer vacations and Rodney's students being away at camp. The lights were off in the kitchen when John swung his foot around and slammed the cabinet door shut. It bounced back open. Yet he hadn't hit it with enough force.
He set it up again, concentrating the power towards the end of his kick. It slammed harder, ping-ponging open, back and forth.
"What the hell was that?" Rodney called out from the living room.
"Nothing," John said.
He double-bagged the garbage, avoiding Rodney's dubious look as he carried it out.
In the driveway, he threw the bag into the air like he was tossing up a pitch. His first sidekick missed. The garbage plopped to the ground.
The second try tipped it spinning sideways. John ran and picked it up. He figured his problem had been that he was mostly used to hitting a stationary target. He needed to hit something that moved. He threw the bag into the air again. It bounced along his leg and dropped to the ground.
After six or seven frustrating unsuccessful tries, John drop-kicked the bag like it was a football. He nailed the top of the garbage can; it slid off the lid and fell behind them.
He loped over and dug it out, deciding to try it at closer range. He tossed it up, tipped sideways -- and hit it! The bag bounced off the front of the can.
It was a crappy soft kick, though.
John thought of the cabinet and tried again.
The bag didn't quite go far enough, landing a foot from the can.
He thought of Jameel's head.
The bag bounced off the can and rebounded. The garbage can rocked, hitting the fence behind it.
Yeah, John thought to himself. This was gonna work.
~*~*~
Rodney had warmed up leftovers and was doing paperwork on the kitchen table. He glanced up once as John came in. John took a few quick mouthfuls of spaghetti before carrying the plate with him, still chewing. "Be out back," he said.
He kicked the back door open.
Bugs spun around the porch light attached to the side of the house over the concrete slab in Rodney's backyard. John set his dinner down on one of the loungers. He punched the air, one-two! – hearing Teyla's yell – and followed it up with a lazy kick. Too loose. He dragged Rodney's chaise lounge out of the way, then got into position, stretching out his kick. He moved through it slowly, focusing the power in the last six inches, heel out. Then fast.
Jameel would be aggressive, get inside to hammer at his head and go for the knock out. John would turn and – bam! – a crack to the jaw sideways, his chin snapping up when John got him again. "Oh, gee," John said aloud in his most sarcastic voice, "Was that your nose?"
He would follow it with a knee-breaker kick, angled down. Jameel would clutch at his leg, and John would knee him in the head – then an elbow to the back of his neck! Flatten him. By the time Jameel staggered up, John would slam him sideways. He kicked as hard as a horse, teeth gritted.
"Or maybe punch him in the face," John muttered to himself, throwing a three punch combo.
"Are you insane?" Rodney asked behind him.
John spun around, and Rodney backed up an intimidated half step.
"Who are you talking to?" Rodney stared.
"No one," John said quickly. He ducked his chin and swiped at his mouth nervously, putting his hands in his pockets a moment, before remembering dinner.
"I thought I'd join you," Rodney said looking around warily. He had two beers in his hands, and held one out for John. "Unless you think the local ninjas are going to get us."
"I'll protect you," John said, accepting the beer, and finds that he's only half joking.
~*~*~
John went sprawling across the hardwood floor. He leveraged himself up. Jameel was rubbing at his ribs, scowling.
"Good, John, very good!" Teyla said. "Jameel, you must learn not to 'recycle' your strategies. Even a novice can observe patterns and note your mistakes if you repeat them again and again."
Jameel bowed his head to her respectfully. John did the same, trying to hide his tiny smirk of satisfaction. From the dirty look Jameel gave him, he wasn't succeeding.
"Now I will demonstrate how to counter both John's attack and Jameel's response, and show you why they both suffered in the outcome," Teyla told the rest of the class.
~*~*~
John and Rodney watched Sonja's retreating back. Her dress today had little pearl-string straps, which John hoped were fake and wow, looked uncomfortable. But she seemed perfectly relaxed when she waved to them, smiling as the elevator doors shut.
"Is it my imagination or do our sessions keep getting shorter?" John asked in a sarcastic drawl.
Rodney breathed in through his teeth. "I'm starting to regret scheduling this for Friday nights."
"Not to volunteer your money or anything, but would it help if we paid her? Something?" John asked.
He pushed off, running through the choreography for his long program in his mind. They hadn't gone further than the first twenty-five seconds and he was anxious to skate the more active parts. But what she had so far was cool. He tried out the opening spin, ducking low, his head under his arm.
"Trust me, even if you were working, we couldn't afford her," Rodney said.
"We did make some good progress," John ventured. He tried that spin again. It was still too slow.
"Hmm... opening with a spin...." Rodney said in a disapproving, doubt-filled tone. His hand came up to cover his mouth, as if he were trying to stop the words that way.
"It's cool. I've never seen it before."
"With good reason." Rodney sighed and pulled his hand away. "Look. I'm beginning to suspect that she's using us to try out some things that she wouldn't risk with her paying clients."
"Is that good or bad?" John straightened, abandoning the spin.
Rodney cringed, sucking his teeth. "It could be great, or terrible." He huffed. "It's true, you could be the beneficiary of the best work she's ever done," he flung out a hand in a wide gesture, "freed from the constraints of pleasing her clients since she has nothing to lose with us." His forehead creased with worry. "But it's just that I'm concerned she's not taking into account your limitations as a skater."
Rodney's face went suddenly blank and he shrank in on himself, panicking. He added very, very fast, "Um. That is to say, not limitations so much as strengths, specific, individual, personal strengths, such that all skaters have in their personal... range...." His voice trailed off as he fortunately seemed to realize his slip was unrecoverable. His shoulders slumped. "It's too bad for you it's impossible to do a program with all jumps."
"Well," John said, more entertained by Rodney than annoyed, although he filed away Rodney's real opinion for later consideration. "It's not impossible."
"Yes. It is. The rules require certain set elements." He counted off on his fingers. "A combination of spins, certain jumps which can't even be repeated, footwork...." He made a victorious slashing gesture with his hand. "An utter impossibility."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious, I hadn't noticed that in my twelve years of skating. But that doesn't mean it's impossible."
"No one can sustain an entire program of jumps." Rodney, bright-eyed and beaming, held up a finger. "Spins on the other hand? Eminently doable."
John's arms were crossed. "I've done programs with just jumps." He let his arms fall and skated over to their bags, searching his daypack for the Jimi Hendrix CD and found... oh yeah. Perfect.
The CD for his 1995-1996 exhibition.
He slapped it into the boombox and stroked hard to the center of the rink, cutting a swathe of ice to stand tall, hands behind his back, elbows out, as the bagpipes from "Braveheart" began.
He stepped out and swung into a turn, swung around and – push! Hard into a jump on the first high note, spinning fast on his toe.
He landed, then shifted his left than right, carving the sharp edges of a Scottish dance, dipped and gathered momentum, increasing his speed, the wind cold on his ears – then launched himself high in the air, turning and breathless – and landed backward with a grunt for his first triple Lutz, only a little out of control.
He burned around another turn, dropping a little of the dance aspects to get the focus he needed, then threw a quick single (which should've been a double), followed in sequence by the next double. John grinned, because he was still with the music.
He cut through the center ice, the amused flicker of "frosted Lucky Charms" tripping across his mind, and held his arms out, knee up, back ramrod straight as he did quick chopping footwork balanced on a single skate. Then he hopped up once, almost running across the ice for his next triple, catching some high air -- whoa shit, this one was big. And almost too far. But he saved it in a spray of white on the landing, his back leg swinging wide, catching him.
He skated backward crossovers, gaining speed again, abandoning the choreography a bit because he was going –
--Up, into his signature quad. Late, way late in the program, landing effortlessly with only a little wobble. Oh yeah, this was where people usually started clapping, once they realized what had happened, as he skated away from the quad.
He sailed into step turns for the finish, arms open wide like he was spinning in a Scottish dance circle, dizzy across the ice, then dug his toepick in and launched into the final triple Lutz. A grin flashed across his face, because sometimes it was double, sometimes a triple. But he was hot tonight.
As the last bagpipe faded, he ended with his arms outstretched, face to the sky, gasping.
He'd missed his mark completely. He was supposed to stop at center ice. But Rodney didn't know that. Seven jumps. For an exhibition program. The norm was maybe one or two.
"I hate you," Rodney scowled.
~*~*~
Since Teyla had been teaching John gratis for three (all right, nearly four) months, Rodney thought it best to handle the scaling back of her "extraneous training" himself. And, yes, he did think of it in air quotes. Rodney had to appreciate a sport that ended in almost as many bruises as figure skating, but it was July, the competition season was coming fast, and it was time for John to shift to peak level training.
After a barista shift change, several cups of coffee, and a circuitous, polite, and yet far more heated discussion than Rodney had expected, he was wondering why he'd missed the fact that her training John for free for so long was, in fact, a very bad sign.
"You're just teaching him Tae Kwon Do. He isn't your disciple," Rodney finally told her, exasperated.
"You said he had excellent potential as a student," she said, her face smooth and implacable.
Rodney hand swept the air. "I was lying! He's an undisciplined pain in the ass! I thought he'd last maybe an hour with you."
"On the contrary, I find that he is very disciplined. When motivated properly," she answered, and oh, wouldn't you know she'd sneak in a dig at his coaching technique. Rodney spluttered. She leaned forward, arm on the table, pressing her advantage. "You mentioned that he was unsuccessful in his... figure skating. Perhaps it is because he is not meant to be a dancer." Her disdain drew out the word "dancer." Rodney would be more annoyed if he hadn't heard it thousand times. No one took skating seriously. "John is a natural athlete."
"And he's good at your 'kung-fu fighting,'" Rodney said, knowing she'd miss the sarcastic reference to the goofball 70s song.
"He is terrible," she said flatly. "But his potential is clear."
"I found him first!" Rodney said.
"Yet, as you said yourself, it has been twelve years," she said.
Rodney set his jaw, folding his arms, settling back in his chair, the line of his mouth slanted in a frown. "Why don't you ask him?" he suggested, with a hint of triumph at that foregone conclusion.
~*~*~
"I'll come back to it after the season's over," John reassured Ronon, rolling up his mat and strapping it with bungee cords to his bike. He emptied the other clutter from his cubbyhole into his pack.
"Okay."
"I'll keep up the stretches. Those have really helped," John said earnestly.
"Sure." Ronon gave a disinterested shrug.
John knocked the kickstand up, arm holding the door open as he balanced the bike, hesitating. He finally got his courage up. "I was wondering if you'd, I dunno," he shrugged, as casual as he could, "like to go for a bite sometime."
"Uh." Ronon's face went blank as he blinked slowly, once. "I'm not—"
"No, no, I don't mean—I mean, as friends," John said, his hands pinwheeling.
"Oh," Ronon said, looking relieved. He seemed to think about it a moment, striding to the door to lock up. He shook his dreadlocks over his shoulder and held it open for John, keys jangling in his hand. "I'm going to the range tomorrow," he offered.
"Range? As in shooting range?"
"Yeah. I keep in practice. In case of nuclear war," Ronon said, his face completely serious.
John gave him a funny look. He licked his lips and nodded slowly. "Good plan," he said, meaning you are completely out of your mind.
"You ever fire a gun before?"
"With bullets?" John asked.
"Never mind. I'll teach you."
~*~*~
John scanned the choices on the coffee shop menu, picking out a brownie rather than buy a four-dollar cup of coffee he wouldn't drink. Unwittingly, he sat in the same chair Rodney had two nights before, holding out the chair for Teyla, squeaking it along the floor. Or maybe it wasn't surprising. This is where John and Rodney had first met, and where they sat all the time now, discussing John's skating. She folded her fingers together and rested them on the table, seeming infinitely patient and willing for John to make the first move. Great.
"Um. Yeah...." John squirmed, wincing apologetically. He ran his hands up and down his jeans, wiping his palms. "So. Okay. I know that Rodney already talked to you, so...." He skipped the details she obviously knew. "I'll keep up the katas during the competition season," he promised her, just like he had Ronon. He didn't know how often, but he'd try to fit it in sometimes.
Teyla drew a slow breath. She moved her cup aside with a smooth motion. Every gesture of hers was graceful, conscious. It was one of those things that she carried with her outside of Tae Kwon do, John noticed.
"You must understand. Rodney is a friend, but we disagree on many subjects," she said.
Yeah, John had noticed that. He sarcastically thanked Rodney for passing the buck. He took a bite of his brownie and swept away a cluster of crumbs that gathered on the table.
"My father was an American soldier stationed in Korea, although my mother is Korean," she began. "Being so different is... difficult... for any child," she said, bowing her head in acknowledgement. "My maternal grandfather, however, did not perceive me as alien. He had no interest in me at all, in fact, until I began to learn from him. Then he had only interest in my Tae Kwon Do, how I was doing that day." She smiled warmly at the memories. "Usually dreadful, at least according to him. But the color of my skin did not matter, only my mistakes in training."
She took a sip of her coffee. "When I fought, when I competed, despite my family, despite the respect for my grandfather or for my own skill, people rejoiced when I lost. There is some," she sighed, "resentment towards the American military presence in our country. I was always 'the American', no matter what language I spoke or where I was born. There was no question that I would never be able to attract students of my own." She opened her hands. "My grandfather advised that I come to North America, to meet the other half of my family and learn about the other side of my heritage. At the time I was very unsure about it. I wanted to stay in my homeland.
"But he asked me, 'Is this your home?'" She paused, letting her story sink in. Then continued. "At the time I assured him that of course it was. I was horrified at the suggestion." Her gaze was intense. "Now... I am not certain that I would respond the same way."
John cocked an eyebrow at her, slouching insolently in his chair, refusing to take this argument in or leap ahead to her obvious point.
She pressed on regardless. "Sometimes we believe something is true of ourselves just because it is all we have ever known."
~*~*~
John was still grumbling to himself about Teyla, who'd never even seen him skate. Meant to be-? All he had ever known? What the hell was that supposed to mean? He flicked on the turn signal to take the immediate right into the rink to pick up Rodney. Too bad the coffee shop parking lot didn't connect. The rink was right next door.
One minute he was pulling onto an empty divided highway. The next he was picking himself up off the steering wheel, pellets of broken glass sliding down the back of his shirt, staring across the crumpled hood of another car. His vehicle was aimed in a different direction from where he'd started. There was a blur of movement as the other driver got out and slammed his door.
I've been hit, John realized. He pushed open his door, more glass trickling to the ground. His windshield was smashed and the entire front end accordioned, although not as bad as the silver BMW in front of him.
Just how fast had that idiot been going?
"Where's the fire?!" John strode from the car, slamming the door behind him.
"I had the right of way!" a guy in a suit and slicked-back ponytail yelled at him. "Oh, jeeze, look at this," he said, hands gripping his head, circling their cars.
"No, I was pulling out of this lane. Your lane is over there!" John slung an arm around to indicate the driveway. "The only way you could have hit me is if you crossed at a diagonal!"
But ponytail guy had whipped out a cell phone, giving John a pursed-lipped glare as he shouldered away. He had an earring in one ear and wore a power suit with a white collarless shirt. Normally John would have thought he looked cool, but at the moment it, and his pinched face, labeled him a pretentious prick.
"Honey-?" ponytail guy said, turning his back, like that kept his conversation private. "Some idiot hit me in the Beemer!"
John shot him a glare as he checked out his own car, assessing the damage. Shit, this could mean a busted radiator. That was three hundred bucks easy, right there, not even counting the windshield. The grill was wasted.... More glass spilled out as he went to grab his insurance information from the glove box.
Belatedly, a police car started coming their way, lights flashing. Several cars had stopped and were helpfully blocking traffic, while other cars drove along the median to get around them.
"I was dropping off Kiana at the rink and—what? No, she's—she wasn't in the car—yes, yes, she's fine, so far as I know ... you know, I was just in a car accident. A little concern for me might be in order." He was quiet a moment, lips in a sour moue. "I'm fine," he said, still plainly miffed.
He hung up and dialed another number, tapping his foot, arms folded.
"Angie? Yes. Kavanagh here—tell the board that I'm going to be late," he said with a certain relieved smugness John struggled to identify, going inwardly silent. "Some idiot hit me! No, not me personally. In the car! I was driving the Beemer, too. Call my insurance agent," he said. "And my attorney," he added with a sneering glance over his shoulder at John. "He looks like the type to try to slap me with some kind of personal injury claim." Ponytail snapped the phone shut and tucked it into his breast pocket. "You'll be hearing from my insurance company," he informed John tartly.
"You were already late for that meeting, weren't you?" John narrowed his eyes at him, digging in. That's why he'd crossed the road way too fast, shearing off the corner.
The slight widening of ponytail's eyes proved that he'd nailed it.
~*~*~
That weekend, two long legs in grimy jeans squirmed under Rodney's Honda, one knee raising an inch or two as John cursed, making a clattering noise that didn't sound good to Rodney. But he'd learned over the last few minutes not to pester John with questions. He was testy under there.
They had the garage door open to let in some natural light to supplement the bare overhead bulb. A soft breeze disturbed the newspaper John was laying on.
"If you're trying to impress me," Rodney said, chin hooked over the open car door, watching him with amazed eyes, "It's working."
John grunted, eeling deeper under the vehicle, tennis shoes scrabbling at the pavement, his voice hollow. "Just trying to figure out if you have a parts car here or—ah. Aha." There was another clatter and a clunk, the kind of sound you didn't want to hear while driving. He wriggled out from underneath, dragging newspaper with him as he sat up. He brandished a greasy inexplicable contraption. "Bet it'll work when we replace this."
"And how do you know that?" Rodney asked, balanced between marveling and skeptical, and ready to tip either way.
"Well, at the moment I don't." John set the part on the ground and wiped his hands on the his T-shirt, leaving finger stripes on his stomach. "But on Hondas it's always the water pump. And this thing's toast." He nodded to it.
Rodney decided being impressed was in order, yes.
John stood, dusting himself off. "I'll get some quotes; worst case scenario we get a part from a junk yard. Then we'll know for sure."
Rodney made a face. "I can always cover the cost of getting your car fixed. It can't be more than a thousand—" John glared at him, moved the part from the floor to a table, and wiped his hands on his jeans. "—fine. Just offering. A generous supportive offer from a friend, who's been more than a little impacted by the whole shenanigans, I might add, just until that jerk comes through." He winced and asked a little softer, "How's that going anyway?"
John made a frustrated groan. "His insurance company won't pay. First they said it was my fault. Then when the cops said differently, they swore I was exaggerating the damage and insisted that I send my car to a mechanic who was certified. Which is stupid, because the guy I had lined up was cheaper."
"Then obviously they're backing down," Rodney said. "It's only a matter of time before they can no longer delay the inevitable, so it just makes sense for me to—" John's growl was worthy of a nature show. Rodney held up his hands in surrender and let them fall. He'd be able to pay him back though!
"It's more than the repairs. There are storage fees as well," John sighed.
"Then it's all the more vital that we take care of it quickly."
"If we pay for it, that asshole never will," John said, shoulders hunched like the wings of a pissed off hawk. "And then I definitely won't be able to pay you back. Did you think of that?"
Rodney let out a heavy sigh. "At least let me pay for that... thing—" He fluttered his fingers at the contraption on the table. "—and whatever it takes to get my car running."
John held up a forefinger, wagging it. "That you can do."
~*~*~
The thing about living near a grammar school: it wasn't hard to bum rides from the skating moms. John could see how Rodney had managed without a car all these years. He wasn't so stupid as to have anyone drop him off at Rodney's house, but Mrs. Weir was more than happy to take him as far as Melanie's school.
"Nah, it's no problem," John said, slinging his pack over his shoulder as he stepped out. "It's only a few blocks—and I've got a shortcut." All of which was true.
"You sure?" she asked, leaning down to peer at him through the open door. "It wouldn't be out of my way."
"I'm cool," he said, smiling.
"Um, John. Before you go…." she began, a pensive note in her voice. She paused, a hand reaching in his direction, touching the seat. "I was wondering…."
John straightened slowly, his mind flipping through and discarding possible reasons she'd want to talk to him—and landed on the day that he'd skated for her. Uh-oh. Here it came. Lonely neglected housewives. She must have been thinking about the "great skating romance" for weeks. John's head rolled to the side and he suppressed a knowing smirk. He'd let her down easy because it was his fault after all. He should never have flirted with her.
"… Interested in coaching Melanie," she finished.
"What?" He caught up with what she'd asked with an open-mouthed blink. "I'm not a coach."
"Yes, but you're a competitive skater and you have a lot of experience."
Washed up. Done for. Has been. None of these words were coming out of her mouth and he tried not to take it that way, tried to see it like the compliment she probably meant it to be, his teeth grinding.
"You've been great with her and she really likes you," Mrs. Weir added.
John swallowed bile. "I'm not a coach."
"But—"
"First off," and maybe John's tone was angrier than he meant it to be, "I'd have to be certified, and I'm not. Second—I'm not a coach."
"All right," Mrs. Weir said calmly, dignified, holding her head high. She had the quiet determined air of someone used to being indulged. "Perhaps in the future you might consider it." She dug in her purse and held out a card.
When his body had given out and he couldn't do the jumps anymore and he'd given up all hope ever making it?
"No," John said, his jaw as hard as rock. "That's not gonna happen." There were no post-skating plans. Not for him.
She was smart enough to put the card away.
~*~*~
John met Rodney in the driveway after Rodney's ride pulled away, the summer sun still high. He hefted Rodney's wheelie bag up one step at a time, wondering what the hell he had in there. And he complained about Mrs. Weir all the way from the curb to the front door.
Rodney opened the door for both of them, scowling. "Oh, so I'm losing the Weirs, am I?"
"I think she was just feeling me out," John said, bumping Rodney's arm as he pushed inside.
"You plus ten other coaches no doubt," Rodney said sourly, clicking on the living room lights. John returned from the kitchen with a can of pop. He held it up and Rodney shook his head, no. John spritzed it open, slumping to the couch which sighed under his weight. Rodney sniffed, "Melanie will never be anything more than sport skater at any rate. I mean, sure, she has the moves, but she lacks competitive spirit. I can't teach that."
"I just can't believe she asked me," John said, returning to the question at hand.
Rodney snorted. "They don't seem to get that within two weeks you'd be kicking their tiny little fannies, too. A nice coach isn't a winning coach."
"You think I'd be a winning coach?" John said with a curious glance, holding out his pop can. Predictably Rodney borrowed it for a sip. His diets didn't preclude whatever John was having.
"Do you want my honest opinion?" Rodney turned a bright eye towards John, handing him the pop can back.
"Do you have any other kind?" John said, dry as dust.
"You'd make a terrible coach."
"Thank god," John agreed.
~*~*~
The target rocked on the wind like a kite after John pushed the button and it rolled forward. He pulled it off. Only nine had hit within the concentric circles—none in the middle either—and the other seven perforated the edges. John poked at the one that nicked the farthest corner mournfully.
"Not bad for your first time," Ronon said, peeking over his shoulder. John had the fleeting desire to hide it from him.
"I missed," John said, ejecting the clip.
Ronon shook his head. "You're pretty good. All sixteen shots hit the target. The rest just takes practice. You only started going high and to the left towards the end." Ronon pointed to the cluster in the upper corner. "Maybe you should forget skating and join the army." He grinned, all teeth.
John whipped around and growled, "You know, I'm getting really sick and tired of people telling me I shouldn't skate!"
"Whoa, ease up, dude," Ronon said, holding up a palm. "It was just a joke."
"Oh," John said, mollified. "Well. I get sick of hearing it. Especially from people who haven't even seen me skate," he grumbled at the floor.
But Ronon had put on his ear protection and commenced firing.
"Number one!" John yelled over the firing as he struggled to put on his own headgear. "Guns are lot louder in real life than they are in the movies!" He attached another paper target and hit the button. "Number two!" He raised his own gun. "Shooting ranges aren't very social!"
John stuffed a new clip in his weapon, lowered it, aimed, and proceeded to blow the target away until his gun jammed, clicking. He hit the button and his target returned. His aim was for shit when he was mad.
Ronon did the same and pulled off his headgear, disentangling it from his dreadlocks.
"I'll watch you skate," he said matter of factly.
"You will?" John said, surprised.
"Sure."
"Oh." John's lips parted as he processed this. He shook his head and covered his confusion by clearing the jam and sticking another clip into his gun. Finally he explained with a squint, "You know my dad doesn't even go to my competitions?"
"Really?"
"Never. Not even one," John said, his face carefully controlled.
Music:
Braveheart drinking song
Kung Fu Fighting
[Previous][Next]
ETA: To requests for more... given that the Big Bang is going to consume everyone's reading time for the next several weeks (last year I posted Out Of Bounds during the Big Bang and... *tumbleweeds*) most likely this will be it while I give you time to read those fics. Not to worry, I'll be working on Out Of Bounds, just not posting anything. Besides, I need time to read them, too. *rubs hands together in eager anticipation ofauburnnothenna's novel*
sgabigbang rush hour. Week. Month. Would you like 5,209 words of Out Of Bounds today? Yes? You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John cut a swathe of ice to stand tall, hands behind his back, elbows out, as the bagpipes from "Braveheart" began.
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 bow to kung-fu master, enname. 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 moves in with Rodney -- temporarily -- to train full time. Yoga with Ronon. Taekwondo with Teyla. And thanks to Rodney's former skating partner, John has a real choreographer this year.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
It was a Tuesday evening and they were home from the rink earlier than usual, thanks to summer vacations and Rodney's students being away at camp. The lights were off in the kitchen when John swung his foot around and slammed the cabinet door shut. It bounced back open. Yet he hadn't hit it with enough force.
He set it up again, concentrating the power towards the end of his kick. It slammed harder, ping-ponging open, back and forth.
"What the hell was that?" Rodney called out from the living room.
"Nothing," John said.
He double-bagged the garbage, avoiding Rodney's dubious look as he carried it out.
In the driveway, he threw the bag into the air like he was tossing up a pitch. His first sidekick missed. The garbage plopped to the ground.
The second try tipped it spinning sideways. John ran and picked it up. He figured his problem had been that he was mostly used to hitting a stationary target. He needed to hit something that moved. He threw the bag into the air again. It bounced along his leg and dropped to the ground.
After six or seven frustrating unsuccessful tries, John drop-kicked the bag like it was a football. He nailed the top of the garbage can; it slid off the lid and fell behind them.
He loped over and dug it out, deciding to try it at closer range. He tossed it up, tipped sideways -- and hit it! The bag bounced off the front of the can.
It was a crappy soft kick, though.
John thought of the cabinet and tried again.
The bag didn't quite go far enough, landing a foot from the can.
He thought of Jameel's head.
The bag bounced off the can and rebounded. The garbage can rocked, hitting the fence behind it.
Yeah, John thought to himself. This was gonna work.
Rodney had warmed up leftovers and was doing paperwork on the kitchen table. He glanced up once as John came in. John took a few quick mouthfuls of spaghetti before carrying the plate with him, still chewing. "Be out back," he said.
He kicked the back door open.
Bugs spun around the porch light attached to the side of the house over the concrete slab in Rodney's backyard. John set his dinner down on one of the loungers. He punched the air, one-two! – hearing Teyla's yell – and followed it up with a lazy kick. Too loose. He dragged Rodney's chaise lounge out of the way, then got into position, stretching out his kick. He moved through it slowly, focusing the power in the last six inches, heel out. Then fast.
Jameel would be aggressive, get inside to hammer at his head and go for the knock out. John would turn and – bam! – a crack to the jaw sideways, his chin snapping up when John got him again. "Oh, gee," John said aloud in his most sarcastic voice, "Was that your nose?"
He would follow it with a knee-breaker kick, angled down. Jameel would clutch at his leg, and John would knee him in the head – then an elbow to the back of his neck! Flatten him. By the time Jameel staggered up, John would slam him sideways. He kicked as hard as a horse, teeth gritted.
"Or maybe punch him in the face," John muttered to himself, throwing a three punch combo.
"Are you insane?" Rodney asked behind him.
John spun around, and Rodney backed up an intimidated half step.
"Who are you talking to?" Rodney stared.
"No one," John said quickly. He ducked his chin and swiped at his mouth nervously, putting his hands in his pockets a moment, before remembering dinner.
"I thought I'd join you," Rodney said looking around warily. He had two beers in his hands, and held one out for John. "Unless you think the local ninjas are going to get us."
"I'll protect you," John said, accepting the beer, and finds that he's only half joking.
John went sprawling across the hardwood floor. He leveraged himself up. Jameel was rubbing at his ribs, scowling.
"Good, John, very good!" Teyla said. "Jameel, you must learn not to 'recycle' your strategies. Even a novice can observe patterns and note your mistakes if you repeat them again and again."
Jameel bowed his head to her respectfully. John did the same, trying to hide his tiny smirk of satisfaction. From the dirty look Jameel gave him, he wasn't succeeding.
"Now I will demonstrate how to counter both John's attack and Jameel's response, and show you why they both suffered in the outcome," Teyla told the rest of the class.
John and Rodney watched Sonja's retreating back. Her dress today had little pearl-string straps, which John hoped were fake and wow, looked uncomfortable. But she seemed perfectly relaxed when she waved to them, smiling as the elevator doors shut.
"Is it my imagination or do our sessions keep getting shorter?" John asked in a sarcastic drawl.
Rodney breathed in through his teeth. "I'm starting to regret scheduling this for Friday nights."
"Not to volunteer your money or anything, but would it help if we paid her? Something?" John asked.
He pushed off, running through the choreography for his long program in his mind. They hadn't gone further than the first twenty-five seconds and he was anxious to skate the more active parts. But what she had so far was cool. He tried out the opening spin, ducking low, his head under his arm.
"Trust me, even if you were working, we couldn't afford her," Rodney said.
"We did make some good progress," John ventured. He tried that spin again. It was still too slow.
"Hmm... opening with a spin...." Rodney said in a disapproving, doubt-filled tone. His hand came up to cover his mouth, as if he were trying to stop the words that way.
"It's cool. I've never seen it before."
"With good reason." Rodney sighed and pulled his hand away. "Look. I'm beginning to suspect that she's using us to try out some things that she wouldn't risk with her paying clients."
"Is that good or bad?" John straightened, abandoning the spin.
Rodney cringed, sucking his teeth. "It could be great, or terrible." He huffed. "It's true, you could be the beneficiary of the best work she's ever done," he flung out a hand in a wide gesture, "freed from the constraints of pleasing her clients since she has nothing to lose with us." His forehead creased with worry. "But it's just that I'm concerned she's not taking into account your limitations as a skater."
Rodney's face went suddenly blank and he shrank in on himself, panicking. He added very, very fast, "Um. That is to say, not limitations so much as strengths, specific, individual, personal strengths, such that all skaters have in their personal... range...." His voice trailed off as he fortunately seemed to realize his slip was unrecoverable. His shoulders slumped. "It's too bad for you it's impossible to do a program with all jumps."
"Well," John said, more entertained by Rodney than annoyed, although he filed away Rodney's real opinion for later consideration. "It's not impossible."
"Yes. It is. The rules require certain set elements." He counted off on his fingers. "A combination of spins, certain jumps which can't even be repeated, footwork...." He made a victorious slashing gesture with his hand. "An utter impossibility."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious, I hadn't noticed that in my twelve years of skating. But that doesn't mean it's impossible."
"No one can sustain an entire program of jumps." Rodney, bright-eyed and beaming, held up a finger. "Spins on the other hand? Eminently doable."
John's arms were crossed. "I've done programs with just jumps." He let his arms fall and skated over to their bags, searching his daypack for the Jimi Hendrix CD and found... oh yeah. Perfect.
The CD for his 1995-1996 exhibition.
He slapped it into the boombox and stroked hard to the center of the rink, cutting a swathe of ice to stand tall, hands behind his back, elbows out, as the bagpipes from "Braveheart" began.
He stepped out and swung into a turn, swung around and – push! Hard into a jump on the first high note, spinning fast on his toe.
He landed, then shifted his left than right, carving the sharp edges of a Scottish dance, dipped and gathered momentum, increasing his speed, the wind cold on his ears – then launched himself high in the air, turning and breathless – and landed backward with a grunt for his first triple Lutz, only a little out of control.
He burned around another turn, dropping a little of the dance aspects to get the focus he needed, then threw a quick single (which should've been a double), followed in sequence by the next double. John grinned, because he was still with the music.
He cut through the center ice, the amused flicker of "frosted Lucky Charms" tripping across his mind, and held his arms out, knee up, back ramrod straight as he did quick chopping footwork balanced on a single skate. Then he hopped up once, almost running across the ice for his next triple, catching some high air -- whoa shit, this one was big. And almost too far. But he saved it in a spray of white on the landing, his back leg swinging wide, catching him.
He skated backward crossovers, gaining speed again, abandoning the choreography a bit because he was going –
--Up, into his signature quad. Late, way late in the program, landing effortlessly with only a little wobble. Oh yeah, this was where people usually started clapping, once they realized what had happened, as he skated away from the quad.
He sailed into step turns for the finish, arms open wide like he was spinning in a Scottish dance circle, dizzy across the ice, then dug his toepick in and launched into the final triple Lutz. A grin flashed across his face, because sometimes it was double, sometimes a triple. But he was hot tonight.
As the last bagpipe faded, he ended with his arms outstretched, face to the sky, gasping.
He'd missed his mark completely. He was supposed to stop at center ice. But Rodney didn't know that. Seven jumps. For an exhibition program. The norm was maybe one or two.
"I hate you," Rodney scowled.
Since Teyla had been teaching John gratis for three (all right, nearly four) months, Rodney thought it best to handle the scaling back of her "extraneous training" himself. And, yes, he did think of it in air quotes. Rodney had to appreciate a sport that ended in almost as many bruises as figure skating, but it was July, the competition season was coming fast, and it was time for John to shift to peak level training.
After a barista shift change, several cups of coffee, and a circuitous, polite, and yet far more heated discussion than Rodney had expected, he was wondering why he'd missed the fact that her training John for free for so long was, in fact, a very bad sign.
"You're just teaching him Tae Kwon Do. He isn't your disciple," Rodney finally told her, exasperated.
"You said he had excellent potential as a student," she said, her face smooth and implacable.
Rodney hand swept the air. "I was lying! He's an undisciplined pain in the ass! I thought he'd last maybe an hour with you."
"On the contrary, I find that he is very disciplined. When motivated properly," she answered, and oh, wouldn't you know she'd sneak in a dig at his coaching technique. Rodney spluttered. She leaned forward, arm on the table, pressing her advantage. "You mentioned that he was unsuccessful in his... figure skating. Perhaps it is because he is not meant to be a dancer." Her disdain drew out the word "dancer." Rodney would be more annoyed if he hadn't heard it thousand times. No one took skating seriously. "John is a natural athlete."
"And he's good at your 'kung-fu fighting,'" Rodney said, knowing she'd miss the sarcastic reference to the goofball 70s song.
"He is terrible," she said flatly. "But his potential is clear."
"I found him first!" Rodney said.
"Yet, as you said yourself, it has been twelve years," she said.
Rodney set his jaw, folding his arms, settling back in his chair, the line of his mouth slanted in a frown. "Why don't you ask him?" he suggested, with a hint of triumph at that foregone conclusion.
"I'll come back to it after the season's over," John reassured Ronon, rolling up his mat and strapping it with bungee cords to his bike. He emptied the other clutter from his cubbyhole into his pack.
"Okay."
"I'll keep up the stretches. Those have really helped," John said earnestly.
"Sure." Ronon gave a disinterested shrug.
John knocked the kickstand up, arm holding the door open as he balanced the bike, hesitating. He finally got his courage up. "I was wondering if you'd, I dunno," he shrugged, as casual as he could, "like to go for a bite sometime."
"Uh." Ronon's face went blank as he blinked slowly, once. "I'm not—"
"No, no, I don't mean—I mean, as friends," John said, his hands pinwheeling.
"Oh," Ronon said, looking relieved. He seemed to think about it a moment, striding to the door to lock up. He shook his dreadlocks over his shoulder and held it open for John, keys jangling in his hand. "I'm going to the range tomorrow," he offered.
"Range? As in shooting range?"
"Yeah. I keep in practice. In case of nuclear war," Ronon said, his face completely serious.
John gave him a funny look. He licked his lips and nodded slowly. "Good plan," he said, meaning you are completely out of your mind.
"You ever fire a gun before?"
"With bullets?" John asked.
"Never mind. I'll teach you."
John scanned the choices on the coffee shop menu, picking out a brownie rather than buy a four-dollar cup of coffee he wouldn't drink. Unwittingly, he sat in the same chair Rodney had two nights before, holding out the chair for Teyla, squeaking it along the floor. Or maybe it wasn't surprising. This is where John and Rodney had first met, and where they sat all the time now, discussing John's skating. She folded her fingers together and rested them on the table, seeming infinitely patient and willing for John to make the first move. Great.
"Um. Yeah...." John squirmed, wincing apologetically. He ran his hands up and down his jeans, wiping his palms. "So. Okay. I know that Rodney already talked to you, so...." He skipped the details she obviously knew. "I'll keep up the katas during the competition season," he promised her, just like he had Ronon. He didn't know how often, but he'd try to fit it in sometimes.
Teyla drew a slow breath. She moved her cup aside with a smooth motion. Every gesture of hers was graceful, conscious. It was one of those things that she carried with her outside of Tae Kwon do, John noticed.
"You must understand. Rodney is a friend, but we disagree on many subjects," she said.
Yeah, John had noticed that. He sarcastically thanked Rodney for passing the buck. He took a bite of his brownie and swept away a cluster of crumbs that gathered on the table.
"My father was an American soldier stationed in Korea, although my mother is Korean," she began. "Being so different is... difficult... for any child," she said, bowing her head in acknowledgement. "My maternal grandfather, however, did not perceive me as alien. He had no interest in me at all, in fact, until I began to learn from him. Then he had only interest in my Tae Kwon Do, how I was doing that day." She smiled warmly at the memories. "Usually dreadful, at least according to him. But the color of my skin did not matter, only my mistakes in training."
She took a sip of her coffee. "When I fought, when I competed, despite my family, despite the respect for my grandfather or for my own skill, people rejoiced when I lost. There is some," she sighed, "resentment towards the American military presence in our country. I was always 'the American', no matter what language I spoke or where I was born. There was no question that I would never be able to attract students of my own." She opened her hands. "My grandfather advised that I come to North America, to meet the other half of my family and learn about the other side of my heritage. At the time I was very unsure about it. I wanted to stay in my homeland.
"But he asked me, 'Is this your home?'" She paused, letting her story sink in. Then continued. "At the time I assured him that of course it was. I was horrified at the suggestion." Her gaze was intense. "Now... I am not certain that I would respond the same way."
John cocked an eyebrow at her, slouching insolently in his chair, refusing to take this argument in or leap ahead to her obvious point.
She pressed on regardless. "Sometimes we believe something is true of ourselves just because it is all we have ever known."
John was still grumbling to himself about Teyla, who'd never even seen him skate. Meant to be-? All he had ever known? What the hell was that supposed to mean? He flicked on the turn signal to take the immediate right into the rink to pick up Rodney. Too bad the coffee shop parking lot didn't connect. The rink was right next door.
One minute he was pulling onto an empty divided highway. The next he was picking himself up off the steering wheel, pellets of broken glass sliding down the back of his shirt, staring across the crumpled hood of another car. His vehicle was aimed in a different direction from where he'd started. There was a blur of movement as the other driver got out and slammed his door.
I've been hit, John realized. He pushed open his door, more glass trickling to the ground. His windshield was smashed and the entire front end accordioned, although not as bad as the silver BMW in front of him.
Just how fast had that idiot been going?
"Where's the fire?!" John strode from the car, slamming the door behind him.
"I had the right of way!" a guy in a suit and slicked-back ponytail yelled at him. "Oh, jeeze, look at this," he said, hands gripping his head, circling their cars.
"No, I was pulling out of this lane. Your lane is over there!" John slung an arm around to indicate the driveway. "The only way you could have hit me is if you crossed at a diagonal!"
But ponytail guy had whipped out a cell phone, giving John a pursed-lipped glare as he shouldered away. He had an earring in one ear and wore a power suit with a white collarless shirt. Normally John would have thought he looked cool, but at the moment it, and his pinched face, labeled him a pretentious prick.
"Honey-?" ponytail guy said, turning his back, like that kept his conversation private. "Some idiot hit me in the Beemer!"
John shot him a glare as he checked out his own car, assessing the damage. Shit, this could mean a busted radiator. That was three hundred bucks easy, right there, not even counting the windshield. The grill was wasted.... More glass spilled out as he went to grab his insurance information from the glove box.
Belatedly, a police car started coming their way, lights flashing. Several cars had stopped and were helpfully blocking traffic, while other cars drove along the median to get around them.
"I was dropping off Kiana at the rink and—what? No, she's—she wasn't in the car—yes, yes, she's fine, so far as I know ... you know, I was just in a car accident. A little concern for me might be in order." He was quiet a moment, lips in a sour moue. "I'm fine," he said, still plainly miffed.
He hung up and dialed another number, tapping his foot, arms folded.
"Angie? Yes. Kavanagh here—tell the board that I'm going to be late," he said with a certain relieved smugness John struggled to identify, going inwardly silent. "Some idiot hit me! No, not me personally. In the car! I was driving the Beemer, too. Call my insurance agent," he said. "And my attorney," he added with a sneering glance over his shoulder at John. "He looks like the type to try to slap me with some kind of personal injury claim." Ponytail snapped the phone shut and tucked it into his breast pocket. "You'll be hearing from my insurance company," he informed John tartly.
"You were already late for that meeting, weren't you?" John narrowed his eyes at him, digging in. That's why he'd crossed the road way too fast, shearing off the corner.
The slight widening of ponytail's eyes proved that he'd nailed it.
That weekend, two long legs in grimy jeans squirmed under Rodney's Honda, one knee raising an inch or two as John cursed, making a clattering noise that didn't sound good to Rodney. But he'd learned over the last few minutes not to pester John with questions. He was testy under there.
They had the garage door open to let in some natural light to supplement the bare overhead bulb. A soft breeze disturbed the newspaper John was laying on.
"If you're trying to impress me," Rodney said, chin hooked over the open car door, watching him with amazed eyes, "It's working."
John grunted, eeling deeper under the vehicle, tennis shoes scrabbling at the pavement, his voice hollow. "Just trying to figure out if you have a parts car here or—ah. Aha." There was another clatter and a clunk, the kind of sound you didn't want to hear while driving. He wriggled out from underneath, dragging newspaper with him as he sat up. He brandished a greasy inexplicable contraption. "Bet it'll work when we replace this."
"And how do you know that?" Rodney asked, balanced between marveling and skeptical, and ready to tip either way.
"Well, at the moment I don't." John set the part on the ground and wiped his hands on the his T-shirt, leaving finger stripes on his stomach. "But on Hondas it's always the water pump. And this thing's toast." He nodded to it.
Rodney decided being impressed was in order, yes.
John stood, dusting himself off. "I'll get some quotes; worst case scenario we get a part from a junk yard. Then we'll know for sure."
Rodney made a face. "I can always cover the cost of getting your car fixed. It can't be more than a thousand—" John glared at him, moved the part from the floor to a table, and wiped his hands on his jeans. "—fine. Just offering. A generous supportive offer from a friend, who's been more than a little impacted by the whole shenanigans, I might add, just until that jerk comes through." He winced and asked a little softer, "How's that going anyway?"
John made a frustrated groan. "His insurance company won't pay. First they said it was my fault. Then when the cops said differently, they swore I was exaggerating the damage and insisted that I send my car to a mechanic who was certified. Which is stupid, because the guy I had lined up was cheaper."
"Then obviously they're backing down," Rodney said. "It's only a matter of time before they can no longer delay the inevitable, so it just makes sense for me to—" John's growl was worthy of a nature show. Rodney held up his hands in surrender and let them fall. He'd be able to pay him back though!
"It's more than the repairs. There are storage fees as well," John sighed.
"Then it's all the more vital that we take care of it quickly."
"If we pay for it, that asshole never will," John said, shoulders hunched like the wings of a pissed off hawk. "And then I definitely won't be able to pay you back. Did you think of that?"
Rodney let out a heavy sigh. "At least let me pay for that... thing—" He fluttered his fingers at the contraption on the table. "—and whatever it takes to get my car running."
John held up a forefinger, wagging it. "That you can do."
The thing about living near a grammar school: it wasn't hard to bum rides from the skating moms. John could see how Rodney had managed without a car all these years. He wasn't so stupid as to have anyone drop him off at Rodney's house, but Mrs. Weir was more than happy to take him as far as Melanie's school.
"Nah, it's no problem," John said, slinging his pack over his shoulder as he stepped out. "It's only a few blocks—and I've got a shortcut." All of which was true.
"You sure?" she asked, leaning down to peer at him through the open door. "It wouldn't be out of my way."
"I'm cool," he said, smiling.
"Um, John. Before you go…." she began, a pensive note in her voice. She paused, a hand reaching in his direction, touching the seat. "I was wondering…."
John straightened slowly, his mind flipping through and discarding possible reasons she'd want to talk to him—and landed on the day that he'd skated for her. Uh-oh. Here it came. Lonely neglected housewives. She must have been thinking about the "great skating romance" for weeks. John's head rolled to the side and he suppressed a knowing smirk. He'd let her down easy because it was his fault after all. He should never have flirted with her.
"… Interested in coaching Melanie," she finished.
"What?" He caught up with what she'd asked with an open-mouthed blink. "I'm not a coach."
"Yes, but you're a competitive skater and you have a lot of experience."
Washed up. Done for. Has been. None of these words were coming out of her mouth and he tried not to take it that way, tried to see it like the compliment she probably meant it to be, his teeth grinding.
"You've been great with her and she really likes you," Mrs. Weir added.
John swallowed bile. "I'm not a coach."
"But—"
"First off," and maybe John's tone was angrier than he meant it to be, "I'd have to be certified, and I'm not. Second—I'm not a coach."
"All right," Mrs. Weir said calmly, dignified, holding her head high. She had the quiet determined air of someone used to being indulged. "Perhaps in the future you might consider it." She dug in her purse and held out a card.
When his body had given out and he couldn't do the jumps anymore and he'd given up all hope ever making it?
"No," John said, his jaw as hard as rock. "That's not gonna happen." There were no post-skating plans. Not for him.
She was smart enough to put the card away.
John met Rodney in the driveway after Rodney's ride pulled away, the summer sun still high. He hefted Rodney's wheelie bag up one step at a time, wondering what the hell he had in there. And he complained about Mrs. Weir all the way from the curb to the front door.
Rodney opened the door for both of them, scowling. "Oh, so I'm losing the Weirs, am I?"
"I think she was just feeling me out," John said, bumping Rodney's arm as he pushed inside.
"You plus ten other coaches no doubt," Rodney said sourly, clicking on the living room lights. John returned from the kitchen with a can of pop. He held it up and Rodney shook his head, no. John spritzed it open, slumping to the couch which sighed under his weight. Rodney sniffed, "Melanie will never be anything more than sport skater at any rate. I mean, sure, she has the moves, but she lacks competitive spirit. I can't teach that."
"I just can't believe she asked me," John said, returning to the question at hand.
Rodney snorted. "They don't seem to get that within two weeks you'd be kicking their tiny little fannies, too. A nice coach isn't a winning coach."
"You think I'd be a winning coach?" John said with a curious glance, holding out his pop can. Predictably Rodney borrowed it for a sip. His diets didn't preclude whatever John was having.
"Do you want my honest opinion?" Rodney turned a bright eye towards John, handing him the pop can back.
"Do you have any other kind?" John said, dry as dust.
"You'd make a terrible coach."
"Thank god," John agreed.
The target rocked on the wind like a kite after John pushed the button and it rolled forward. He pulled it off. Only nine had hit within the concentric circles—none in the middle either—and the other seven perforated the edges. John poked at the one that nicked the farthest corner mournfully.
"Not bad for your first time," Ronon said, peeking over his shoulder. John had the fleeting desire to hide it from him.
"I missed," John said, ejecting the clip.
Ronon shook his head. "You're pretty good. All sixteen shots hit the target. The rest just takes practice. You only started going high and to the left towards the end." Ronon pointed to the cluster in the upper corner. "Maybe you should forget skating and join the army." He grinned, all teeth.
John whipped around and growled, "You know, I'm getting really sick and tired of people telling me I shouldn't skate!"
"Whoa, ease up, dude," Ronon said, holding up a palm. "It was just a joke."
"Oh," John said, mollified. "Well. I get sick of hearing it. Especially from people who haven't even seen me skate," he grumbled at the floor.
But Ronon had put on his ear protection and commenced firing.
"Number one!" John yelled over the firing as he struggled to put on his own headgear. "Guns are lot louder in real life than they are in the movies!" He attached another paper target and hit the button. "Number two!" He raised his own gun. "Shooting ranges aren't very social!"
John stuffed a new clip in his weapon, lowered it, aimed, and proceeded to blow the target away until his gun jammed, clicking. He hit the button and his target returned. His aim was for shit when he was mad.
Ronon did the same and pulled off his headgear, disentangling it from his dreadlocks.
"I'll watch you skate," he said matter of factly.
"You will?" John said, surprised.
"Sure."
"Oh." John's lips parted as he processed this. He shook his head and covered his confusion by clearing the jam and sticking another clip into his gun. Finally he explained with a squint, "You know my dad doesn't even go to my competitions?"
"Really?"
"Never. Not even one," John said, his face carefully controlled.
Music:
Braveheart drinking song
Kung Fu Fighting
[Previous][Next]
ETA: To requests for more... given that the Big Bang is going to consume everyone's reading time for the next several weeks (last year I posted Out Of Bounds during the Big Bang and... *tumbleweeds*) most likely this will be it while I give you time to read those fics. Not to worry, I'll be working on Out Of Bounds, just not posting anything. Besides, I need time to read them, too. *rubs hands together in eager anticipation of
auburnnothenna's novel*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 07:36 pm (UTC)Well, duh. *g*
*goes to read*
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 07:42 pm (UTC)Six more scenes to write till my absolute favorite part of this story.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 07:51 pm (UTC)Seriously though, I really feel for John here. People left and right hinting or outright saying he should quit skating, just when he's got a real coreographer (who might or might not be taking her job seriously) for the first time ever and is busy (more or less) getting ready for what might easily be the most important competition in his career? Talk about bad timing. *pets him*
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:02 pm (UTC)I know you've had a really tough time with the story lately and with stuff in general, so anytime you need encouragement or a shipment of chocolate (the real stuff, not virtual) you let me know. ;-) This story has been helping me get through my tough time recently and I don't know that I can express how much I appreciate it and all of your hard work. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:05 pm (UTC)Uh.
*tries to picture it* *fails*
John's been hearing doubts about his skating ever since his injury two years ago (and from his dad for, oh, forever). It's just, man, hearing it from his training team bites. Since yeah, you're right, it's the first time he's had a training team and not just a coach.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 08:12 pm (UTC)Oh, thank you. Yeah, John did seven jumps in about two minutes (choreography was out the window towards the end there).
This story has been helping me get through my tough time recently and I don't know that I can express how much I appreciate it and all of your hard work. Thanks!
I'm really so glad it's helping. This story is a guaranteed happy place. The block of frustration I was having seems to have broken through (crosses fingers). My troubles are largely self-inflicted. I've completely overloaded my plate. *g*
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 09:19 pm (UTC)This is me...in my happy place!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 09:59 pm (UTC)I can't wait to read more.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 10:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 10:30 pm (UTC)Poor John, feeling picked on. I know exactly how he feels. I once had someone influential in my career field ask me if I'd ever considered doing anything else... :(
At least no one's mentioned the Ice Capades...
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 10:40 pm (UTC)Oh, God. LOL.
Poor John. And that's the sort of thing his parents would bring up, too, earnestly considering possible career paths for their 28-year-old son.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 10:41 pm (UTC)*pats the Munchkin*
no subject
Date: 2008-08-10 11:56 pm (UTC)Lovely new piece!
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 12:30 am (UTC)As always, a great chapter! I have to tell you, there I was, all worried that Jameel was going to "accidentally" hurt John and put him out of commission, but you didn't go there and I breathed a sigh of relief... but then you got John involved in a CAR ACCIDENT! o.O
Nice way to work Kavanagh into the story, though.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 04:18 am (UTC)John's just not having a good week, is he? Car accident, people suggesting he shouldn't skate, an offer for coaching
Poor John *petpet*
Out of Bounds
Date: 2008-08-11 04:25 am (UTC)eeling deeper under the vehicle, georgous word use (and great image!)
love the emotional punches John's getting (Good John, explaining WITHOUT swearing why he can't coach little Melanie)
BRAVEHEART? *grins* So glad I caught this installment.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 05:30 am (UTC)I love John taking out his resentment towards Jameel on the garbage bag.
I can completely sympathize with John about people commenting that he might want to re-think his career. (Imagine my horror when the chair of the Math & Physics department at my alma mater told me I'd make a good mathematician if I wanted to try a career outside graphic design...) It can be meant as a compliment, but there's a big difference between being potentially good at something and loving it enough to want to do it for life.
Kavanaugh's sudden appearance makes me wonder if Lorne, Cadman, and Heightmeyer are going to have roles in the story down the line.
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 06:25 am (UTC)Is that a trick question? ^_-
Squee, this was fun! Poor John, everyone trying to talk him out of skating! *huggles him* Don't worry, honey, Rodney believes in you!
I'll be sad not to be getting any for a while, though it does leave something to look forward to after the Big Bang rush, so...s'all good! ^_^
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 09:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 01:20 pm (UTC)Damn it!
Date: 2008-08-11 03:40 pm (UTC)*hates you*
*grumbles*