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SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17
Hopefully no one objects to ~8,000 more words of Out Of Bounds. No? Good.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "They're supposed to be able to see you on the ice." -- "From orbit?!"
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and playful betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan and roaringmice.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John's work on compulsory figures had been reduced to an hour a day, but Rodney said he needed them to improve his edges, so John signed up to do evening patch. The rink had them at seven and seven.
He was assigned patch number three in the nearer left hand corner of the rink. As the Zamboni made its cautious rounds, he pulled on his oldest pair of skates, the uppers soft and worn flexible for the dainty, precise turns, the toepicks ground off. He rolled his fleece turtleneck up to his chin and pulled on the black ski mask that Rodney always mocked, calling him "Darth Sheppard" and "the zombie skater," although it was effective. He zipped up Rodney's parka, since he'd forgotten his own, and pulled on his gloves with a pair of mittens over them, shaking off the shiver of expected cold.
He glided along the wall to his patch, careful not to mar the pristine surface, the rink as tense and quiet as a library. The fourteen or so other skaters today whispered to each other and marked off the sections as their private territory for the next hour. He set the long, compass-like wooden scribe down on his patch with a light click.
Rodney was a traditionalist. Showman or not, figures was his best event, and the reason he had a reputation for turning out "quality" skaters. He required all of his students to at least learn the slow, perfect figure eights. He said it was good for John, like broccoli.
John hated it.
But for some reason, this part of his skating was never affected by the ups and downs of his freeskating, possibly because it was just so different from what John inwardly referred to as "real" skating. He laid out the compass and traced the first pattern. Rodney sneered at scribes and considered them an affectation for the mere novice, but John had no illusions that he had to work at this, so he had to be certain he was practicing a perfect circle.
Under duress, he could admit that he liked the silence of school figures, even when his toes were going numb with cold. Under even more duress, he could admit that it improved his skating. Though he'd never admit it to Rodney.
He pushed off from the wall and cut into the center of the circle, carefully placing his first push to dig into the curve of the sketched line. Head down, watching the ice, he replayed Rodney's advice to let his hand trace the line in front, like he was drawing it with his arm with his body obeying. He flowed along his right outside edge, the left blade just barely lifted off the ice, trailing behind him.
His momentum slowed too soon, and he was forced to push again, messing up the firm even cut. He hit the top of the curve, spun his arms for the bracket-shaped turn, scooping too far out at the end of it but not that bad, then pushed again for the center. He spared a moment of concentration to envy Rodney's easy, confident glides, and wobbled—completely messing up his line.
"Fuck," John said.
Yeah, he hated school figures.
~*~*~
The voice on the other end was older, brisk and pleasant. "Hello? Is Johnny there?"
Rodney rolled his eyes. "I think you have a wrong number." And hung up.
It rang again moments later. The woman spoke with a little more asperity. "This is the number he gave me. I've spoken with him here before."
"Look, ma'am, I don't know anyone named 'Johnny'." He hung up again with a snort of disgust, shaking his head as he returned to his chair.
Stubbornly, the phone rang again. Some people never knew when to stop. This time Rodney ignored it and the answering machine picked up. "Johnny, this is mom. I need to know what music you're skating this season but someone keeps—"
Rodney was a quick thinker. He calculated the odds of there being two "Johnnys" skating in the area, the likelihood he'd be castigated for hanging up on mommy, and grabbed the phone, plotting to erase all evidence later. "Oh, hi. Uh. Yes, uh, I bet—you mean—um, is this Mrs. Sheppard?" Rodney winced. "I got thrown by the 'Johnny.'"
They both laughed hollowly, the way people did at business conferences, funerals and weddings, when they were obligated to be nice and find each other hilarious. When their forced laughter died down into a sigh, she explained, "I'm just trying to find out what music he's skating this season."
Rodney was confused. Last he heard, John's parents showed little interest in his skating. "Um, well, he's skating to 'Surf Rider' for his short program. Why?"
"Oh. A beach theme. I can do that," she said. "Is Johnny there? We need to discuss colors."
"He's mowing the lawn right now, but I can get him for you," Rodney said, his false smile bleeding through his voice.
"He's always been so good about his chores," she said with obvious pride. Fortunately, the front door opened and John stepped in, smelling of grass clippings and wearing a backwards baseball cap.
"He certainly is, Mrs. Sheppard," Rodney said, bright and phony, raising his voice on her name. He pointed desperately at the receiver, pleading for John to take over before this conversation killed him with ennui.
John took the phone, adjusting his ball cap.
"Hi, mom. Yeah. 'Surf Rider.' Uh-huh. Aquamarine ... Hawaiian print ... okay." He fell silent a long moment, dipping his head. He came up blinking. "Loose and flowing. Uh-huh ... well, I don't know about shorts." He nodded with a quick glance over at Rodney. "Yeah, okay, that's very unique." He laughed. "No, summer is not something people think when you say ice skating." He looked up, eyes tracing the ceiling. "Palm trees? Now, mom, you know I'm not allowed props—oh. The print. Okay, then. T-shirt underneath, right? ... Heavier, so it'll swing? Well, not too heavy. Remember that purple Mariachi thing, with the puffed sleeves?" He fell silent again, his head listing to the side. "It was top heavy, mom," he complained, managing to sound nine years old. "I ended up flat on my—yeah, just like the girl in West Side Story." He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just promise me you're not making a dress and I'm cool with whatever you want, mom. Okay. Yeah... bye."
Rodney stared at him silently for a long moment. "Your mom made that horrid sequined jacket, didn't she?"
"She needs a creative outlet," John explained, hanging up the phone.
Rodney couldn't get over it. "A million professional costume designers, and yours are made by—"
"—my mom, yes," John finished for him. "She's pretty good."
~*~*~
Mrs. Sheppard certainly couldn't be faulted for speed. A brown-wrapped package from one Candace Sheppard appeared in Rodney's mailbox not a week later. Rodney carried it in to the kitchen table.
"Your mom's name is Candy?" Rodney asked, smirking as he handed it to John.
"Call her that and I can't vouch for your safety," John said absently, not looking up as he tore open the package, picking up the envelope on top. Rodney hovered as John took his time, reading her note and smiling over it, then turning it over for more.
"Oh, for Pete's sake." Rodney snatched the bundle of fabric out of John's lap.
He unrolled an oversized Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree print on an oddly heavy knit. It swung nicely. A smaller bundle wrapped inside it dropped to the floor.
John picked that up ... and rolled out a pair of cut-offs in stretchy jeans material across the table, the white around the legs carefully fluffed. Stitched into those, unrolling like the dead legs of the Wicked Witch of the East in the Wizard of Oz, was a pair of thick flesh-colored tights. The toes stayed curled.
"You'll look like you have no hair," Rodney said, staring at it, flabbergasted.
"She didn't want me to get cold," John explained.
~*~*~
Less than a week after the arrival of John's first costume, Rodney came home to another brown-wrapped package. Mrs. Sheppard sure could stitch up a storm, he thought with an edge of grim hysteria.
Since he knew what was coming this time, he didn't wait for John, ripping the paper off a light shirt box of the sort you'd find at JC Penny's. He dug through tissue paper and....
.... well. Perhaps he hadn't known what was coming. John had clearly passed along the fact that they wanted a military theme for his long program. Only Mrs. Sheppard's idea of "military" was less "stealthy paratrooper" and more "Prince Charles inspecting the Royal Navy" – if Prince Charles wore blue and gold sequins, that is.
Rodney leaned his elbow on the table and ran his hand down the double row of brass buttons. The shoulders were stiff and reinforced, with glittery gold fringe spilling over the arms. Rodney flicked it, saying aloud, "No."
He stalked over to the phone.
Rodney held his chin high, a hand on his hip as it rang. When she answered, he found he wasn't sure exactly how he was going to phrase this. So he started with the basics. "Ah, yes, we, ah, received the costume." He swallowed.
"Oh! Did Johnny like it?"
"Well... he hasn't seen it yet, it's just, well." Rodney took a breath and made his best attempt at tact. "It's... ah, it's not exactly ideal."
"Oh?"
"The military aspect, I mean. It's not... military enough." He winced, his conscience forcing him to veer towards the truth. "Or at all, actually."
"Oh, really?" she said, her voice turning chilly.
"I mean, it's very...." He glanced over at the costume. "...complicated looking. More toy solider than actual soldier. Reminiscent of a Christmas ornament, um, the cheap sort you'd find at Canadian Tire."
"I see." And Rodney could sense very Sheppard-like arms folding in icy determination.
"However, it's—it's clear you can, that you're very adept and... that you sew very, very quickly," he added with breathless desperation. He gave up on tact, throwing both hands in the air. Tact had never worked for him anyway. "It's not even remotely what we're looking for. The colors, the style—everything's wrong," he said with a frustrated slashing gesture.
"We?" she repeated.
"Obviously, I'm his coach so—look." He decided to acquaint her with the facts. "I've been doing this for nearly a decade and prior to that I was a three time World Champion. I've worked with some of the top designers in this hemisphere and quite frankly, this," he spread his hands at the costume on the table, and said on a laugh, "isn't how it's supposed to work."
"Of course. You're the 'expert'," she said frostily. "Ten years experience as a skater, while I've only been designing John's costumes for the last fifteen years—and his Halloween costumes before that. And just how many costumes have you actually made yourself?"
"You don't need to design them to know—"
"Is John there?" she snapped.
He was very relieved to be able to tell her that he wasn't.
~*~*~
His reprieve lasted for less than a day. He was on the toilet when John banged the door open with his forearm. The bathroom was suddenly very crowded.
"What you did say to my mom?" John in a harsh tone with his angriest, most sarcastic smile. "Because she's upset. She thinks I don't like my costumes and that she's just hearing it through you."
"But you don't!" Rodney really didn't want to have this conversation with his pants around his ankles. He silently decided all phone calls would go to the answering machine for the foreseeable future.
"And now I've had to lie to her!" John growled at him with a flinging gesture. He leaned in, one hand on the doorknob, the other on his hip. "From here on out, if it has anything to do with my family—stay out of it. She put a lot of work into those costumes."
"She has no taste whatsoever! Those shorts are ghastly, your legs are going to look like popsicle sticks—and don't even get me started on Admiral Christmas Tree!" Rodney complained, leaning forward on the toilet seat. "Please tell me you haven't gone completely blind, although with that many sequins I can certainly see how it could happen!"
"They're supposed to be able to see you on the ice," John explained.
"From orbit?!" Rodney said, bug-eyed.
"Rodney." John lowered his voice, shoulders settling. He said with controlled calm, "When I wanted to skate, my dad was a real jerk about it. My brother gave me rides to the rink occasionally, but that was about it." He continued with tooth-gritting intensity. "Mom's the only one who's seen my performances; she's the one who paid my rent when I was strapped; and she's the one who talked my dad into paying for U of T so I could come here in the first place." John pressed closer. "All she's ever asked of me is that she design my costumes."
Rodney opened his mouth to protest, but John shook a forefinger in Rodney's face, very close now, quiet and furious. "Not only is she going to design both my costumes, you're going to say nice things about them. Is that clear?"
~*~*~
Radek threaded through the network of circular concrete columns and overpasses, craning his neck over the rental's steering wheel at freeway signs with new highway numbers. Each trip here, Toronto seemed to rearrange itself. Suburbs that used to be neat squares of fields and farms now sprouted strip malls.
He had a conference at Rochester Institute of Technology in New York; the ski season hadn't yet begun, so his time was his own for a change. Nobody minded if he flew in a weekend early to see an old friend.
He'd called Rodney several times but all he reached was his answering machine. Perhaps if he'd tried at three am he would have had more success, he thought, sounding catty even to himself.
As he came to roads closer to the city he was on solid ground again, and the way to Rodney's house was so familiar that he turned without looking at the street names, noting new stores and old landmarks, or a playground where an empty field had once been. He slowed as he pulled up to the curb outside Rodney's house.
The lawn didn't have its usual wilderness effect. No four-inch growth or fluffy dandelions. The hedges were neatly trimmed and the roses staked out. It had probably taken a community petition to get Rodney to finally hire someone to clean up his yard. A tiny sports car and an old Chevy took up the driveway, so Radek parked on the street. He locked the rental and hopped up the front steps.
Through the open door he could hear Rodney's voice, "If you want to spend the entire budget on one skate, be my guest, but it seems to be more productive to attend competitions judges actually score."
"I dunno," came a man's nasal voice, uncertain and wavering. "She does have a point about international experience...."
"Which is moot if you don't attend the real competitions!"
Radek knocked on the screen, but it appeared nobody heard him.
"It is awfully expensive," the wavering voice said.
"If you do not plan for the future, then the future will never happen," a woman insisted—Sonja. Radek shut his eyes and considered for a very brief moment returning to his hotel. Unfortunately, it was all the way at the airport and impractical.
There was a beat of silence from the other two. Then Rodney said, "How does that even make sense?"
"Vienna is beautiful. You will love it," Sonja cooed.
"Because sightseeing is so the point of competitive figure skating," Rodney groused.
Radek gave up on knocking and stepped inside. Forms were spread over Rodney's kitchen table and three faces blinked up at him like raccoons caught in the garbage: Rodney standing with his hands braced on the table, Sonja paused in fluffing her hair by the window, and a cautious looking young man with intense green eyes, rumpled hair, and early five o'clock shadow, who dropped forward abruptly, like he'd had his chair leaned back. The young man's eyes narrowed, looking Radek up and down. "Uh, I think the mad scientist convention is up the street...."
Radek attempted to smooth his hair. It was always in disarray after a long flight.
"Radek!" Rodney brightened, then a flicker of guilt flashed across his face. He waved a forefinger as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Um. I meant to call you back."
"It is all right," Radek said, hesitating in the living room. "I figured I would be welcome."
"And this is-?" The young man shot Rodney a complaining look.
"Radek Zelenka, John Sheppard," Rodney gestured dramatically between them. "John, Radek."
Ah. The schedules were explained. Radek held out a hand to Rodney's new protege. John was better looking than he had imagined, even if he hadn't imagined anything in particular. He now recalled Rodney mentioning that he was attractive, though that had been months before. "I have heard a great deal about you."
"Well, then I think I'm at a disadvantage, because I haven't heard anything at all about you," John Sheppard said, accepting his hand.
"What? I thought I mentioned him." Rodney waved a hand vaguely. "He was my gay Czechoslovakian lover whom I thought was thrown into a Russian gulag, only he wasn't, although they still treated him very, very badly."
"Oh," John said, his expression turning concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It was many years ago," Radek assured him.
"Yet still a harrowing period of my life," Rodney inserted. "I could use your vote here, Radek, because Sonja is demanding that we do an invitational in Austria—"
"I wouldn't say demand—" John interrupted.
"—to give John some international experience." And Rodney motioned Radek over to the table.
John had taken the news of Rodney's homosexuality as well as most skaters — which was certainly better than most ski jumpers — so it was apparent that he already knew. Rodney had never been very secretive.
On examining John's competition list, loathe as Radek was to agree with Sonja, recalling his conversations with Rodney he rubbed his chin and admitted, "If this is a very unusual program it would less risky if it were seen first far from home. He does not need the Regional," he pointed out. "In America the men do not come. There will be no competition against him. That will save you both the fee and the travel."
"Oh, right. The vast expense of traveling to Oakland County, Michigan, as opposed to, say, Europe," Rodney said.
"So... you skate?" John asked Radek with a puzzled frown, as if trying to place an unfamiliar face.
"No, no, I am a ski jump judge," Radek explained to him, then tilted his head at Rodney hopefully. "Could he get a grant perhaps?"
Rodney shook his head wearily, rubbing his forehead. "We've applied but haven't heard."
Sonja wrinkled her nose, saying with a dismissive wave, "They will save it for Worlds. I do not blame them."
So Radek suggested that Canadian competitions were also (technically) international and had the benefit of no travel at all—only to be immediately contradicted by Sonja. Irritating woman.
"Look," John said with a sigh. He rumpled his hair, giving away how it came to be so sloppy in the first place. "I think that what we're arguing here doesn't really matter. Both the Regional, not to mention anything in Austria, is outside my budget. We're gonna have to go streamlined this year."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney said. "I'm just talking about pointless frivolity here! You don't have to worry about the basics."
John visibly grit is his teeth, saying firmly, "Yes. I do."
They glared at each other. Radek glanced around in puzzlement, eyes landing on Sonja. She looked at her nails, unhelpful.
Fueled by committee experience, Radek cleared his throat. "So we are agreed that John needs to attend as many competitions as possible," he said carefully, chin tucked in. "And ideally at least one international."
They had said no such thing, of course, but Radek had learned that sometimes you had to move the argument forward.
"I think we're agreed that it's high time for me to get the grill started," John said, standing. He ran his hands down narrow hips. "Are you staying for dinner? After all, it's not often that one of Rodney's 'gay Czechoslovakian lovers' turns up," he said with a sardonic and slightly accusing glance at Rodney.
And, hmm, perhaps John was not as accepting as he had assumed. "That, too, was very long ago," he cringed, and excused himself to go to the bathroom, only partially to extricate himself from an uncomfortable conversation.
In truth, Radek had intended to pry Rodney out of the wreckage of his house for a meal that was more than leftover take-out or spaghetti. But now that he had a chance to see, Rodney's living room was astoundingly clean. The bathroom was even sanitary, with towels hung up and no socks or underwear on the floor.
After he flushed, Radek paused to straighten his hair in the mirror. The mad scientist comment still stung. There were two toothbrushes leaning in opposite directions in a new container, and an unfamiliar electric razor balanced on the edge of the sink. His mind flashed to five o'clock shadow, putting it together with the financial argument.
Radek had always been quick. He said to his reflection, "Oh, Rodney. What have you got yourself into now?"
~*~*~
For the rest of the evening, Radek hovered, impatient to speak to Rodney. Alone. He took John's chair and watched with a doubtful eye while John ordered Rodney around the kitchen unselfconsciously, mixing vinegar, ketchup, and pressed garlic.
"You really have to make your own barbecue sauce to get it spicy enough." John licked his thumb. "Hope you don't mind grilled chicken," he told Radek, loading up a platter. He hefted it to his shoulder. "The charcoal's probably carcinogenic but it's totally worth it." He winked.
Radek gave him a forced smile, sizing him up with a calculating glimmer as John strode with a bounce through the living room. Boyish charm used to his best advantage. Rakish good looks, definitely. And Rodney was a lonely man.
Fortunately, Sonja followed John, leaving Rodney to collect the silverware. Radek attempted to not look menacing at all as he stood, folded his arms, and leaned slowly, oh-so-casually against the pantry wall.
"Rodney," he said, softly. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to find forks that match because John is bizarre about irrelevant details like that," Rodney complained, "While I try not go out of my mind with scheduling and travel plans. Vienna! Does she think I'm made of money?" The forks clattered to the counter.
"Shouldn't he be doing this?" Radek asked with a meaningful tip of his head at the schedules.
"Hmm?" Rodney looked up, eyes blank with confusion. "As his coach I think I should have a say."
"And what's this about you paying for them?" Radek raised his eyebrows and adjusted his glasses back up his nose.
"If he'll let me!" Rodney slammed the drawer shut. A flicker of understanding ran across his face, turning into a sneering half smile. "Oh, please. If you haven't figured out we're together by now then you've slowed down in your old age."
Radek's eyes narrowed and he gave a slow, tiny shake of his head. "He is too young for you."
"What are you talking about? He's twenty-eight and I'm thirty—well, thirty-one, but who's counting?"
"That's not what I mean," Radek said, quite serious.
Rodney broke into a gleeful smile and pointed at him. "You're jealous!"
"I am not—"
"I knew it!" Rodney crowed. "You've been pining away for me all these years, and suddenly—now that you can no longer have me in your long-distance version of a surrogate relationship—"
"Wouldn't I be the one calling you if that were true?"
"—You recognize what you've lost. That you've missed out. The HMS McKay has sailed!" Rodney swung his arm in a gesture aiming towards the horizon.
"You've just compared yourself to a vessel with a typical displacement of over a thousand tons," Radek said.
"Your transparent attempts to belittle, demean, or otherwise undermine John—" Rodney cheerfully waved a finger back and forth. "—will fall on deaf ears," he declared. "No amount of groveling on your part will convince me to take you back." After a slight pause, Rodney added as an afterthought, "Although... I might be amenable to a night of sad—but passionate!—farewell sex if John doesn't object. I can be merciful."
"You're unbelievable," Radek said, before he stalked out.
~*~*~
Sitting in the car, head propped on an elbow on the steering wheel, Radek startled at a rap on the window. John was bent over, looking in. He lifted a plate of chicken and potato chips like an offering. Radek rolled down the window.
"Rodney wanted to starve you out, but I figured it's a lot better hot," John explained.
"Is Rodney—?" Radek began. He accepted the plate through the window.
"Still gloating," John answered, making a face. He folded his arms tight, hands tucked in his armpits. "We could start a fistfight out here. There's a clear view from the window."
Radek snorted. "That would please him too much."
John squinted and gazed around the quiet neighborhood, not looking at anything in particular. "You're welcome to come inside. We're watching a movie later on, if you want. Of course, Rodney and Sonja will probably talk over the whole thing, so don't expect to be able to actually enjoy the movie, fair warning. It kinda spoils the dramatic tension when you have to rewind all the time."
Radek held up the plate. "Thank you."
"Hey," John said. He patted the door. "Can't let a man go hungry." He skipped a couple of steps as he jogged up the walkway.
~*~*~
"Good morning sleepyhead," Rodney's voice said, clearly self-satisfied and smirking.
Radek shook himself, aware of people getting up around him, the lights coming on.... He stretched, both hands making fists over his head, and realized he could only remember the first twenty minutes of the movie.
He murmured an explanation about time zones and transatlantic fights, but everyone brushed it off.
Sonja adjusted a cape coat around her shoulders and offered him a ride to his hotel. Radek froze at the idea, but Rodney came to his rescue, "You're staying by the airport, right? That's way out of the way. And plus you're coming back here tomorrow anyway, right?" he added, perking up hopefully.
Thus he found himself in Rodney's trophy room, unfolding Rodney's old camp cot, snapping the aluminum legs into place with a click. John came in with a blanket and pillow.
"I see you found the cot."
"Yes," Radek said.
John looked around, turning to take in the room. He tossed the pillow to the cot. "Be careful in here. Some of these trophies are kind of cheap and—" He made a back and forth gesture with his hands. "—tippy."
"Oh, I am well aware of it," Radek said, spreading the blanket. At John's blank look he explained, "You don't honestly believe Rodney can install shelves on his own, do you?"
John nodded, bobbing his head with pursed lips, taking the point.
After he left, Radek lay on the cot, hands folded on his chest, and squirmed into position to get comfortable with a little sigh. He could hear the sound of Rodney and John's voices, if not their words, through the walls, Rodney's tone matter-of-fact, haughty, followed by John's dry deadpan response, humor lurking underneath it. Rodney's voice turned consciously huffy, enjoying his own self-importance, and he was answered with a chuckle. Their footsteps moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, back and forth.
The voices disappeared into Rodney's room and the door shut behind them. And it occurred to Radek that John slept in there. Absurd that he hadn't considered it before. He blinked at the wall at his feet with its photos of the young Rodney, longish curled hair spilling over his forehead, grinning and confident, exactly how he remembered him from the Olympics.
Eyes half-lidded, he gazed over the familiar maple leaf jacket and the veritable shrine Rodney had built to himself. Radek was one of the few people who knew that under the shrine, he'd kept everything else as well. He was not above a decade of self-flagellation. Radek shook his head subtly. At least he hadn't pinned the rest of it to the wall.
One corner of the drawer was open a crack, shut improperly as usual, and Radek sat up, kicking off the covers to fix it. The dresser was old, the wheels in that drawer had never seated correctly and coated magazine paper was surprisingly heavy, making it sag. Radek shimmied the drawer... and found it glided open.
It was empty.
~*~*~
The following morning Radek woke late, bleary with the time change. Jet lag was always worst flying west.
The sound of running water started and stopped, along with the bright clatter of dishes, followed by the clicking of a gas stove before it lit. The cheerful banter from the night before continued as if it had picked up from where it had left off. He found his glasses and pulled on a pair of sweatpants he'd been loaned—from the excessively loose fit they were Rodney's—and padded across the living room in his bare feet. He stood in the kitchen doorway, rubbed at his eyes under his glasses and resettled them.
Rodney was in front of the stove, poking at a pan of eggs skeptically with a spatula. John sat in the same chair from the day before, newspaper in hand, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
John glanced up from the comics and grinned at Radek. "Hey."
Radek couldn't resist that smile. He studied John briefly then crossed to Sonja's seat from the day before. He pulled the chair out. "Good morning."
"I fail to see why this is necessary," Rodney scowled down at the pan.
"Breakfast is more than just coffee, Rodney," John said with weary patience.
"Sacrilege," Rodney growled.
"How did you get him to cook for us?" Radek asked John. He raised his eyebrows and paged through the paper on the table, selecting the world news.
"He has to make up for being a prick yesterday," John said with a shark-like smirk at Rodney.
"In that case, I'll have mine over easy with the yolk unbroken please," Radek instructed, carefully not looking up from the page. John snorted.
"Shut up, both of you, or I'll spit in your eggs while you're not looking," Rodney snapped.
~*~*~
The following afternoon, Radek and Sonja sat in the bleachers, bundled up against the cold on the bottom level closest to the ice. Sonja had loaned Radek her fake fur jacket and then tucked herself into John's coat (without asking) which he'd stripped off for practice. John didn't comment, just leaned back with both hands on the boards, skates still on, his face still flushed from skating. Rodney stood between John and the bleachers, arms folded. They kept their voices low as other skaters squeaked by on the ice.
"We need press kits...." Sonja mused.
"Press kits are good." Radek nodded, but Sonja was still speaking.
"... A nice picture, with a bio—we can't list John's medals, of course, but a history—" She turned to Rodney. "—does he have a tragic past?"
"There is the injury two or three years ago," Radek pointed out.
"Did it involve surgery?"
"Ah, yes. I believe so."
"Perfect. The photo will need to be on the computer these days," she continued, oblivious the dismayed look John and Rodney exchanged.
"No problem," Radek said. "I will scan it at Kinko's."
"Whatever a Kinko is, that is good, you handle it." She brushed that topic off with a sharp wave. "I can work on the judges, Petrovich is a dear...."
John mouthed What? to Rodney.
But Radek had already interrupted her, "No, no, no, no, no. You talk to the press, generate—what do you call it?—buzz, and then you talk to the judges."
John bent forward an inch, eyebrows raised in shock.
Sonja's smile in response had a dangerous edge to it. "You can't wait until too late," she said, sing-song.
"No," Radek insisted, not giving in. "They must know who you are before they will even listen."
"True," she conceded with a sideways tip of acknowledgement. "But then we need a summer competition so that there is something for the press to cover before Regionals."
"Good point," said Radek.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about?" Rodney broke in.
"Thank you," John said, breathing in relief.
"We're not scheduling any competitions until John is ready," Rodney said. "This is figure skating for God's sakes, not a media circus!"
"You mean you never did a single interview?" Radek asked.
Rodney's face went blank. "They wanted to interview me. That's different. It was the natural product of my stellar accomplishments." He straightened a bit.
"It can be a early autumn competition," Sonja proposed.
"Or maybe a charity event?" Radek chewed on his thumb nail. "People like that."
"He looks good surrounded by children," Sonja added, considering.
"Figure skating is mostly a female audience, unlike ski jumping," Radek said, drawing his words out thoughtfully.
"The maternal instinct with the hormones over the handsome man—the girls will go crazy," Sonja said.
"Enough." John finally cut them off, hands cutting outward in two slicing gestures. "No. No charity event. Forget it, I'm not doing some kind of media junket."
"Thank you." Rodney backed him up, drawing closer to John. "You're not supposed to peddle influence with the judges no matter who you've slept with." He glared at Sonja.
"No kidding," John echoed. "I'm doing this on my own," he added with a glare.
"But...." Radek tried to explain.
"No!" they both said together.
John and Rodney turned away in disgust, walking close and muttering to each other as they edged between the benches. A soft "Jesus...." carried across the bleachers, followed by a snort from Rodney. John shoved the door open for them with his shoulder, holding it while he pulled on his gloves.
Radek and Sonja exchanged a dismal look as the two left.
"They are babes in the woods. They do not understand how it works," Radek said. "Since I began judging I don't think I've bought myself a single drink."
Sonja pursed her lips and made a face. "He probably won't win either way."
"Pessimist," Radek said. "Rodney's father did all his media work, I'm certain." He snorted. "Opening a skating center? Pfft. That doesn't happen by itself."
"While I was the choreographer for Yvonne," she swept her arm out in an expansive arc, "we had an entire publicity budget."
"Ooo," Radek said, impressed despite himself. "You did Yvonne?"
"She was so beautiful on the ice and such a horse in person."
"True. Her mother was better."
"Her coach made sure they did their interviews together," Sonja agreed.
They sighed and fell silent a long moment.
"Does it effect your judging?" Sonja asked suddenly with honest, open curiosity.
Radek considered it. "Hmm. Ski jumping is not as subjective as figure skating." He shrugged. "But probably, yes. Still, I like to know what's going on behind the scenes. Sometimes they let slip information that they really shouldn't, and I'll see what I would not have noticed otherwise. So, mmm, it goes both ways."
~*~*~
It was evening with a late summer nip in the air. At the end of the driveway, Rodney pushed the mailbox to a more upright position, holding it with his knee as he kicked dirt into the gap. It sagged again once he let go. He'd complain about the neighbors' kids, but unfortunately, he'd done this himself, chasing John in the Honda.
He raised the little flag on the side to indicate he had outgoing mail and opened the mailbox.
It was a surprise to find another brown paper wrapped package from Mrs. Sheppard—until Rodney recalled John's Exhibition program. They'd been so far behind on John's freeskate they hadn't even started it, but John had a stockpile of old Exhibition programs that he'd never had a chance to perform, so Rodney wasn't worried. But apparently John's mother knew which one John planned to use.
Curious, Rodney stuffed his outgoing mail in the box and dropped the junk mail and sales flyers on the ground. Balancing the package on his knee, he tore it open.
It was another shirt box and, although it was hard to tell in this light, the exact same uniform, save in army green. Rodney stuffed the box under his arm, belatedly remembered to pick up the flyers, and went inside to call Mrs. Sheppard.
They exchanged a few stiff pleasantries. Then Rodney brought up the new, and yet strikingly identical, costume.
"You said you wanted it to be more 'military'," she told him with taut patience.
So many answers to that collided in his mind—from sarcastic questions as to just how changing blue to green made it "more military," if she had bought every inch of gold braid in the county, was her next attempt going to be in 3-D, could she have found an uglier Hawaiian print and just what was she thinking with those tights?!—that all that emerged was a startled splutter.
"Well?" she asked tartly.
Rodney took a deep breath and shelved everything he wanted to say. His sex life was at stake here. "Look. A real designer submits sketches, we go over them together, talk about changes—and then, step three!—you sew. You don't just... randomly stitch stuff together."
"Yes, of course... one discusses it, we review designs and photos of what you like, and then we draw up sketches. That's what I do with wedding dresses," she said sourly.
"You sew wedding dresses?" Rodney said, performing a quick reassessment of Mrs. Sheppard's skill level. Her sewing wasn't necessarily bad. Merely taste-free. He'd yanked on the gold fringe—admittedly with its demise in mind—and it was solid workmanship throughout that would survive a season of athleticism. With some proper guidance, perhaps....
"But Johnny's no artist. He doesn't have any ideas for his costumes," she said with obvious exasperation. "When he was ten, he wanted to be 'a superhero' for Halloween. That's as specific as he gets."
Rodney ran his hand down his face, groaning. She had a point. "True," he agreed. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. Finally he said, "Let me give you my fax number at work. I'll describe to you what I'm looking for and you can send me some sketches...."
"But he does like the 'Surf Rider' costume?" she asked, as determined as a hound on a scent.
Rodney weighed how much he could get away with here, and decided it wasn't worth his funeral. "He wouldn't change a thing," he lied.
~*~*~
A week or so later, John frowned at the brown-wrapped box set in the middle of the kitchen table. "What's this?" He'd returned late from one of his phallic male bonding rituals with the yoga instructor, smelling like cordite.
This time Rodney had restrained himself from opening it—just barely—mostly through dint of sticking his hands in his pockets and, when that didn't work, by keeping himself busy on the computer in the den. Out of sight, out of mind. He emerged now and hovered in the background, smug and superior, leaning against the kitchen doorway with both hands in his pockets.
John draped his jacket over a chair and reached for the package. Tearing into it, he muttered to himself about "... already have the costumes..." and "... just going to use the old one for...." The rattle of tissue paper paused. John stood blankly over the box. He flipped the note from his mom over to read the back. "For my long program?" he puzzled.
Rodney peered around him. Folded deep army green fabric, almost indistinguishable from black, was all he could see. The color was good though. There was some subtle beading but nary a sequin in sight.
"Did you say anything?" John accused, picking up the box and shaking it at Rodney. Tissue paper rustled. "Because once she gets started...."
"Why don't you just try it on?" Rodney said, making a tiny shooing motion.
"You don't get it. She'll make twenty costumes, one after another, if she thinks you don't like it. It's like firing up a factory," John complained.
Out of patience, Rodney grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him in the direction of the bedroom. "Go."
Through the closed bedroom door, Rodney heard the tissue paper again, then the jingle of John's belt buckle and his sneakers being kicked off. Tissue paper rustled once more, followed by a minute's silence, and then, "I don't know, Rodney. I think she messed up."
Rodney was almost to the door when John stepped out.
"Or maybe it ripped in the sewing machine?" John said, raising an arm. A few dangling strands of ripped fabric rippled.
Rodney made a spinning motion with one finger. "Single jump. Let me see if the length's right."
After a pause, John complied. The strands followed his motion, fanning out, but not so long that they tangled.
"Huh," John said, swinging his arm forward. He lifted his left arm, which had shorter strands for an asymmetrical effect.
Rodney turned him around, looking for tight spots and pulls that foreshadowed embarrassing rips during competition. "Okay, raise your arms, bend at the knees... uh, huh." The strands had been thoroughly stitched, he noted. They'd shred at the edges but no further.
John pouted down at the stylized rip across his chest, a curl of fabric folding down. She'd filled the zigzag gash with mesh for durability, not something Rodney had requested but he could see her point. She'd done the same for the slashes across his arms and thigh. The insignia on the shoulders and paratrooper wings over the patch pocket looked like a replica of the real thing, but then again, she had a son in the American Air Force, didn't she? John poked at them with an unreadable expression. The scattered all-over black beading was subtle enough that Rodney forgave her for it. Apparently no one could take away Candy's glitter pen.
John walked out a second hop of a jump, opened the bathroom door, peeked in at the mirror, stroked his hair, then asked, "You don't have a single full-length mirror in this place, do you?"
He thought of the kitchen window right before Rodney did, clicking on the ceiling light for a relatively clear reflection. He tried another jump in the kitchen, watching himself over his shoulder. Rodney had him do several stretches, tugging at the fabric to check the fit.
After twenty minutes or so, John picked up the phone. And he hadn't taken the costume off, Rodney noted with a smirk.
"Yeah, mom. It's really cool," he said on a laugh after a few minutes of conversation, grinning. He turned to look at his reflection again. A confused expression passed over John's face. "You want to talk to Rodney?"
Rodney accepted the phone.
"Hello, Candy," he chirped. And John's face fell. "Couldn't resist the beading, could you? ... no, no, no, it's great, it's great." A tilted smile spread across his face. "Oh yes, I'd say he likes it." Rodney stood with a hand on his hip, chest out, shifting over to his 'professional' mode. "Fit-wise? Shoulders are dead on, and his sleeves aren't pulling when he raises his arms. You were right about that stretch fabric although I admit I had my doubts. We won't know about the pants until after he tries it on with his skates, but there's no puckering so far as I can tell. No doubt we'll need to reinforce the strips halfway through the season, if you're available." Rodney quirked his head sideways. "Fix it Thanksgiving-?"
"Right," John said, ducking his head and wagging a finger as if he'd just remembered. "You're invited to Thanksgiving dinner."
Rodney tucked the receiver against his chest. "We have Regionals in October," he reminded him.
"American Thanksgiving," John said with a roll of his eyes. "It's right after Sectionals."
"Oh," Rodney said. "Um. Sure."
Then he remembered to say it into the phone to Mrs. Sheppard.
~*~*~
Peering over at Ronon's collection of weapons at the gun range, John tested the heft of a, quote, "shit hot Sig P-220 .45 ACP," mirror to one of Ronon's guns that John had admired. Not that John was allowed to touch any of Ronon's guns, which he'd spread out over a table outside the range. Truth to tell, Ronon looked like he'd growl at anyone who came near them. The clerk brought several other options out on the glass counter for John to try, setting them down with soft metallic clicks.
"You have good taste," Ronon said, approving. "The Sig's the Cadillac of handguns."
He proceeded to give John a tour of his arsenal-for-the-day, a Browning High Power, the Para Ordnance CCW "the smallest .45 I own" that (apparently) worked well as a concealed weapon, "but this one has a concealed hammer which means I don't have to cock it" and then he touted the benefits of his favorite 17-shot Beretta... John let the rest of the lecture wash over him, just happy that he'd picked the best one.
Setting down the Sig, John picked up another of the weapons, black and sleek-looking. The clerk inserted his own suggestions, holding out a target pistol. "It's roughly the same weight of the other guns so you can get used to the feel." The clerk was a plump guy with glasses and pasty skin but he handled the gun expertly, turning it over for John. "It's easy and fun to train on, with virtually no recoil."
John glanced over at Ronon, hoping he wasn't being recommended the girly gun for his handbag, but Ronon nodded his agreement, adding, "It's a .22. The bullets are cheaper." He gave John a wolfish grin.
"That, too," the clerk said, then went on to recommend a "Kahr P-9," the perfect handgun for "repelling a home intrusion." He pulled back the slide and demonstrated how an emergency bullet could be loaded without a magazine. John realized that the clerk expected him to buy at some point, and entertained himself imagining Rodney's total freak-out.
He made his selections, then bought and pocketed a several boxes of bullets. He sidled up to where Ronon had one of his guns in several pieces.
Ronon nodded to the weapon in John's hand. "You should clean that. It'll jam less."
Watching Ronon, John fumbled with the magazine, then tried to figure out what you'd do next.
"You know I ripped a door off its hinges?" John told him. He found something that looked like a moving part. It didn't seem to do anything when he tugged at it.
"That's another thing my guru warned me about." He gave John a meaningful look, his dreadlocks falling forward. "Destroying private property."
Ronon reached for John's gun and took it away, interrupting himself. "Like this." He disassembled it in a few easy moves.
"You've wrecked a door?" John asked.
"I tore apart a bar once. I was pretty drunk. And pissed off." He smiled grimly at John. "And then two guys beat the shit out of me."
"That's hard to picture."
"Believe it." Ronon indicated their stack of paper targets with a jerk of his chin. "No one's going to mind if you mess up those."
"Oh. The rink just told me not to worry about it. Said they have a budget for that sort of thing," John said. He folded his arms and leaned against the table, and said, hopeful, but cautious. "So... um. The skating season has started." He licked his lips.
"Yeah?" Ronon did something with an oversized pipe cleaner in the barrel of John's gun, frowning when it came out way dirtier than it had on his own guns.
"Sectionals aren't until November though," John informed him, examining his nails.
"Uh-huh."
"They're all the way in Cleveland, Ohio, though, while the Eastern Great Lakes Regional is a lot closer – Bloomfield Hills, Michigan." John shifted uncomfortably. "Only a few hours drive from here."
"Umm-hmm." Ronon didn't look up.
"Still, Sectionals will be more of a competition. At Regionals there's just me and one other guy signed up to compete." John gave him an ironic shrug. "We'll both automatically move up."
Ronon sighted down the barrel of John's reassembled gun and asked, "What about that big one you were telling me about?"
"Nationals?" John asked in surprise.
"Yeah."
"There's no guarantee I'll make it that far."
"You will," Ronon said, matter-of-factly, handing him the gun and placing it in his hand. He met John's eyes. "I'll go to that one."
[Previous][Next]
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "They're supposed to be able to see you on the ice." -- "From orbit?!"
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and playful betas,
rabidfan 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. Since Sonja walked in on Rodney and Radek in 1991 and told Radek he looked better with his clothes on, Rodney's former skating partner (now John's choreographer) has been Radek's least favorite person. Meanwhile, John has accidentally outed himself to his mom... who wasn't all that surprised.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
John's work on compulsory figures had been reduced to an hour a day, but Rodney said he needed them to improve his edges, so John signed up to do evening patch. The rink had them at seven and seven.
He was assigned patch number three in the nearer left hand corner of the rink. As the Zamboni made its cautious rounds, he pulled on his oldest pair of skates, the uppers soft and worn flexible for the dainty, precise turns, the toepicks ground off. He rolled his fleece turtleneck up to his chin and pulled on the black ski mask that Rodney always mocked, calling him "Darth Sheppard" and "the zombie skater," although it was effective. He zipped up Rodney's parka, since he'd forgotten his own, and pulled on his gloves with a pair of mittens over them, shaking off the shiver of expected cold.
He glided along the wall to his patch, careful not to mar the pristine surface, the rink as tense and quiet as a library. The fourteen or so other skaters today whispered to each other and marked off the sections as their private territory for the next hour. He set the long, compass-like wooden scribe down on his patch with a light click.
Rodney was a traditionalist. Showman or not, figures was his best event, and the reason he had a reputation for turning out "quality" skaters. He required all of his students to at least learn the slow, perfect figure eights. He said it was good for John, like broccoli.
John hated it.
But for some reason, this part of his skating was never affected by the ups and downs of his freeskating, possibly because it was just so different from what John inwardly referred to as "real" skating. He laid out the compass and traced the first pattern. Rodney sneered at scribes and considered them an affectation for the mere novice, but John had no illusions that he had to work at this, so he had to be certain he was practicing a perfect circle.
Under duress, he could admit that he liked the silence of school figures, even when his toes were going numb with cold. Under even more duress, he could admit that it improved his skating. Though he'd never admit it to Rodney.
He pushed off from the wall and cut into the center of the circle, carefully placing his first push to dig into the curve of the sketched line. Head down, watching the ice, he replayed Rodney's advice to let his hand trace the line in front, like he was drawing it with his arm with his body obeying. He flowed along his right outside edge, the left blade just barely lifted off the ice, trailing behind him.
His momentum slowed too soon, and he was forced to push again, messing up the firm even cut. He hit the top of the curve, spun his arms for the bracket-shaped turn, scooping too far out at the end of it but not that bad, then pushed again for the center. He spared a moment of concentration to envy Rodney's easy, confident glides, and wobbled—completely messing up his line.
"Fuck," John said.
Yeah, he hated school figures.
The voice on the other end was older, brisk and pleasant. "Hello? Is Johnny there?"
Rodney rolled his eyes. "I think you have a wrong number." And hung up.
It rang again moments later. The woman spoke with a little more asperity. "This is the number he gave me. I've spoken with him here before."
"Look, ma'am, I don't know anyone named 'Johnny'." He hung up again with a snort of disgust, shaking his head as he returned to his chair.
Stubbornly, the phone rang again. Some people never knew when to stop. This time Rodney ignored it and the answering machine picked up. "Johnny, this is mom. I need to know what music you're skating this season but someone keeps—"
Rodney was a quick thinker. He calculated the odds of there being two "Johnnys" skating in the area, the likelihood he'd be castigated for hanging up on mommy, and grabbed the phone, plotting to erase all evidence later. "Oh, hi. Uh. Yes, uh, I bet—you mean—um, is this Mrs. Sheppard?" Rodney winced. "I got thrown by the 'Johnny.'"
They both laughed hollowly, the way people did at business conferences, funerals and weddings, when they were obligated to be nice and find each other hilarious. When their forced laughter died down into a sigh, she explained, "I'm just trying to find out what music he's skating this season."
Rodney was confused. Last he heard, John's parents showed little interest in his skating. "Um, well, he's skating to 'Surf Rider' for his short program. Why?"
"Oh. A beach theme. I can do that," she said. "Is Johnny there? We need to discuss colors."
"He's mowing the lawn right now, but I can get him for you," Rodney said, his false smile bleeding through his voice.
"He's always been so good about his chores," she said with obvious pride. Fortunately, the front door opened and John stepped in, smelling of grass clippings and wearing a backwards baseball cap.
"He certainly is, Mrs. Sheppard," Rodney said, bright and phony, raising his voice on her name. He pointed desperately at the receiver, pleading for John to take over before this conversation killed him with ennui.
John took the phone, adjusting his ball cap.
"Hi, mom. Yeah. 'Surf Rider.' Uh-huh. Aquamarine ... Hawaiian print ... okay." He fell silent a long moment, dipping his head. He came up blinking. "Loose and flowing. Uh-huh ... well, I don't know about shorts." He nodded with a quick glance over at Rodney. "Yeah, okay, that's very unique." He laughed. "No, summer is not something people think when you say ice skating." He looked up, eyes tracing the ceiling. "Palm trees? Now, mom, you know I'm not allowed props—oh. The print. Okay, then. T-shirt underneath, right? ... Heavier, so it'll swing? Well, not too heavy. Remember that purple Mariachi thing, with the puffed sleeves?" He fell silent again, his head listing to the side. "It was top heavy, mom," he complained, managing to sound nine years old. "I ended up flat on my—yeah, just like the girl in West Side Story." He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just promise me you're not making a dress and I'm cool with whatever you want, mom. Okay. Yeah... bye."
Rodney stared at him silently for a long moment. "Your mom made that horrid sequined jacket, didn't she?"
"She needs a creative outlet," John explained, hanging up the phone.
Rodney couldn't get over it. "A million professional costume designers, and yours are made by—"
"—my mom, yes," John finished for him. "She's pretty good."
Mrs. Sheppard certainly couldn't be faulted for speed. A brown-wrapped package from one Candace Sheppard appeared in Rodney's mailbox not a week later. Rodney carried it in to the kitchen table.
"Your mom's name is Candy?" Rodney asked, smirking as he handed it to John.
"Call her that and I can't vouch for your safety," John said absently, not looking up as he tore open the package, picking up the envelope on top. Rodney hovered as John took his time, reading her note and smiling over it, then turning it over for more.
"Oh, for Pete's sake." Rodney snatched the bundle of fabric out of John's lap.
He unrolled an oversized Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree print on an oddly heavy knit. It swung nicely. A smaller bundle wrapped inside it dropped to the floor.
John picked that up ... and rolled out a pair of cut-offs in stretchy jeans material across the table, the white around the legs carefully fluffed. Stitched into those, unrolling like the dead legs of the Wicked Witch of the East in the Wizard of Oz, was a pair of thick flesh-colored tights. The toes stayed curled.
"You'll look like you have no hair," Rodney said, staring at it, flabbergasted.
"She didn't want me to get cold," John explained.
Less than a week after the arrival of John's first costume, Rodney came home to another brown-wrapped package. Mrs. Sheppard sure could stitch up a storm, he thought with an edge of grim hysteria.
Since he knew what was coming this time, he didn't wait for John, ripping the paper off a light shirt box of the sort you'd find at JC Penny's. He dug through tissue paper and....
.... well. Perhaps he hadn't known what was coming. John had clearly passed along the fact that they wanted a military theme for his long program. Only Mrs. Sheppard's idea of "military" was less "stealthy paratrooper" and more "Prince Charles inspecting the Royal Navy" – if Prince Charles wore blue and gold sequins, that is.
Rodney leaned his elbow on the table and ran his hand down the double row of brass buttons. The shoulders were stiff and reinforced, with glittery gold fringe spilling over the arms. Rodney flicked it, saying aloud, "No."
He stalked over to the phone.
Rodney held his chin high, a hand on his hip as it rang. When she answered, he found he wasn't sure exactly how he was going to phrase this. So he started with the basics. "Ah, yes, we, ah, received the costume." He swallowed.
"Oh! Did Johnny like it?"
"Well... he hasn't seen it yet, it's just, well." Rodney took a breath and made his best attempt at tact. "It's... ah, it's not exactly ideal."
"Oh?"
"The military aspect, I mean. It's not... military enough." He winced, his conscience forcing him to veer towards the truth. "Or at all, actually."
"Oh, really?" she said, her voice turning chilly.
"I mean, it's very...." He glanced over at the costume. "...complicated looking. More toy solider than actual soldier. Reminiscent of a Christmas ornament, um, the cheap sort you'd find at Canadian Tire."
"I see." And Rodney could sense very Sheppard-like arms folding in icy determination.
"However, it's—it's clear you can, that you're very adept and... that you sew very, very quickly," he added with breathless desperation. He gave up on tact, throwing both hands in the air. Tact had never worked for him anyway. "It's not even remotely what we're looking for. The colors, the style—everything's wrong," he said with a frustrated slashing gesture.
"We?" she repeated.
"Obviously, I'm his coach so—look." He decided to acquaint her with the facts. "I've been doing this for nearly a decade and prior to that I was a three time World Champion. I've worked with some of the top designers in this hemisphere and quite frankly, this," he spread his hands at the costume on the table, and said on a laugh, "isn't how it's supposed to work."
"Of course. You're the 'expert'," she said frostily. "Ten years experience as a skater, while I've only been designing John's costumes for the last fifteen years—and his Halloween costumes before that. And just how many costumes have you actually made yourself?"
"You don't need to design them to know—"
"Is John there?" she snapped.
He was very relieved to be able to tell her that he wasn't.
His reprieve lasted for less than a day. He was on the toilet when John banged the door open with his forearm. The bathroom was suddenly very crowded.
"What you did say to my mom?" John in a harsh tone with his angriest, most sarcastic smile. "Because she's upset. She thinks I don't like my costumes and that she's just hearing it through you."
"But you don't!" Rodney really didn't want to have this conversation with his pants around his ankles. He silently decided all phone calls would go to the answering machine for the foreseeable future.
"And now I've had to lie to her!" John growled at him with a flinging gesture. He leaned in, one hand on the doorknob, the other on his hip. "From here on out, if it has anything to do with my family—stay out of it. She put a lot of work into those costumes."
"She has no taste whatsoever! Those shorts are ghastly, your legs are going to look like popsicle sticks—and don't even get me started on Admiral Christmas Tree!" Rodney complained, leaning forward on the toilet seat. "Please tell me you haven't gone completely blind, although with that many sequins I can certainly see how it could happen!"
"They're supposed to be able to see you on the ice," John explained.
"From orbit?!" Rodney said, bug-eyed.
"Rodney." John lowered his voice, shoulders settling. He said with controlled calm, "When I wanted to skate, my dad was a real jerk about it. My brother gave me rides to the rink occasionally, but that was about it." He continued with tooth-gritting intensity. "Mom's the only one who's seen my performances; she's the one who paid my rent when I was strapped; and she's the one who talked my dad into paying for U of T so I could come here in the first place." John pressed closer. "All she's ever asked of me is that she design my costumes."
Rodney opened his mouth to protest, but John shook a forefinger in Rodney's face, very close now, quiet and furious. "Not only is she going to design both my costumes, you're going to say nice things about them. Is that clear?"
Radek threaded through the network of circular concrete columns and overpasses, craning his neck over the rental's steering wheel at freeway signs with new highway numbers. Each trip here, Toronto seemed to rearrange itself. Suburbs that used to be neat squares of fields and farms now sprouted strip malls.
He had a conference at Rochester Institute of Technology in New York; the ski season hadn't yet begun, so his time was his own for a change. Nobody minded if he flew in a weekend early to see an old friend.
He'd called Rodney several times but all he reached was his answering machine. Perhaps if he'd tried at three am he would have had more success, he thought, sounding catty even to himself.
As he came to roads closer to the city he was on solid ground again, and the way to Rodney's house was so familiar that he turned without looking at the street names, noting new stores and old landmarks, or a playground where an empty field had once been. He slowed as he pulled up to the curb outside Rodney's house.
The lawn didn't have its usual wilderness effect. No four-inch growth or fluffy dandelions. The hedges were neatly trimmed and the roses staked out. It had probably taken a community petition to get Rodney to finally hire someone to clean up his yard. A tiny sports car and an old Chevy took up the driveway, so Radek parked on the street. He locked the rental and hopped up the front steps.
Through the open door he could hear Rodney's voice, "If you want to spend the entire budget on one skate, be my guest, but it seems to be more productive to attend competitions judges actually score."
"I dunno," came a man's nasal voice, uncertain and wavering. "She does have a point about international experience...."
"Which is moot if you don't attend the real competitions!"
Radek knocked on the screen, but it appeared nobody heard him.
"It is awfully expensive," the wavering voice said.
"If you do not plan for the future, then the future will never happen," a woman insisted—Sonja. Radek shut his eyes and considered for a very brief moment returning to his hotel. Unfortunately, it was all the way at the airport and impractical.
There was a beat of silence from the other two. Then Rodney said, "How does that even make sense?"
"Vienna is beautiful. You will love it," Sonja cooed.
"Because sightseeing is so the point of competitive figure skating," Rodney groused.
Radek gave up on knocking and stepped inside. Forms were spread over Rodney's kitchen table and three faces blinked up at him like raccoons caught in the garbage: Rodney standing with his hands braced on the table, Sonja paused in fluffing her hair by the window, and a cautious looking young man with intense green eyes, rumpled hair, and early five o'clock shadow, who dropped forward abruptly, like he'd had his chair leaned back. The young man's eyes narrowed, looking Radek up and down. "Uh, I think the mad scientist convention is up the street...."
Radek attempted to smooth his hair. It was always in disarray after a long flight.
"Radek!" Rodney brightened, then a flicker of guilt flashed across his face. He waved a forefinger as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Um. I meant to call you back."
"It is all right," Radek said, hesitating in the living room. "I figured I would be welcome."
"And this is-?" The young man shot Rodney a complaining look.
"Radek Zelenka, John Sheppard," Rodney gestured dramatically between them. "John, Radek."
Ah. The schedules were explained. Radek held out a hand to Rodney's new protege. John was better looking than he had imagined, even if he hadn't imagined anything in particular. He now recalled Rodney mentioning that he was attractive, though that had been months before. "I have heard a great deal about you."
"Well, then I think I'm at a disadvantage, because I haven't heard anything at all about you," John Sheppard said, accepting his hand.
"What? I thought I mentioned him." Rodney waved a hand vaguely. "He was my gay Czechoslovakian lover whom I thought was thrown into a Russian gulag, only he wasn't, although they still treated him very, very badly."
"Oh," John said, his expression turning concerned. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It was many years ago," Radek assured him.
"Yet still a harrowing period of my life," Rodney inserted. "I could use your vote here, Radek, because Sonja is demanding that we do an invitational in Austria—"
"I wouldn't say demand—" John interrupted.
"—to give John some international experience." And Rodney motioned Radek over to the table.
John had taken the news of Rodney's homosexuality as well as most skaters — which was certainly better than most ski jumpers — so it was apparent that he already knew. Rodney had never been very secretive.
On examining John's competition list, loathe as Radek was to agree with Sonja, recalling his conversations with Rodney he rubbed his chin and admitted, "If this is a very unusual program it would less risky if it were seen first far from home. He does not need the Regional," he pointed out. "In America the men do not come. There will be no competition against him. That will save you both the fee and the travel."
"Oh, right. The vast expense of traveling to Oakland County, Michigan, as opposed to, say, Europe," Rodney said.
"So... you skate?" John asked Radek with a puzzled frown, as if trying to place an unfamiliar face.
"No, no, I am a ski jump judge," Radek explained to him, then tilted his head at Rodney hopefully. "Could he get a grant perhaps?"
Rodney shook his head wearily, rubbing his forehead. "We've applied but haven't heard."
Sonja wrinkled her nose, saying with a dismissive wave, "They will save it for Worlds. I do not blame them."
So Radek suggested that Canadian competitions were also (technically) international and had the benefit of no travel at all—only to be immediately contradicted by Sonja. Irritating woman.
"Look," John said with a sigh. He rumpled his hair, giving away how it came to be so sloppy in the first place. "I think that what we're arguing here doesn't really matter. Both the Regional, not to mention anything in Austria, is outside my budget. We're gonna have to go streamlined this year."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney said. "I'm just talking about pointless frivolity here! You don't have to worry about the basics."
John visibly grit is his teeth, saying firmly, "Yes. I do."
They glared at each other. Radek glanced around in puzzlement, eyes landing on Sonja. She looked at her nails, unhelpful.
Fueled by committee experience, Radek cleared his throat. "So we are agreed that John needs to attend as many competitions as possible," he said carefully, chin tucked in. "And ideally at least one international."
They had said no such thing, of course, but Radek had learned that sometimes you had to move the argument forward.
"I think we're agreed that it's high time for me to get the grill started," John said, standing. He ran his hands down narrow hips. "Are you staying for dinner? After all, it's not often that one of Rodney's 'gay Czechoslovakian lovers' turns up," he said with a sardonic and slightly accusing glance at Rodney.
And, hmm, perhaps John was not as accepting as he had assumed. "That, too, was very long ago," he cringed, and excused himself to go to the bathroom, only partially to extricate himself from an uncomfortable conversation.
In truth, Radek had intended to pry Rodney out of the wreckage of his house for a meal that was more than leftover take-out or spaghetti. But now that he had a chance to see, Rodney's living room was astoundingly clean. The bathroom was even sanitary, with towels hung up and no socks or underwear on the floor.
After he flushed, Radek paused to straighten his hair in the mirror. The mad scientist comment still stung. There were two toothbrushes leaning in opposite directions in a new container, and an unfamiliar electric razor balanced on the edge of the sink. His mind flashed to five o'clock shadow, putting it together with the financial argument.
Radek had always been quick. He said to his reflection, "Oh, Rodney. What have you got yourself into now?"
For the rest of the evening, Radek hovered, impatient to speak to Rodney. Alone. He took John's chair and watched with a doubtful eye while John ordered Rodney around the kitchen unselfconsciously, mixing vinegar, ketchup, and pressed garlic.
"You really have to make your own barbecue sauce to get it spicy enough." John licked his thumb. "Hope you don't mind grilled chicken," he told Radek, loading up a platter. He hefted it to his shoulder. "The charcoal's probably carcinogenic but it's totally worth it." He winked.
Radek gave him a forced smile, sizing him up with a calculating glimmer as John strode with a bounce through the living room. Boyish charm used to his best advantage. Rakish good looks, definitely. And Rodney was a lonely man.
Fortunately, Sonja followed John, leaving Rodney to collect the silverware. Radek attempted to not look menacing at all as he stood, folded his arms, and leaned slowly, oh-so-casually against the pantry wall.
"Rodney," he said, softly. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to find forks that match because John is bizarre about irrelevant details like that," Rodney complained, "While I try not go out of my mind with scheduling and travel plans. Vienna! Does she think I'm made of money?" The forks clattered to the counter.
"Shouldn't he be doing this?" Radek asked with a meaningful tip of his head at the schedules.
"Hmm?" Rodney looked up, eyes blank with confusion. "As his coach I think I should have a say."
"And what's this about you paying for them?" Radek raised his eyebrows and adjusted his glasses back up his nose.
"If he'll let me!" Rodney slammed the drawer shut. A flicker of understanding ran across his face, turning into a sneering half smile. "Oh, please. If you haven't figured out we're together by now then you've slowed down in your old age."
Radek's eyes narrowed and he gave a slow, tiny shake of his head. "He is too young for you."
"What are you talking about? He's twenty-eight and I'm thirty—well, thirty-one, but who's counting?"
"That's not what I mean," Radek said, quite serious.
Rodney broke into a gleeful smile and pointed at him. "You're jealous!"
"I am not—"
"I knew it!" Rodney crowed. "You've been pining away for me all these years, and suddenly—now that you can no longer have me in your long-distance version of a surrogate relationship—"
"Wouldn't I be the one calling you if that were true?"
"—You recognize what you've lost. That you've missed out. The HMS McKay has sailed!" Rodney swung his arm in a gesture aiming towards the horizon.
"You've just compared yourself to a vessel with a typical displacement of over a thousand tons," Radek said.
"Your transparent attempts to belittle, demean, or otherwise undermine John—" Rodney cheerfully waved a finger back and forth. "—will fall on deaf ears," he declared. "No amount of groveling on your part will convince me to take you back." After a slight pause, Rodney added as an afterthought, "Although... I might be amenable to a night of sad—but passionate!—farewell sex if John doesn't object. I can be merciful."
"You're unbelievable," Radek said, before he stalked out.
Sitting in the car, head propped on an elbow on the steering wheel, Radek startled at a rap on the window. John was bent over, looking in. He lifted a plate of chicken and potato chips like an offering. Radek rolled down the window.
"Rodney wanted to starve you out, but I figured it's a lot better hot," John explained.
"Is Rodney—?" Radek began. He accepted the plate through the window.
"Still gloating," John answered, making a face. He folded his arms tight, hands tucked in his armpits. "We could start a fistfight out here. There's a clear view from the window."
Radek snorted. "That would please him too much."
John squinted and gazed around the quiet neighborhood, not looking at anything in particular. "You're welcome to come inside. We're watching a movie later on, if you want. Of course, Rodney and Sonja will probably talk over the whole thing, so don't expect to be able to actually enjoy the movie, fair warning. It kinda spoils the dramatic tension when you have to rewind all the time."
Radek held up the plate. "Thank you."
"Hey," John said. He patted the door. "Can't let a man go hungry." He skipped a couple of steps as he jogged up the walkway.
"Good morning sleepyhead," Rodney's voice said, clearly self-satisfied and smirking.
Radek shook himself, aware of people getting up around him, the lights coming on.... He stretched, both hands making fists over his head, and realized he could only remember the first twenty minutes of the movie.
He murmured an explanation about time zones and transatlantic fights, but everyone brushed it off.
Sonja adjusted a cape coat around her shoulders and offered him a ride to his hotel. Radek froze at the idea, but Rodney came to his rescue, "You're staying by the airport, right? That's way out of the way. And plus you're coming back here tomorrow anyway, right?" he added, perking up hopefully.
Thus he found himself in Rodney's trophy room, unfolding Rodney's old camp cot, snapping the aluminum legs into place with a click. John came in with a blanket and pillow.
"I see you found the cot."
"Yes," Radek said.
John looked around, turning to take in the room. He tossed the pillow to the cot. "Be careful in here. Some of these trophies are kind of cheap and—" He made a back and forth gesture with his hands. "—tippy."
"Oh, I am well aware of it," Radek said, spreading the blanket. At John's blank look he explained, "You don't honestly believe Rodney can install shelves on his own, do you?"
John nodded, bobbing his head with pursed lips, taking the point.
After he left, Radek lay on the cot, hands folded on his chest, and squirmed into position to get comfortable with a little sigh. He could hear the sound of Rodney and John's voices, if not their words, through the walls, Rodney's tone matter-of-fact, haughty, followed by John's dry deadpan response, humor lurking underneath it. Rodney's voice turned consciously huffy, enjoying his own self-importance, and he was answered with a chuckle. Their footsteps moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, back and forth.
The voices disappeared into Rodney's room and the door shut behind them. And it occurred to Radek that John slept in there. Absurd that he hadn't considered it before. He blinked at the wall at his feet with its photos of the young Rodney, longish curled hair spilling over his forehead, grinning and confident, exactly how he remembered him from the Olympics.
Eyes half-lidded, he gazed over the familiar maple leaf jacket and the veritable shrine Rodney had built to himself. Radek was one of the few people who knew that under the shrine, he'd kept everything else as well. He was not above a decade of self-flagellation. Radek shook his head subtly. At least he hadn't pinned the rest of it to the wall.
One corner of the drawer was open a crack, shut improperly as usual, and Radek sat up, kicking off the covers to fix it. The dresser was old, the wheels in that drawer had never seated correctly and coated magazine paper was surprisingly heavy, making it sag. Radek shimmied the drawer... and found it glided open.
It was empty.
The following morning Radek woke late, bleary with the time change. Jet lag was always worst flying west.
The sound of running water started and stopped, along with the bright clatter of dishes, followed by the clicking of a gas stove before it lit. The cheerful banter from the night before continued as if it had picked up from where it had left off. He found his glasses and pulled on a pair of sweatpants he'd been loaned—from the excessively loose fit they were Rodney's—and padded across the living room in his bare feet. He stood in the kitchen doorway, rubbed at his eyes under his glasses and resettled them.
Rodney was in front of the stove, poking at a pan of eggs skeptically with a spatula. John sat in the same chair from the day before, newspaper in hand, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.
John glanced up from the comics and grinned at Radek. "Hey."
Radek couldn't resist that smile. He studied John briefly then crossed to Sonja's seat from the day before. He pulled the chair out. "Good morning."
"I fail to see why this is necessary," Rodney scowled down at the pan.
"Breakfast is more than just coffee, Rodney," John said with weary patience.
"Sacrilege," Rodney growled.
"How did you get him to cook for us?" Radek asked John. He raised his eyebrows and paged through the paper on the table, selecting the world news.
"He has to make up for being a prick yesterday," John said with a shark-like smirk at Rodney.
"In that case, I'll have mine over easy with the yolk unbroken please," Radek instructed, carefully not looking up from the page. John snorted.
"Shut up, both of you, or I'll spit in your eggs while you're not looking," Rodney snapped.
The following afternoon, Radek and Sonja sat in the bleachers, bundled up against the cold on the bottom level closest to the ice. Sonja had loaned Radek her fake fur jacket and then tucked herself into John's coat (without asking) which he'd stripped off for practice. John didn't comment, just leaned back with both hands on the boards, skates still on, his face still flushed from skating. Rodney stood between John and the bleachers, arms folded. They kept their voices low as other skaters squeaked by on the ice.
"We need press kits...." Sonja mused.
"Press kits are good." Radek nodded, but Sonja was still speaking.
"... A nice picture, with a bio—we can't list John's medals, of course, but a history—" She turned to Rodney. "—does he have a tragic past?"
"There is the injury two or three years ago," Radek pointed out.
"Did it involve surgery?"
"Ah, yes. I believe so."
"Perfect. The photo will need to be on the computer these days," she continued, oblivious the dismayed look John and Rodney exchanged.
"No problem," Radek said. "I will scan it at Kinko's."
"Whatever a Kinko is, that is good, you handle it." She brushed that topic off with a sharp wave. "I can work on the judges, Petrovich is a dear...."
John mouthed What? to Rodney.
But Radek had already interrupted her, "No, no, no, no, no. You talk to the press, generate—what do you call it?—buzz, and then you talk to the judges."
John bent forward an inch, eyebrows raised in shock.
Sonja's smile in response had a dangerous edge to it. "You can't wait until too late," she said, sing-song.
"No," Radek insisted, not giving in. "They must know who you are before they will even listen."
"True," she conceded with a sideways tip of acknowledgement. "But then we need a summer competition so that there is something for the press to cover before Regionals."
"Good point," said Radek.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about?" Rodney broke in.
"Thank you," John said, breathing in relief.
"We're not scheduling any competitions until John is ready," Rodney said. "This is figure skating for God's sakes, not a media circus!"
"You mean you never did a single interview?" Radek asked.
Rodney's face went blank. "They wanted to interview me. That's different. It was the natural product of my stellar accomplishments." He straightened a bit.
"It can be a early autumn competition," Sonja proposed.
"Or maybe a charity event?" Radek chewed on his thumb nail. "People like that."
"He looks good surrounded by children," Sonja added, considering.
"Figure skating is mostly a female audience, unlike ski jumping," Radek said, drawing his words out thoughtfully.
"The maternal instinct with the hormones over the handsome man—the girls will go crazy," Sonja said.
"Enough." John finally cut them off, hands cutting outward in two slicing gestures. "No. No charity event. Forget it, I'm not doing some kind of media junket."
"Thank you." Rodney backed him up, drawing closer to John. "You're not supposed to peddle influence with the judges no matter who you've slept with." He glared at Sonja.
"No kidding," John echoed. "I'm doing this on my own," he added with a glare.
"But...." Radek tried to explain.
"No!" they both said together.
John and Rodney turned away in disgust, walking close and muttering to each other as they edged between the benches. A soft "Jesus...." carried across the bleachers, followed by a snort from Rodney. John shoved the door open for them with his shoulder, holding it while he pulled on his gloves.
Radek and Sonja exchanged a dismal look as the two left.
"They are babes in the woods. They do not understand how it works," Radek said. "Since I began judging I don't think I've bought myself a single drink."
Sonja pursed her lips and made a face. "He probably won't win either way."
"Pessimist," Radek said. "Rodney's father did all his media work, I'm certain." He snorted. "Opening a skating center? Pfft. That doesn't happen by itself."
"While I was the choreographer for Yvonne," she swept her arm out in an expansive arc, "we had an entire publicity budget."
"Ooo," Radek said, impressed despite himself. "You did Yvonne?"
"She was so beautiful on the ice and such a horse in person."
"True. Her mother was better."
"Her coach made sure they did their interviews together," Sonja agreed.
They sighed and fell silent a long moment.
"Does it effect your judging?" Sonja asked suddenly with honest, open curiosity.
Radek considered it. "Hmm. Ski jumping is not as subjective as figure skating." He shrugged. "But probably, yes. Still, I like to know what's going on behind the scenes. Sometimes they let slip information that they really shouldn't, and I'll see what I would not have noticed otherwise. So, mmm, it goes both ways."
It was evening with a late summer nip in the air. At the end of the driveway, Rodney pushed the mailbox to a more upright position, holding it with his knee as he kicked dirt into the gap. It sagged again once he let go. He'd complain about the neighbors' kids, but unfortunately, he'd done this himself, chasing John in the Honda.
He raised the little flag on the side to indicate he had outgoing mail and opened the mailbox.
It was a surprise to find another brown paper wrapped package from Mrs. Sheppard—until Rodney recalled John's Exhibition program. They'd been so far behind on John's freeskate they hadn't even started it, but John had a stockpile of old Exhibition programs that he'd never had a chance to perform, so Rodney wasn't worried. But apparently John's mother knew which one John planned to use.
Curious, Rodney stuffed his outgoing mail in the box and dropped the junk mail and sales flyers on the ground. Balancing the package on his knee, he tore it open.
It was another shirt box and, although it was hard to tell in this light, the exact same uniform, save in army green. Rodney stuffed the box under his arm, belatedly remembered to pick up the flyers, and went inside to call Mrs. Sheppard.
They exchanged a few stiff pleasantries. Then Rodney brought up the new, and yet strikingly identical, costume.
"You said you wanted it to be more 'military'," she told him with taut patience.
So many answers to that collided in his mind—from sarcastic questions as to just how changing blue to green made it "more military," if she had bought every inch of gold braid in the county, was her next attempt going to be in 3-D, could she have found an uglier Hawaiian print and just what was she thinking with those tights?!—that all that emerged was a startled splutter.
"Well?" she asked tartly.
Rodney took a deep breath and shelved everything he wanted to say. His sex life was at stake here. "Look. A real designer submits sketches, we go over them together, talk about changes—and then, step three!—you sew. You don't just... randomly stitch stuff together."
"Yes, of course... one discusses it, we review designs and photos of what you like, and then we draw up sketches. That's what I do with wedding dresses," she said sourly.
"You sew wedding dresses?" Rodney said, performing a quick reassessment of Mrs. Sheppard's skill level. Her sewing wasn't necessarily bad. Merely taste-free. He'd yanked on the gold fringe—admittedly with its demise in mind—and it was solid workmanship throughout that would survive a season of athleticism. With some proper guidance, perhaps....
"But Johnny's no artist. He doesn't have any ideas for his costumes," she said with obvious exasperation. "When he was ten, he wanted to be 'a superhero' for Halloween. That's as specific as he gets."
Rodney ran his hand down his face, groaning. She had a point. "True," he agreed. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. Finally he said, "Let me give you my fax number at work. I'll describe to you what I'm looking for and you can send me some sketches...."
"But he does like the 'Surf Rider' costume?" she asked, as determined as a hound on a scent.
Rodney weighed how much he could get away with here, and decided it wasn't worth his funeral. "He wouldn't change a thing," he lied.
A week or so later, John frowned at the brown-wrapped box set in the middle of the kitchen table. "What's this?" He'd returned late from one of his phallic male bonding rituals with the yoga instructor, smelling like cordite.
This time Rodney had restrained himself from opening it—just barely—mostly through dint of sticking his hands in his pockets and, when that didn't work, by keeping himself busy on the computer in the den. Out of sight, out of mind. He emerged now and hovered in the background, smug and superior, leaning against the kitchen doorway with both hands in his pockets.
John draped his jacket over a chair and reached for the package. Tearing into it, he muttered to himself about "... already have the costumes..." and "... just going to use the old one for...." The rattle of tissue paper paused. John stood blankly over the box. He flipped the note from his mom over to read the back. "For my long program?" he puzzled.
Rodney peered around him. Folded deep army green fabric, almost indistinguishable from black, was all he could see. The color was good though. There was some subtle beading but nary a sequin in sight.
"Did you say anything?" John accused, picking up the box and shaking it at Rodney. Tissue paper rustled. "Because once she gets started...."
"Why don't you just try it on?" Rodney said, making a tiny shooing motion.
"You don't get it. She'll make twenty costumes, one after another, if she thinks you don't like it. It's like firing up a factory," John complained.
Out of patience, Rodney grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him in the direction of the bedroom. "Go."
Through the closed bedroom door, Rodney heard the tissue paper again, then the jingle of John's belt buckle and his sneakers being kicked off. Tissue paper rustled once more, followed by a minute's silence, and then, "I don't know, Rodney. I think she messed up."
Rodney was almost to the door when John stepped out.
"Or maybe it ripped in the sewing machine?" John said, raising an arm. A few dangling strands of ripped fabric rippled.
Rodney made a spinning motion with one finger. "Single jump. Let me see if the length's right."
After a pause, John complied. The strands followed his motion, fanning out, but not so long that they tangled.
"Huh," John said, swinging his arm forward. He lifted his left arm, which had shorter strands for an asymmetrical effect.
Rodney turned him around, looking for tight spots and pulls that foreshadowed embarrassing rips during competition. "Okay, raise your arms, bend at the knees... uh, huh." The strands had been thoroughly stitched, he noted. They'd shred at the edges but no further.
John pouted down at the stylized rip across his chest, a curl of fabric folding down. She'd filled the zigzag gash with mesh for durability, not something Rodney had requested but he could see her point. She'd done the same for the slashes across his arms and thigh. The insignia on the shoulders and paratrooper wings over the patch pocket looked like a replica of the real thing, but then again, she had a son in the American Air Force, didn't she? John poked at them with an unreadable expression. The scattered all-over black beading was subtle enough that Rodney forgave her for it. Apparently no one could take away Candy's glitter pen.
John walked out a second hop of a jump, opened the bathroom door, peeked in at the mirror, stroked his hair, then asked, "You don't have a single full-length mirror in this place, do you?"
He thought of the kitchen window right before Rodney did, clicking on the ceiling light for a relatively clear reflection. He tried another jump in the kitchen, watching himself over his shoulder. Rodney had him do several stretches, tugging at the fabric to check the fit.
After twenty minutes or so, John picked up the phone. And he hadn't taken the costume off, Rodney noted with a smirk.
"Yeah, mom. It's really cool," he said on a laugh after a few minutes of conversation, grinning. He turned to look at his reflection again. A confused expression passed over John's face. "You want to talk to Rodney?"
Rodney accepted the phone.
"Hello, Candy," he chirped. And John's face fell. "Couldn't resist the beading, could you? ... no, no, no, it's great, it's great." A tilted smile spread across his face. "Oh yes, I'd say he likes it." Rodney stood with a hand on his hip, chest out, shifting over to his 'professional' mode. "Fit-wise? Shoulders are dead on, and his sleeves aren't pulling when he raises his arms. You were right about that stretch fabric although I admit I had my doubts. We won't know about the pants until after he tries it on with his skates, but there's no puckering so far as I can tell. No doubt we'll need to reinforce the strips halfway through the season, if you're available." Rodney quirked his head sideways. "Fix it Thanksgiving-?"
"Right," John said, ducking his head and wagging a finger as if he'd just remembered. "You're invited to Thanksgiving dinner."
Rodney tucked the receiver against his chest. "We have Regionals in October," he reminded him.
"American Thanksgiving," John said with a roll of his eyes. "It's right after Sectionals."
"Oh," Rodney said. "Um. Sure."
Then he remembered to say it into the phone to Mrs. Sheppard.
Peering over at Ronon's collection of weapons at the gun range, John tested the heft of a, quote, "shit hot Sig P-220 .45 ACP," mirror to one of Ronon's guns that John had admired. Not that John was allowed to touch any of Ronon's guns, which he'd spread out over a table outside the range. Truth to tell, Ronon looked like he'd growl at anyone who came near them. The clerk brought several other options out on the glass counter for John to try, setting them down with soft metallic clicks.
"You have good taste," Ronon said, approving. "The Sig's the Cadillac of handguns."
He proceeded to give John a tour of his arsenal-for-the-day, a Browning High Power, the Para Ordnance CCW "the smallest .45 I own" that (apparently) worked well as a concealed weapon, "but this one has a concealed hammer which means I don't have to cock it" and then he touted the benefits of his favorite 17-shot Beretta... John let the rest of the lecture wash over him, just happy that he'd picked the best one.
Setting down the Sig, John picked up another of the weapons, black and sleek-looking. The clerk inserted his own suggestions, holding out a target pistol. "It's roughly the same weight of the other guns so you can get used to the feel." The clerk was a plump guy with glasses and pasty skin but he handled the gun expertly, turning it over for John. "It's easy and fun to train on, with virtually no recoil."
John glanced over at Ronon, hoping he wasn't being recommended the girly gun for his handbag, but Ronon nodded his agreement, adding, "It's a .22. The bullets are cheaper." He gave John a wolfish grin.
"That, too," the clerk said, then went on to recommend a "Kahr P-9," the perfect handgun for "repelling a home intrusion." He pulled back the slide and demonstrated how an emergency bullet could be loaded without a magazine. John realized that the clerk expected him to buy at some point, and entertained himself imagining Rodney's total freak-out.
He made his selections, then bought and pocketed a several boxes of bullets. He sidled up to where Ronon had one of his guns in several pieces.
Ronon nodded to the weapon in John's hand. "You should clean that. It'll jam less."
Watching Ronon, John fumbled with the magazine, then tried to figure out what you'd do next.
"You know I ripped a door off its hinges?" John told him. He found something that looked like a moving part. It didn't seem to do anything when he tugged at it.
"That's another thing my guru warned me about." He gave John a meaningful look, his dreadlocks falling forward. "Destroying private property."
Ronon reached for John's gun and took it away, interrupting himself. "Like this." He disassembled it in a few easy moves.
"You've wrecked a door?" John asked.
"I tore apart a bar once. I was pretty drunk. And pissed off." He smiled grimly at John. "And then two guys beat the shit out of me."
"That's hard to picture."
"Believe it." Ronon indicated their stack of paper targets with a jerk of his chin. "No one's going to mind if you mess up those."
"Oh. The rink just told me not to worry about it. Said they have a budget for that sort of thing," John said. He folded his arms and leaned against the table, and said, hopeful, but cautious. "So... um. The skating season has started." He licked his lips.
"Yeah?" Ronon did something with an oversized pipe cleaner in the barrel of John's gun, frowning when it came out way dirtier than it had on his own guns.
"Sectionals aren't until November though," John informed him, examining his nails.
"Uh-huh."
"They're all the way in Cleveland, Ohio, though, while the Eastern Great Lakes Regional is a lot closer – Bloomfield Hills, Michigan." John shifted uncomfortably. "Only a few hours drive from here."
"Umm-hmm." Ronon didn't look up.
"Still, Sectionals will be more of a competition. At Regionals there's just me and one other guy signed up to compete." John gave him an ironic shrug. "We'll both automatically move up."
Ronon sighted down the barrel of John's reassembled gun and asked, "What about that big one you were telling me about?"
"Nationals?" John asked in surprise.
"Yeah."
"There's no guarantee I'll make it that far."
"You will," Ronon said, matter-of-factly, handing him the gun and placing it in his hand. He met John's eyes. "I'll go to that one."
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"*Please* don't make me read this fic... PLEASE!"
[snort!] Pull the other leg - it's the one with bells on. ;}
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Also, I think Candy will (begrudgingly) fall in love with Rodney, if only because she appreciates people who know their shit (and I bet she'd love to bitch-slap some of the indecisive brides she works for)
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Hey, she must like Rodney. She lets him call her "Candy." Although he might have just called her that and she's grit her teeth through the hated nickname. But, yes, I think you're right.
(and I bet she'd love to bitch-slap some of the indecisive brides she works for)
Ooo. No doubt. I bet that's why she's so fast, too.
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Yup. No interest in that part.
Years ago, when John was a teenager, he tried to get his mom to "fix" his costume after the fact. He knew it wasn't quite right, but was unable to articulate why. They went through a dozen variations until he gave up and lied, "This one's great!" just to get her to stop.
it must have been disconcerting for Rodney to have his worlds collide
Rodney still feeling smug that Radek's been carrying a torch all these years. Yeah, Rodney, that's why you're the one who calls him all the time.
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Those two are an unholy combination. You have more of them in your future, too.
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I will love you forever for this line.
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Ooooh, and a bit o' jealousy over Radek.
Overall, I feel things finally coming together for John. YAY!
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John's mom! Hilarious!
One small observation of the critical and debatable kind:
Jet lag was always worst flying west.
Really? I and anyone I've ever spoken to on the subject has found the reverse to be true...
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Thank you. We will be seeing more of her.
Actually, jet lag is miserable both ways. Heh.
But when I flew west from India to DC, and also when I flew from Frankfort to Detroit another time, going east to west was much worse.
Flights are longer flying west because the aircraft has to fly against the jetstream. That's why Lindburgh flew from New York to Paris in the 1920s, yet it took another decade before anyone managed to fly from Paris to New York.
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I loved the costumes and John's Mom and I loved the fact that Rodney and John are both against the whole 'make nice with the judges' thing. John just can't and Rodney would see it as cheating!
I've just read the previous comment - I always find jet lag worse going east, but it's not exactly a nice thing going west either!
More please!
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I listened to you guys and made a couple changes based on it.
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Love having Radek show up, and John and his interactions and Rodney with John's mother, HEEEE! Love them at the end, actually starting to get each other...oh John, honey, watch out ^_-.
And Ronon at the end, the utter confidence, SQUEEE!
Just...just, ohhh, this part, so SO made of win!
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Trust me, I know all too well. And thank you very much. Almost done writing the whole of Out Of Bounds. Almost. I'm *pinches fingers together* this close.
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Awesomecakes!!
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He, will, won't he?
Also, you got me really excited when it was mentioned that the Championships would be in Cleveland(I live a half an hour away)...and then I looked up "championship men" ticket prices. I'm still contemplating going to a juniors competition, though. I can get tickets for that for $15-20. Any thoughts? Is it worth it? I like watching skating, but I'm not really up on who to watch for, so any advice would be appreciated.
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Juniors is right below the Senior level. If it were me, I'd cough up the dough for the nosebleed seats for the Senior men's freeskate. But if that were impossible, I'd definitely go to Juniors. We have a top-ranked skater who was skating Juniors just last year.
The top American Junior skaters are:
Armin Mahbanoozadeh
Richard Dornbush
Alexander Johnson
The first two placed second and third in the world at the Grand Prix.
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Also, this whole story. I love it, too.
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Please, sir. Can I have more?
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My favorite part has got to be Rodney's interactions with John's mother - especially his failed attempts at tact.
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