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icarusI may be overeager, but I'm pushing ahead on this part. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wildernessguru is helping me with some research for one of the later sections after this.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John winged one garbage can lid onto the lawn like a frisbee, where it landed and rolled in a circle to lie flat. Rodney, rake in hand, gave it a sardonic look and yelled something that John couldn't hear over the telephone crew's chainsaw.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice, with guest tie-breaking appearance by dossier. I've decided to just barrel ahead with this part.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Their garbage can lids had blown into the street, though fortunately the cans had been empty at the time. John winged one lid onto the lawn like a frisbee, where it landed and rolled in a circle to lie flat. Rodney, rake in hand, gave it a sardonic look and yelled something that John couldn't hear over the telephone crew's chainsaw. A downed tree had landed on a phone line.
Branches and leafy twigs were scattered all over the road and cars, and everyone was outside, cleaning up after the summer storm. Rodney's radio had declared that two tornadoes had touched down in Ohio. Toronto just received the tail end of it.
The chainsaw finally shut off, leaving the scuffing sound of rakes, rustling garbage bags, and the occasional thump of wood being tossed. Rodney's neighbors chatted with each other, excited about the storm and the change of pace. Plastic pools and lawn furniture had been blown over onto one another's lawns, breaking down boundaries. Next door, two fathers commiserated over the demise of a swing-set and discussed replacement options. "The ones with the slides held up better." A thick-hipped woman wandered past with a deck umbrella slung over her shoulder. "I had to lure the cat out from under the bed with tuna fish this morning," she was telling her friend.
Even Rodney got into it, holding up a large tree branch to his most hated neighbor, she-of-the-deadly-hedge-trimmers. She laughed when he said, "I think this is yours!" He had gathered an impressive pile of branches. John was warmed to see that Rodney knew how to work. Much to Rodney's annoyance, every teenager in the area had been shanghaied by their families, forcing Rodney to do his own yard work.
"They're not indentured servants!" Rodney complained to John. He marched over and picked up the garbage can lid. John shook open another lawn and leaf bag. "They should be free to work for a handsome profit and then go home to do whatever their parents want."
"There was that one kid...." John grinned at him.
"That wasn't profiteering," Rodney said with a scowl. He deposited the lid on the can. "That was extortion."
John took advantage of the spirit of the day and threw open all the windows. Cutting through the house, he surveyed the damage to the back yard while Rodney finished with the front. His scraggly rose bushes had been reduced to buds.
It turned out the battered wooden rowboat that had rolled onto the lawn actually belonged to Rodney, or rather, it had come with the house and had never been moved till now. Together they counted to three and hefted it.
"Oh, my back, my back, my back!" Rodney squawked as he walked sideways steadily, without flinching.
"What?" John gave him a concerned frown.
"This is surely going to do long-term damage. I'm an artist! I wasn't meant for manual labor."
John rolled his eyes. It was only a half a dozen steps to the sawhorses by the concrete patio. John walked backwards, knocking into the grill and kicking over a can of lighter fluid. With a dramatic grunt from Rodney, they swung the boat and set it on the sawhorses – one of which promptly broke and collapsed.
They puzzled over it.
"I say we use it for firewood," John suggested at last, rubbing the back of his head. He found a leaf in his hair, glancing at it with surprise.
"Boats are valuable!"
"Well, don't look now but it's killed your grass."
Once John clarified that he meant burn the sawhorse, they piled its remains on the dead grass, and leaned the boat against the house. John loaded Rodney's sticks onto a tarp and dragged it all around the house, dumping them on the pile.
"That wood's way too wet," Rodney commented.
"Everything burns with the right incentive," John said, pouring lighter fluid over top.
Naturally the matches by the grill were soaked and useless. John tossed them down in disgust.
Rodney sat out in an aluminum lawn chair in the steaming air, looking over his backyard with contentment, while John went in to fetch matches. Once inside, John had apparently gotten inspired – or distracted – and within minutes there came the hum and the roar of the vacuum, bumping against walls and furniture. He came out much later with an armload of papers Rodney recognized from the latest accumulation on the kitchen table.
"Pick your tinder," John said, dropping the stack on the patio, and then loped back inside.
Rodney had to admit he could part with all of it. One at a time he balled them up and tossed them onto the pile, too lazy to stand. He could smell the lighter fluid from where he was. He shut his eyes.
It was nearly twenty minutes later by the time John returned, staggering under the weight of yet another lawn and leaf bag.
"I found something else we might want to toss."
He set it on the ground and held the bag open for Rodney to inspect, silent. He glanced up at Rodney, watching him carefully. Rodney reached in and turned over a magazine folded open to a diagram of the triple Lutz beside a dismal picture Rodney in the Kiss and Cry, looking like he might do just that. Underneath it was a yellowed sports section from a newspaper; coverage of his withdrawal from Canadian Nationals. That article had been snide, Rodney recalled.
He let it drop after several moments. He knew every item in that bag intimately. "Yes. Okay."
John's smile was small but he dumped the bag onto the burn pile with gusto. He squeezed on an excessive amount of lighter fluid, emptying the can. It made a hollow sound as he tossed it aside, and struck the match.
A shimmer of heat came off the smoky blaze, blurring John as he stepped back and watched the licking flames climb, his arms folded. He mused aloud, "Is it legal to have fires?"
"I have no idea. But we'll learn soon enough which of my neighbors hate me."
The fire crackled and John pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket. He dragged over the second lawn chair and settled into it beside Rodney, his arms spread. The complete relaxation of exhaustion.
"What we need is a weenie roast," John suggested with a nod at the blaze. "And some marshmallows."
"Hmm. I'm fairly certain that smoke is toxic." For more reasons than one.
"Good point."
They braved the mosquitoes as the sun angled lower in the golden, heat soaked sky — just to keep an eye on the fire, of course. It had nothing to do with the satisfaction of watching those articles curl and burn.
[Previous][Next]
wildernessguru is helping me with some research for one of the later sections after this.You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John winged one garbage can lid onto the lawn like a frisbee, where it landed and rolled in a circle to lie flat. Rodney, rake in hand, gave it a sardonic look and yelled something that John couldn't hear over the telephone crew's chainsaw.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,
rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice, with guest tie-breaking appearance by dossier. I've decided to just barrel ahead with this part. 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. Rodney, after his Olympic failure, kept all of his press clippings... including the ones that excoriate him.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Their garbage can lids had blown into the street, though fortunately the cans had been empty at the time. John winged one lid onto the lawn like a frisbee, where it landed and rolled in a circle to lie flat. Rodney, rake in hand, gave it a sardonic look and yelled something that John couldn't hear over the telephone crew's chainsaw. A downed tree had landed on a phone line.
Branches and leafy twigs were scattered all over the road and cars, and everyone was outside, cleaning up after the summer storm. Rodney's radio had declared that two tornadoes had touched down in Ohio. Toronto just received the tail end of it.
The chainsaw finally shut off, leaving the scuffing sound of rakes, rustling garbage bags, and the occasional thump of wood being tossed. Rodney's neighbors chatted with each other, excited about the storm and the change of pace. Plastic pools and lawn furniture had been blown over onto one another's lawns, breaking down boundaries. Next door, two fathers commiserated over the demise of a swing-set and discussed replacement options. "The ones with the slides held up better." A thick-hipped woman wandered past with a deck umbrella slung over her shoulder. "I had to lure the cat out from under the bed with tuna fish this morning," she was telling her friend.
Even Rodney got into it, holding up a large tree branch to his most hated neighbor, she-of-the-deadly-hedge-trimmers. She laughed when he said, "I think this is yours!" He had gathered an impressive pile of branches. John was warmed to see that Rodney knew how to work. Much to Rodney's annoyance, every teenager in the area had been shanghaied by their families, forcing Rodney to do his own yard work.
"They're not indentured servants!" Rodney complained to John. He marched over and picked up the garbage can lid. John shook open another lawn and leaf bag. "They should be free to work for a handsome profit and then go home to do whatever their parents want."
"There was that one kid...." John grinned at him.
"That wasn't profiteering," Rodney said with a scowl. He deposited the lid on the can. "That was extortion."
John took advantage of the spirit of the day and threw open all the windows. Cutting through the house, he surveyed the damage to the back yard while Rodney finished with the front. His scraggly rose bushes had been reduced to buds.
It turned out the battered wooden rowboat that had rolled onto the lawn actually belonged to Rodney, or rather, it had come with the house and had never been moved till now. Together they counted to three and hefted it.
"Oh, my back, my back, my back!" Rodney squawked as he walked sideways steadily, without flinching.
"What?" John gave him a concerned frown.
"This is surely going to do long-term damage. I'm an artist! I wasn't meant for manual labor."
John rolled his eyes. It was only a half a dozen steps to the sawhorses by the concrete patio. John walked backwards, knocking into the grill and kicking over a can of lighter fluid. With a dramatic grunt from Rodney, they swung the boat and set it on the sawhorses – one of which promptly broke and collapsed.
They puzzled over it.
"I say we use it for firewood," John suggested at last, rubbing the back of his head. He found a leaf in his hair, glancing at it with surprise.
"Boats are valuable!"
"Well, don't look now but it's killed your grass."
Once John clarified that he meant burn the sawhorse, they piled its remains on the dead grass, and leaned the boat against the house. John loaded Rodney's sticks onto a tarp and dragged it all around the house, dumping them on the pile.
"That wood's way too wet," Rodney commented.
"Everything burns with the right incentive," John said, pouring lighter fluid over top.
Naturally the matches by the grill were soaked and useless. John tossed them down in disgust.
Rodney sat out in an aluminum lawn chair in the steaming air, looking over his backyard with contentment, while John went in to fetch matches. Once inside, John had apparently gotten inspired – or distracted – and within minutes there came the hum and the roar of the vacuum, bumping against walls and furniture. He came out much later with an armload of papers Rodney recognized from the latest accumulation on the kitchen table.
"Pick your tinder," John said, dropping the stack on the patio, and then loped back inside.
Rodney had to admit he could part with all of it. One at a time he balled them up and tossed them onto the pile, too lazy to stand. He could smell the lighter fluid from where he was. He shut his eyes.
It was nearly twenty minutes later by the time John returned, staggering under the weight of yet another lawn and leaf bag.
"I found something else we might want to toss."
He set it on the ground and held the bag open for Rodney to inspect, silent. He glanced up at Rodney, watching him carefully. Rodney reached in and turned over a magazine folded open to a diagram of the triple Lutz beside a dismal picture Rodney in the Kiss and Cry, looking like he might do just that. Underneath it was a yellowed sports section from a newspaper; coverage of his withdrawal from Canadian Nationals. That article had been snide, Rodney recalled.
He let it drop after several moments. He knew every item in that bag intimately. "Yes. Okay."
John's smile was small but he dumped the bag onto the burn pile with gusto. He squeezed on an excessive amount of lighter fluid, emptying the can. It made a hollow sound as he tossed it aside, and struck the match.
A shimmer of heat came off the smoky blaze, blurring John as he stepped back and watched the licking flames climb, his arms folded. He mused aloud, "Is it legal to have fires?"
"I have no idea. But we'll learn soon enough which of my neighbors hate me."
The fire crackled and John pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket. He dragged over the second lawn chair and settled into it beside Rodney, his arms spread. The complete relaxation of exhaustion.
"What we need is a weenie roast," John suggested with a nod at the blaze. "And some marshmallows."
"Hmm. I'm fairly certain that smoke is toxic." For more reasons than one.
"Good point."
They braved the mosquitoes as the sun angled lower in the golden, heat soaked sky — just to keep an eye on the fire, of course. It had nothing to do with the satisfaction of watching those articles curl and burn.
[Previous][Next]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-10-27 08:14 am (UTC)Sure, Rodney, we believe you.