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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 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.