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icarusAugh. Really struggling with the next scene. *curses up a storm* But I promised another post, so by God, you're getting 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 had stopped mocking John and started reassuring him, which John knew was a very bad sign.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Monday's skate proved no better.
John wiped at his chin with his sleeve as he carved around the rink. Rodney watched him from the sidelines, offering fewer directions than usual, and John tried to ignore the genuine worry that had crept into his eyes. He'd stopped mocking John and started reassuring him, which John knew was a very bad sign.
By the end of Tuesday's session they'd dropped back from doing the entire program to just drilling small sections in isolation. Their shadows crossed each other on the ice where Rodney followed close, looking up at him, anxiously reassuring while they drilled it slow, a few steps at a time.
After the session, John trailed Rodney into his office and threw himself into a chair with a heavy sigh, his face blank, ready to hear Rodney's blistering array of complaints. Instead, Rodney counseled patience. John glanced at the wall calendar—August, Jesus—while Rodney assured him that, "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day."
John didn't think Rome was built in five weeks, either, but that's how much time he had before the competition season began.
Over the next few days John started tensing up over "Surf Rider" as well; wooden and tight through the choreography, losing it in the spins—and it reached the point where even his jumps were affected.
His former coach had called it "rubber legs," where you were unsure of yourself seconds into a jump. John landed sprawled on his chest, and he could hear the "Oh—!" from the other skaters as the wind was knocked out of him. All eyes turned.
It was a bad fall. He stood up, one arm clutching his chest over his sternum, breathing slowly to let the pain ease. He backed into crisscross steps, ignoring the sympathetic attention as he picked up speed, lowering his head to go again.
The rug had been pulled out from under him—and he didn't know why.
~*~*~
An hour later in the men's locker room, John resisted throwing his skates and instead set them down, gently, his jaw clenched. Then he tipped up and let loose a high sidekick with a yell of rage—and slammed the stall door.
The top pivot cracked, ripped sideways as he watched, stunned. The door took the bottom hinge with it, and the entire thing came down with a bang, echoing.
Half conscious of his surroundings, John heard a patter of running footsteps. He realized what that must be, and turned a sheepish embarrassed look to the shocked faces who crowded the entrance. They stared at him, then at the door, flat on the ground, and then back at him.
With a half-laugh of surprise, still breathing hard, John tried hard to summon the right amount of guilt. Because that, in fact, had felt really fucking good.
"Um... yeah, sorry about that," he said, bewildered. He rubbed the back of his neck and examined the ragged edges of the hinges. They looked more like torn cardboard than metal. "Those must be really cheap hinges."
~*~*~
Normally if they were at the rink late, John would go back on the ice. Today, John just wanted to go home. But one of Rodney's clients had called just as they were leaving and caught him in his office.
John hung outside, back leaned and foot planted against the basement wall as Rodney passed by the half open door, pacing, his voice carrying. He stretched the phone cord high to keep it from knocking over a stack of file folders on the desk.
"Yes, well, if you want to enter Melanie in Regionals, you can," Rodney said, sour and noncommittal. "The paperwork is in the office, and there's a fifty dollar entrance fee.... Do I think she's ready for it-? Is this going to be a committee decision or will my estimation actually carry some weight?"
John rolled away. This was going to be a while.
He found a deserted hallway, the walls white and lit by florescent panels, painted pipes overhead, a doormat and folding metal chair outside an office at the end of the hall. He dug the CD player out of his pack, putting on the headphones and turning the heavy metal up loud. He bobbed his head to it for a while, then as the rhythm drove faster, he could see the steps to it. Sort of.
He walked it out down the hall, like the steps of a giant, hitting the off-rhythm guitar licks with a shoulder dip to the side. The guitar squeak of strings became a slide of his sneaker on the dirty floor.
He restarted the music, trying this again. He paced out the slow beginning, turning on one foot like he'd learned in Tae Kwon Do in a slow roundhouse kick. Advice from Ronon came to mind: "What's your hurry? Move smooth and slow, getting every muscle involved. Miss one, and that'll be your weak link." John slowly pushed out the kick again, muscle by muscle, up high and into a yoga Y-shaped pose. He held it, body trembling, as if holding it around the entire rink, imagining.
He let it drop finally and took heavy steps, moving his shoulders to shadow box, which turned into real Tae Kwon Do punches. Step, step, slash-slash. He bobbed his head to the side and made slashing punches with each jab of guitar riffs. Teeth gritted, he took a step, punched low, and shoved the folding chair out of the way to give himself more room.
Images of B-grade action movies flashed through his mind as he stepped up into a series of kicks ... Japanese sword fighting ... then a scene in a Jackie Chan flick with a quarterstaff on his shoulders. How had he done that? John walked it out, miming the motions. He'd rolled it across his shoulders and then spun it around, sweeping the air. John caught the imaginary quarterstaff overhead, then rolled it in a full overhand circle, tucking it under his arm.
He turned in a fast circle, imaginary staff extended, clearing the hall.
He'd never tried more than a few kicks in a row except for drills; tactically, you exploded in kick combinations and pulled back. But how many could he do in a row?
As the music hammered like a chopper blade backed by machine guns, he kicked high, followed by a chest hit, then stepped forward into a spinning roundhouse. Followed that with a punch combination, driving his opponents away. Then a nice knee-breaker kick, getting more power into it. He slammed out a right sidekick, a left sidekick, working his way steadily down the hall with the music. Lashed a punch combination aimed at an opponent on the ground. Then he turned and added the imaginary quarterstaff motions, circling it in a full circle the music stopping as he flew forward, exploding in a shout of energy that still rang a moment after it was over.
"Uh...." came a voice behind him.
John spun around, fists up in a defensive posture... to find Rodney, wide-eyed, hands out and spread in surprise. John relaxed and slowly let his fists fall.
"I heard a shout... well, anyway, I'm glad you're okay," Rodney said. He slid the folding chair back next to the closed office. "You ready?"
"Yeah," John said.
He followed Rodney up the stairs out of the rink, recalling a conversation from a few months back that suddenly started to make sense: "It's a high," Rodney had told him.
"The jumps?"
"No. The—you know I can't remember most of my performances? I can tell you everything about them, it's not like I black out. It's just... I'm out there at the beginning, and then there's the applause at the end, and everything in the middle, it's like... I can't describe it."
Outside, Rodney paused to lock the doors behind them. John stepped out from under the archways in a T-shirt, his jacket fisted in his hand, one sleeve a hair from dragging on the ground.
There were a few stars out tonight, their car alone in the parking lot next to a puddle. A hum of traffic sounded in the distance.
John reached the Chevy first and got in on the passenger side, letting Rodney drive for a change. On the drive home John rested his arm out the window, the wind cool as he let the sweat dry on his face.
[Previous][Next]
Music:
Last Day Of Winter by Pelican
Drought by Pelican
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: Rodney had stopped mocking John and started reassuring him, which John knew was a very bad sign.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,
rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice. 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. And then John's training hits the skids.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Monday's skate proved no better.
John wiped at his chin with his sleeve as he carved around the rink. Rodney watched him from the sidelines, offering fewer directions than usual, and John tried to ignore the genuine worry that had crept into his eyes. He'd stopped mocking John and started reassuring him, which John knew was a very bad sign.
By the end of Tuesday's session they'd dropped back from doing the entire program to just drilling small sections in isolation. Their shadows crossed each other on the ice where Rodney followed close, looking up at him, anxiously reassuring while they drilled it slow, a few steps at a time.
After the session, John trailed Rodney into his office and threw himself into a chair with a heavy sigh, his face blank, ready to hear Rodney's blistering array of complaints. Instead, Rodney counseled patience. John glanced at the wall calendar—August, Jesus—while Rodney assured him that, "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day."
John didn't think Rome was built in five weeks, either, but that's how much time he had before the competition season began.
Over the next few days John started tensing up over "Surf Rider" as well; wooden and tight through the choreography, losing it in the spins—and it reached the point where even his jumps were affected.
His former coach had called it "rubber legs," where you were unsure of yourself seconds into a jump. John landed sprawled on his chest, and he could hear the "Oh—!" from the other skaters as the wind was knocked out of him. All eyes turned.
It was a bad fall. He stood up, one arm clutching his chest over his sternum, breathing slowly to let the pain ease. He backed into crisscross steps, ignoring the sympathetic attention as he picked up speed, lowering his head to go again.
The rug had been pulled out from under him—and he didn't know why.
An hour later in the men's locker room, John resisted throwing his skates and instead set them down, gently, his jaw clenched. Then he tipped up and let loose a high sidekick with a yell of rage—and slammed the stall door.
The top pivot cracked, ripped sideways as he watched, stunned. The door took the bottom hinge with it, and the entire thing came down with a bang, echoing.
Half conscious of his surroundings, John heard a patter of running footsteps. He realized what that must be, and turned a sheepish embarrassed look to the shocked faces who crowded the entrance. They stared at him, then at the door, flat on the ground, and then back at him.
With a half-laugh of surprise, still breathing hard, John tried hard to summon the right amount of guilt. Because that, in fact, had felt really fucking good.
"Um... yeah, sorry about that," he said, bewildered. He rubbed the back of his neck and examined the ragged edges of the hinges. They looked more like torn cardboard than metal. "Those must be really cheap hinges."
Normally if they were at the rink late, John would go back on the ice. Today, John just wanted to go home. But one of Rodney's clients had called just as they were leaving and caught him in his office.
John hung outside, back leaned and foot planted against the basement wall as Rodney passed by the half open door, pacing, his voice carrying. He stretched the phone cord high to keep it from knocking over a stack of file folders on the desk.
"Yes, well, if you want to enter Melanie in Regionals, you can," Rodney said, sour and noncommittal. "The paperwork is in the office, and there's a fifty dollar entrance fee.... Do I think she's ready for it-? Is this going to be a committee decision or will my estimation actually carry some weight?"
John rolled away. This was going to be a while.
He found a deserted hallway, the walls white and lit by florescent panels, painted pipes overhead, a doormat and folding metal chair outside an office at the end of the hall. He dug the CD player out of his pack, putting on the headphones and turning the heavy metal up loud. He bobbed his head to it for a while, then as the rhythm drove faster, he could see the steps to it. Sort of.
He walked it out down the hall, like the steps of a giant, hitting the off-rhythm guitar licks with a shoulder dip to the side. The guitar squeak of strings became a slide of his sneaker on the dirty floor.
He restarted the music, trying this again. He paced out the slow beginning, turning on one foot like he'd learned in Tae Kwon Do in a slow roundhouse kick. Advice from Ronon came to mind: "What's your hurry? Move smooth and slow, getting every muscle involved. Miss one, and that'll be your weak link." John slowly pushed out the kick again, muscle by muscle, up high and into a yoga Y-shaped pose. He held it, body trembling, as if holding it around the entire rink, imagining.
He let it drop finally and took heavy steps, moving his shoulders to shadow box, which turned into real Tae Kwon Do punches. Step, step, slash-slash. He bobbed his head to the side and made slashing punches with each jab of guitar riffs. Teeth gritted, he took a step, punched low, and shoved the folding chair out of the way to give himself more room.
Images of B-grade action movies flashed through his mind as he stepped up into a series of kicks ... Japanese sword fighting ... then a scene in a Jackie Chan flick with a quarterstaff on his shoulders. How had he done that? John walked it out, miming the motions. He'd rolled it across his shoulders and then spun it around, sweeping the air. John caught the imaginary quarterstaff overhead, then rolled it in a full overhand circle, tucking it under his arm.
He turned in a fast circle, imaginary staff extended, clearing the hall.
He'd never tried more than a few kicks in a row except for drills; tactically, you exploded in kick combinations and pulled back. But how many could he do in a row?
As the music hammered like a chopper blade backed by machine guns, he kicked high, followed by a chest hit, then stepped forward into a spinning roundhouse. Followed that with a punch combination, driving his opponents away. Then a nice knee-breaker kick, getting more power into it. He slammed out a right sidekick, a left sidekick, working his way steadily down the hall with the music. Lashed a punch combination aimed at an opponent on the ground. Then he turned and added the imaginary quarterstaff motions, circling it in a full circle the music stopping as he flew forward, exploding in a shout of energy that still rang a moment after it was over.
"Uh...." came a voice behind him.
John spun around, fists up in a defensive posture... to find Rodney, wide-eyed, hands out and spread in surprise. John relaxed and slowly let his fists fall.
"I heard a shout... well, anyway, I'm glad you're okay," Rodney said. He slid the folding chair back next to the closed office. "You ready?"
"Yeah," John said.
He followed Rodney up the stairs out of the rink, recalling a conversation from a few months back that suddenly started to make sense: "It's a high," Rodney had told him.
"The jumps?"
"No. The—you know I can't remember most of my performances? I can tell you everything about them, it's not like I black out. It's just... I'm out there at the beginning, and then there's the applause at the end, and everything in the middle, it's like... I can't describe it."
Outside, Rodney paused to lock the doors behind them. John stepped out from under the archways in a T-shirt, his jacket fisted in his hand, one sleeve a hair from dragging on the ground.
There were a few stars out tonight, their car alone in the parking lot next to a puddle. A hum of traffic sounded in the distance.
John reached the Chevy first and got in on the passenger side, letting Rodney drive for a change. On the drive home John rested his arm out the window, the wind cool as he let the sweat dry on his face.
[Previous][Next]
Music:
Last Day Of Winter by Pelican
Drought by Pelican
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:36 am (UTC)*waits for more*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:43 am (UTC)So I have to wait. In an ideal world this'll be solved by Tuesday.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:54 am (UTC)Sound advice for you and John. :)
*patiently waits for more*
*patiently*
*honest* ;)
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:16 am (UTC)Breathes.
*pokes John*
You too, John.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:15 am (UTC)You make John seem vulnerable and tough all at the same time. This is how I imagine the character of Sheppard was once upon a time. Now of course, the tides of life have hardened him...but once? He could stammer, blush and find his ability to knock down a bathroom door "cool"!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:33 am (UTC)What I did was I went to Joe Flanigan's early performance in season one, and then watched his performances when he was 27, in Family Album and Surgical Strike. He was playing different characters but I figured I could get a sense of his body language and, well, the "aura of youth" he projected. (I also watched, well, everything else of his I could my mitts on.) Surgical Strike was extremely short (we're talking seconds) but particularly helpful because it was a similar military role.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 06:04 am (UTC)You're doing a terrific joy with him...and we haven't even started talking about Rodney!
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Date: 2008-09-22 06:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 12:29 am (UTC)Eeee!
Date: 2008-09-22 06:04 am (UTC)So this will probably be the first feedback ever that is kind of grateful it was a short post? Yeah I know strange.
*eyes shifting*
ANYWAY, Yay...I'm bouncing on my toes...just waiting for the tipping point where John gets it. So much struggle, poor boy. Thanks for taking us along.
Re: Eeee!
Date: 2008-09-22 06:50 am (UTC)That creative leap is not easy, no, not at all.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 07:49 am (UTC)Thank you for the new post and more please!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:17 pm (UTC)That's very true. Rodney has many ghosts to lay.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:49 am (UTC)Turns out I was wrong. Sonja's not really in this for John, but (mosly) only for herself and she doesn't care, that the program she's always wanted isn't for John.
So it'll be cool when they finally realize that they have to do things John's way. (Because he's the one going out there after all.) I have faith that htey will, because you've already given us hints and this would be a pretty depressing story otherwise.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 08:50 am (UTC)You can do it John!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 12:09 pm (UTC)No wonder the death of the stall door felt good, it DID something!
Lovin' it!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:27 pm (UTC)*laughs* You're right. That's exactly why he liked it.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 12:30 am (UTC)I'm on the edge of my seat. I love it.
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Date: 2009-01-04 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 02:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-25 07:41 pm (UTC)I first ran across this fic several years ago, when it was considerably shorter. I think the last part up was the first time we saw John break out the in-line skates. So that must have been, what back in, what, 2006? Anyway, I lost track of the link, forgot the title, dropped out of the fandom for a bit, re-emerged, and then there were the Olympics and hey, wasn't there an awesome skating AU I'd read once? Yeah, it really stuck with me. So I tracked it down again (*cough- got some very nice people to point me in the right direction- coughcough*), and lo and behold- what was once an interesting little AU is now an Opus! I'm not kidding, it's magnificent! I've just spent what amounts to three days straight just reading through it from the beginning, start to finish, really, words cannot describe how much I love this whole universe you've got going on here. I mean, I'll try, but it's gonna be tough.
First off, I love Rodney's relationship with Radek, and the way you flash back to it now and again- I like seeing and comparing that relationship and the one with John as they develop, side by side. They're quite clearly the two most important people in Rodney's life, and I can't help but wonder if (or when?) they'll meet, and what they'll make of each other. I also like Sonja; this exchange here is just priceless:
"What a cute little man." It took Radek a moment to realize she meant himself. "Mine, mine, hands off, mine," Rodney said, with a back and forth slapping gesture...."You may have one or two boys, Rodney, but the rest belong to me. Goodbye, little man,"
That just cracks me up. It also makes me love Sonja just a little bit. I mean, I know people like that. Heck, sometimes I'm a little like that. And Radek really is an adorable little man. :p
I'm also loving the way you've set up Teyla and Ronon to pull in different directions, and develop different parts of John's life. I mean, Rodney's obviously very good for him, and will make him the best skater he can possibly be, but he's so single-minded and intense when it comes to skating (that being the focus of his entire life, after all), that he sort of misses stuff if it doesn't pertain to skating. I can't wait to see his reaction (and Sonja's!...) when John starts to finally pull it all together, everything he's learned from all of them.
Also? Teyla and Ronon are both totally coming to see John skate, right? I mean, Ronon's already agreed, and Teyla's just got to come witness the fact that he's not just dancing, and is actually a legitimate athlete.
So, yeah. I'm so incredibly glad I re-found this fic (I'm never losing it again! Never, never! *clutch to bosom*), and I'm looking forward to reading more. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2008-09-26 05:23 am (UTC)That's interesting that you're comparing the two relationships. I hadn't thought to do that.
Sonja elbowed her way into the story and wouldn't leave. I guess we're all stuck with her. ;) As for Teyla coming to John's competitions.... No comment. *g*
Welcome back.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-25 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-04 10:31 pm (UTC)