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icarusThe second of four parts today. I'm posting in four sections to give a very large part of the story some natural chapter breaks. Also, WG's bugging me to give him some time on the computer. *sheepish*
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "I feel like I've stepped into some kind of hetero-normative middle class Twilight Zone," Rodney hissed. "At any moment now June Cleaver will come around the corner in a pearl necklace and apron."
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan and roaringmice. Welcome to the team, tingler
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
In the kitchen, John gathered up the plate with fresh baked bread, grabbing the butter in the other hand. This left Rodney to carry the extremely heavy Jell-O mould wrapped in one arm, with the cranberry sauce in the other hand. He was dead certain he'd trip, destroy their carpeting, their Thanksgiving dinner, and never be allowed to visit ever again.
John leaned over and murmured in a smiling undertone, "Just be sure you eat the dark meat."
"I prefer the white, thank you."
"No. You don't." John cast a surreptitious glance at the door. "Let's just say that mom's good at a lot of things, but she believes in cooking the bird until it's definitely dead."
"Ah."
Rodney managed to get the Jell-O to the table without mishap, and if he spilled a little of the cranberry sauce on the white tablecloth it was nothing a little strategic placement of the bowl couldn't resolve. He glanced around, his shoulders hunched, hoping no one had noticed that, but John had already sauntered through the arched French doors to the living room, hands in the pockets of his Dockers.
Not to lose John's protection (he still dreaded being left to his own devices with John's sister-in-law, Charlotte), Rodney came up behind him where he'd hesitated, hand trailing on the doorway. The television was loud, roaring with the crowd noise of yet another American ritual: football. Not the real football the rest of the world played, but the American kind. John's father had claimed the leather Lay-Z-Boy, while John's brother Kendall sat on the couch, his wife asleep and stretched out with her feet in his lap, her round belly making a third occupant more or less.
Mr. Sheppard held up a beer can like a toast. "You mind getting us another one, Johnny?"
John turned back to the kitchen without comment. Face in the fridge, he handed Rodney a can while he pulled out three more, squeezed between his chest and forearm.
"In a can?" Rodney hissed, appalled.
John straightened and shut the fridge with his hip. He shoved a second can into Rodney's hands. "Drink it."
"I feel like I've stepped into some kind of hetero-normative middle class Twilight Zone," Rodney hissed. "At any moment now June Cleaver will come around the corner in a pearl necklace and apron."
"Yeah, you're not far off."
"Just tell me there's something strange about your family. Please? Anything. A skeleton in the closet? Mad grand aunt buried in the basement?"
"There's one person who's a little different," John said.
"Yes?"
"Me."
John gave Rodney a slanted backward glance over his shoulder as he led the way back to the living room, his smirk wry.
There was only one spindly-legged uncomfortable looking chair remaining. John handed his dad and brother their beers and sat on the floor, his back to the arm of the couch, legs spread out in front of him. Rodney was left to awkwardly settle beside him, next to the Lay-Z-Boy. He looked at the couch with wistful regret and copied John as he spritzed open his can. The beer was weak and Rodney tried to suppress the face he made, but from the amusement in John's glance he figured he hadn't succeeded. Rodney held out his can and tried to settle in for the long haul. Football had extra innings sometimes, didn't it?
"What's the score?" John asked.
"14-7. The Lions are losing," Mr. Sheppard said with evident satisfaction.
John's smile showed teeth.
After a long moment of watching heavily padded men scrabble back and forth across the field, Rodney ventured, "So... which ones are the Lions?"
John nodded at the screen. "The ones in the blue with the silver helmets. They even have a helpful picture of a lion right there." He pointed at the screen that had flashed to a close-up with, yes, a lion outline. Rodney flashed on medieval heraldry.
"I assume that's to make it easier for the illiterate." Rodney shot him a dark look. How was he supposed to have known that? But since John had revealed his ignorance of this foreign sport to all and sundry he might as well fish for information. In for a penny, in for a pound. "The Lions are the bad guys then?"
"Well, this is Chicago, so yeah, sometimes. If they're playing the Vikings then they're the good guys. Everyone hates Minnesota."
"Now, Johnny, Minnesota has a great team this year," Mr. Sheppard chided.
"No way. They're 5-6," John said.
"And that's great," Mr. Sheppard said.
Everyone laughed.
Rodney leaned on his elbow, trying—and failing miserably—to get comfortable on the hard carpeting. "So... what exactly are these football teams trying to do?"
Everyone turned to stare at Rodney.
"What? I'm Canadian!"
John's father leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees in a manner strikingly like John—the first clue they were related, because the man's square jaw didn't look at all like John's sharp features—and proceeded to explain the intricacies of the "first down" and "fourth down" and the merits of passing versus running with the ball.
Then Rodney discovered the most frustrating aspect of this game. John leaped to his feet and whooped, punching the air. The other men roared and clapped their knees. "Touchdown!"
"What? What? What happened?" Rodney glanced around, dazed. He stabbed a finger at the screen. "That man deliberately hid that ball!"
"That's the point, Rodney. He was hiding it from the other team." John settled back on the floor next to him, picking up his beer.
"How am I supposed to follow this game if they're sneaking around?"
~*~*~
At "halftime" everyone got up and made a beeline for the bathrooms, the natural consequence of the beer tradition. Rodney wondered if anyone had ever thought this one through. The baby apparently had kicked and Rodney looked up hopefully as the mom-to-be levered herself up with a soft grunt, freeing part of the couch. He took up residence there with a little bounce on the comfy cushions.
Then John peered around the corner. "Hey, Rodney? You mind giving us a hand? Mom's giving Charlotte my crib."
"Unless you need it," Kendall joked from behind him.
John grit his teeth and poked him with an elbow. Kendall was taller than his little brother, broader across the shoulders, with a high forehead, widow's peak, and a longer face. Rodney noted with some smugness that he got the better-looking Sheppard.
With a regretful sigh and backward glance, Rodney gave up his seat.
~*~*~
It was hard to suppress a smirk as he took in John's room. A line of model airplanes were set in precise formation along John's dresser, with Dungeons and Dragons dice clustered on the corner, including a very worn twenty-sided die. Tiny green plastic soldiers were stationed on the windowsill, set in position on a plastic Navarone set. Figure skating posters were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, their edges yellowed and curling. A skateboard plastered with stickers and a hand-drawn lightning bolt on the bottom—poorly rendered in ballpoint pen—leaned against the dresser. Gold and silver medals were looped over the bedpost next to John's pillow.
Rodney tapped the twenty-sided die. It rolled. "How did you convince me you were ever cool?"
"I was seventeen," John insisted. "No seventeen year old is cool. They just think they are."
Rodney indicated at the airplanes. "You don't have any decals."
"Didn't need them," John pursed his lips. "I knew what they were."
Rodney smiled. "You lost them, didn't you?"
"Every damn time. Slippery little buggers," John admitted, running his hand through his hair. "It was a logistical problem. You had to put them on last, and I'd leave them in the box but they'd just—disappear."
"Well." Rodney turned around. "It certainly doesn't look like your parents changed much."
"Yeah, it's weird," John mused. He walked to a mirrored door on one wall. "The second my brother moved out they turned his room into an office. But maybe they didn't need a second office."
Rodney walked over and examined the medals, turning a gold medal over. It read 1987.
"I've always done good at Regionals," John said, seemingly with eyes on the back of his head, because he was busy in the closet. He grunted as he tugged at something, glancing overhead. "It was Sectionals that were a killer." His eyes flicked to the medal. "I skated to Carmen that year."
"Everyone does Carmen," Rodney sighed.
There was clatter and Rodney watched a stack of board games collapse on John, raining Monopoly money, Scrabble tiles and tiny colored squares from Risk. They scattered across the floor.
"Shit," John said.
"I've got it," Rodney said, bending to sweep them up. He picked up some smallish colorful plastic cassettes. They were too large to be tapes. "What are these? Some sort of 8-Tracks?" Rodney turned them over in his hand, puzzled.
The look John gave him was stunned. "They're video games. No one topped my score in Donkey Kong."
"I never played video games," he said, somewhat defensively, standing straighter, "not unless there was an arcade in our hotel overseas. My training schedule didn't allow it."
"Oh."
Rodney handed them over, but John shook his head and gestured with his shoulder to set them on the bed.
"Let's get all that later. Help me pull this thing out," John said. He yanked at a folded wooden frame.
"Your neat streak seems to have been a late blooming trait," Rodney observed, eyeing the mess.
"It doesn't apply to closets."
John and Rodney wrestled the heavy crib out of John's closet, then dragged it through his bedroom and down the carpeted stairs. Rodney complained, "What is this—lead lined?"
"Solid oak," John said. "They don't make them like they used to."
"I can see why. You realize that if I injure my back, my career is at an end?" Rodney said, setting his end on the landing. "I can't skate in a wheelchair."
"Hey, I've got the hard part," John pointed out from the lower down the steps. He hefted it from his knee. "Now let's get a move on."
Kendall had returned from the rental car with an armload of blankets. He dropped them in the foyer and held the door open with his shoulder as he watched Rodney in bemusement. "Need some help?"
"No, he's got it," John growled, skewering Rodney with a look. "He was a world-renowned athlete—'was' being the operative word." Rodney shot him a dirty look and quickly picked up the other end, the corner of his mouth slanting in a frown.
Freed from indentured scutwork, Rodney hopped up the steps into the house. The couch was still clear. On the TV, the sound off, a group of scantily clad cheerleaders surrounded a float decorated with what looked like sparklers and Roman candles. "I'll save you a seat," he called out to John, beaming. He patted the spot next to him and toasted with his beer.
"You do that," John said with a smile, gathering the armload of the blankets his brother had left and carrying them upstairs.
~*~*~
Kendall had pulled out the hide-a-bed and their suitcases were crowded against one wall. His Air Force uniform was neatly folded on their dad's desk, John noted with a little twinge of envy, and all of Kendall's trophies were displayed in the bookcase behind his dad's broad leather swivel chair.
"Hey, squirt," Kendall chirped at John.
John shifted the blankets to one arm to flick him, but missed, and Kendall laughed.
"Just dump them on the bed. I have no idea where we're going to put all this crap." Kendall scratched his head, shutting the door to give John more room. "But mom seems to think we need it."
"Well, a baby...." John pointed out.
"She's excited," Kendall agreed, nodding. He folded his arms and leaned his back against the door. "So. Rodney."
"Different, I know," John said.
"He's your coach?"
"Um. That's not exactly legal, so don't spread that around."
Kendall snorted. "Yeah, I'm gonna tell everyone I know. Think I should start with the LT, or break the news to a general first?"
"Right." John nodded a little.
The Venetian blinds were down but slatted open, striping the room. The lines ran across Kendall's chest where he leaned against the door. His slid to sit on the carpet, letting his head tip back against the door, elbows draped loosely on his knees, and more or less holding John hostage. John eyed him warily.
"I knew it had to be something else," Kendall said after a moment, not looking at him. "You were always crazy to fly. I knew it couldn't just be figure skating."
John sighed but didn't answer.
"Are you sure?" Kendall squinted at him. "I mean, have you ever tried it?"
"With—?" John prompted.
"Yeah."
John shook his head and looked away. "It doesn't work out."
They were quiet several minutes and John amused himself by entertaining escape plans. The storm windows popped out easily; it was only the second floor. He'd jumped it before from his own room. But there were bushes down below and he'd probably wreck the blinds.
"I'm okay with it, with guys being gay," Kendall said finally. "There's a couple in the service and I don't care. I just..." He ran his hand through his hair, mussing it. "...wish I didn't have to meet the guy, you know? I don't want to have to picture it."
John shot him a look.
"My little brother. You know... who's top, who's bottom?" He winced, looking at John for reassurance, eyebrows rumpled with concern. "You're the top, right?"
"That's none of your business." John scowled.
"Good." His brother stood. "Let's keep it that way."
~*~*~
The Sheppards weren't much for talking when food was at hand, and Rodney was amused to note another similarity between John, his brother, and his dad, in the happy way they scooped up their mashed potatoes, eating rapidly, like they intended to beat each other to seconds. Rodney was reminded of rabid puppies; cheerful, until you tried to take their food away. He caught Mrs. Sheppard's eyes and she seemed to have a similar thought, her gaze almost purring at her family.
Kendall's wife stirred the food around her plate listlessly. Kendall gave her a questioning sardonic look, and she pressed her lips together and shrugged. He balled up his paper napkin and tossed it on the table. "We can make you a hamburger," he said.
John's father faltered in his eating. "Is everything okay?" His fork mixed at his vegetables as he looked over.
"It's chicken," she said. "I thought turkey would be okay...."
"I'll get it," Mrs. Sheppard offered. She rose from the table, her pearl necklace dangling. "When I was pregnant with John—"
"Why are your pregnancy stories always about me?" John whined.
"Because you I had to work for," Mrs. Sheppard said, picking up the gravy boat. "Fourteen hours," she informed Kendall's wife with a meaningful look, earning a sympathetic little gasp.
"Well, Ken, I'm glad you took care of that family responsibility," John said, and Kendall glanced at him with a smirk of amusement.
Kendall pulled the chair wide as his wife rocked to her feet, and pushed it back in to follow her. "We might turn in after this," he said, and his wife glanced up at him with a grateful expression. "It was a long flight this morning. I swear those airplane seats keep getting smaller."
"I felt like I was in a muffin tin," Charlotte agreed.
The three disappeared into the kitchen, their soft chatter indecipherable from around the corner, and Rodney found himself and John staring across empty plates and mostly melted candles at Mr. Sheppard. Who cleared his throat.
He turned to Rodney. "So. I understand you're a coach."
As Rodney had feared, the conversation took a turn for the inane, although they kept it focused on Rodney so at least the topic was interesting. Still, Mr. Sheppard skipped over all the best parts—Rodney's fame, his years as a teenage skating sensation, and even the Olympics which most people wanted to know about—to focus on the pedantic, mundane details of his present career.
"You've been coaching almost ten years then," he said, examining Rodney with a keen eye and silent respect, hands folded and elbows on the table. "You pay self-employment taxes?"
"Well, yes and no," Rodney began. He detailed the complex relationship between himself, Skate Canada, the skating clubs, and the rink that was his official employer but left him to handle all his own business affairs. He made a sweeping gesture, hands spread. "I just hand my money to a CPA and let her figure it out."
"It's steady or—?" Mr. Sheppard asked, his voice shading with doubt. His eyes cut over to John.
Rodney winced a little and shrugged his head to the side. "We get hurt by economic downturns just like anyone else, sports are a luxury after all." He wiped his mouth. "But the truth is that of all the sports, figure skating is hurt the least. It's a wealthy -- and dare I say elitist? -- clientele we cater to."
"I understand from John that you own your own house, too," Mr. Sheppard said, settling back in his chair, hooking an arm over the back in another gesture that was a lot like John.
"Yes," and Rodney gleefully launched into the story of his grandmother's brilliance, excellent mortgage terms, and his suburban neighborhood that had been slowly absorbed into Toronto. "I wanted a Porsche when I was sixteen, but all in all, I think she had the better idea."
"Seems you've done very well for yourself," Mr. Sheppard noted, nodding, and Rodney blinked.
He hadn't thought of it that way. Doing well in the figure skating world was measured in competitions, either your own or your students. By those standards he was hardly a superstar. Usually once his students got serious, they dropped Rodney for another coach because of his refusal to attend competitions.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," Rodney said, shooting John a confused glance.
John's expression was carefully blank, his shoulders taut and defensive.
Mrs. Sheppard interrupted their next discussion of Rodney's investments—long-term, buy and hold was his strategy—with dessert, explaining, "Charlotte and Kendall are going to get some sleep. It's been a long day for her." Small china plates were passed around with a clatter.
"More for us," Rodney said, handing John the pumpkin pie, which Rodney loathed. He had a sinister plot to trick John into eating it all so there would be none left.
"Come on, Rodney," John argued, swallowing, "It's good stuff."
Fortunately, Mrs. Sheppard made a wonderful rhubarb pie, so he was spared. Mr. Sheppard joined John in teasing Rodney to just try a slice. Matters degenerated to John hovering a forkful in front of Rodney's face, his hand gripping the back of the chair and edging deeper inside Rodney's personal space as Rodney ducked and dodged.
"Oh, Johnny, don't make him," Mrs. Sheppard laughed. Rodney became uncomfortably aware of Patrick Sheppard's gaze shifting between them, as if the nature of their relationship were just hitting home.
"It's the texture," Rodney explained, chin tucked in, embarrassed. "More like slime than pie really."
"Your loss," John said, wolfing down the offending forkful as he slumped back into his chair. Their chuckles settled with a happy, satisfied sigh as they returned to their desserts.
Mr. Sheppard finished his last bite and wiped his mouth. He took a breath, head lowered, as he opened, "I've been meaning to ask...."
It had the weight of something he'd been thinking about for some time. There was a warning look exchanged between John's mom and dad, but Mr. Sheppard barreled on regardless, eyes serious, elbows planted. He folded his fingers together, chin resting on his hands. "I understand they have domestic partner benefits in Canada."
"Free health care, actually," Rodney said with a smug smile.
Mr. Sheppard conceded this with a nod, relaxing. The warning from John's mom amped up with raised eyebrows. But his father continued, avoiding her gaze. "So I realize John isn't a Canadian citizen for all that he's been up there forever," he said, "but I wondered if he was eligible to be covered under your insurance somehow."
John and Rodney turned to each other with startled blinks. John's mom gave a broad roll of her eyes and looked away.
"I mean, you're obviously serious... It's been, how long?" He turned to his wife.
She sighed, then provided, "Johnny moved in last March."
He made an open-handed gesture. "Almost a year. Now John used to be covered under my policy when he was in college, but for the last few years it's been running about... well, it's up there."
"He needs it to compete," Mrs. Sheppard insisted, sitting forward. "It's a U.S. Figure Skating regulation."
"And I wouldn't want him on the ice without it," Mr. Sheppard said crossly.
Rodney's jaw had been dropping throughout this. "How much are we talking about?"
John ran his hand over his face, looking away.
"Roughly four hundred a month." Mr. Sheppard shrugged into a sideways slump. John turned a bug-eyed stare on him. "It jumped up a bit after the operation two years ago," Mr. Sheppard added, almost apologetically.
"Let me get you boys some ice cream," Mrs. Sheppard interrupted, her jaw firm. "Honey, why don't you help?" she added with a smile that wasn't a request.
Undeterred, Mr. Sheppard said, "Well. You two think about it." He patted the back of a chair as he rose.
John stared after his father, wide-eyed, and took a covering sip of beer.
As they left, her voice carried in a hiss from the hall. "...You just met him!"
"When are we supposed to ask, hmm? Over the phone? Next Thanksgiving?" The kitchen door thumped shut behind them.
John finally coughed on a mouthful of beer that had apparently gone down the wrong pipe.
Rodney stared at him, astounded. "Are they serious?"
John thumped his chest with his fist, still coughing.
"Oh. And by the way—" Rodney slugged him on the arm.
"Hey, ow! What was that for?"
"In what universe does paying five grand a year constitute 'not supporting' your skating?"
"Ow, you hit hard." John rubbed his arm and scowled at Rodney. "You're not taking their side now, are you? I mean, he's never been to a single one of my competitions." He pointed at the door. "Not even when I was a kid."
"Well, I could've done with a little more of a hands off approach!"
Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard returned with ice cream and cake. All four of them pasted on smiles. They busily applied themselves to eating, with uncomfortable exchanges of "good cake" and "yes, that's your mother's frosting recipe" and "ah, I thought I recognized it." John looked at Rodney with helpless child-like eyes over his fork while Rodney squirmed.
Plates cleaned, a silence descended. The grandfather clock ticked. Mr. Sheppard sat with his chair turned slightly away from the table, picking at a tooth and staring off into the corner. Mrs. Sheppard stacked plates, turning and adjusting them unnecessarily. John slouched in his seat, then licked the tip of his middle finger and picked up the remaining crumbs from his plate, his gaze locked on the tablecloth.
Rodney planted a forearm on the table in a businesslike manner and said, "Well. I hadn't exactly considered...." John and his mom looked up at once in alarm, and desperately tried to make "no, no, no!" signals, but Rodney barreled on regardless. "... should I be afraid of a shotgun?"
"If it comes to that," said Mr. Sheppard.
Rodney's face fell in panic. "He's kidding, right?" he asked John, who just tipped his head and cringed. "Of course he is. Right?" Rodney gave a nervous little laugh, looking around at them. "I mean, I feel like you're offering me your spinster daughter's hand in marriage."
Mr. Sheppard snickered. "You said it. Not me." He raised both hands as if he weren't touching this subject with a ten-foot pole. "I'll be satisfied with a career, college—anything," he added, with a slicing gesture for each item on his list.
John rounded on his father, smoldering with fury. "Except my skating."
Mrs. Sheppard's hands covered her face. And that was when Rodney knew he'd blundered.
"I don't see why you can't do one of those ice shows," Mr. Sheppard said. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.
"Because you have to be a name, you have to make the big time to be invited," John said with patient sarcasm, his shoulders squared.
"Exactly!" Mr. Sheppard's fist hammered the table. The forks rattled. "How long will it be till you admit—!"
"Please, you'll wake the baby," Mrs. Sheppard urged them.
"The baby hasn't even been born yet!" John snapped. The jut of Mr. Sheppard's jaw agreed with him, and then the two men returned to their trench war, each move, every salvo long memorized.
Rodney tried to make himself as small as possible.
~*~*~
Upstairs, they got ready for bed. John had the trundle bed, giving Rodney his old twin. The sheets matched the blue walls and had little cartoon airplanes printed on them.
Rodney could hear John brushing his teeth in the small attached bathroom. He spit, then shut the water off. For the last half hour they'd managed to avoid each other, each at opposite ends of the room. The house still rang with tension from the argument and Rodney was beginning to suspect, based on the suspicious silence from Kendall's room, that he'd gone upstairs early on purpose.
John peeked in from the bathroom, nervously hovering in the doorway like a little kid. Rodney paused. He was wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms Rodney had never seen before, the too-short cuffs skimming his ankles. His parents' house was apparently not clothing optional.
He shut off the light, stepped on the trundle bed, then climbed into the twin bed with Rodney, who lay on his side and slid over to make room, back tucked against the wall. John pulled the covers to his chest and stared at the ceiling.
Rodney shut his eyes. He began, "I'm sorry, I—"
"No. Don't. We always get into it." John huffed a sigh. "It's like a holiday tradition." They breathed in the silence a moment.
"I swear I wasn't trying to trick you or anything," Rodney burst out. He chewed his lower lip. "I just honestly hadn't noticed."
"What?" John shot him a confused frown.
"Almost a year-? I want you to stay for the rest of the skating season, at least, but after, if you want to find your own place we can always—"
"Rodney." John cut him off. "I'm the one that invited you to Thanksgiving," he said. "With my parents."
"True." Rodney rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling, contemplating the signals that sent. "Why did you?"
"I dunno." The point of John's shoulder shifted against him as he shrugged. "I just thought you should be here."
"Huh."
"A year...." John shook his head with a little huff of disbelief. "You realize I've been paying thirty bucks a month for my storage unit?"
"Well, that's stupid. There's plenty of room in the garage."
~*~*~
Back home that Sunday, the sky was overcast and blustery, shaking the remaining leaves off the trees. They swirled in circles and scattered across the yard, destroying all the useless raking John had done before Sectionals. Rodney felt a smug satisfaction at being right. Nature was capricious. He had the Weather Channel on in the living room and an interesting Doppler graphic open on the computer—updated every ten minutes—while he did his billing. The news declared that a warm front and a cold front had collided over Niagara and, depending on which station you checked, it was either going to rain, snow, or blow over.
Elbowing aside and then picking up a stack of magazines on his desk, it became clear that short of dropping them on the floor, there was no room. He collected his monthly statements from the dot matrix and moved to the kitchen table to finish, enjoying the spectacle of the wind.
John's car had pulled into the drive behind Rodney's at some point, although John was nowhere in sight. He'd been gone all morning on "some errands."
Rodney heard the loud rumble of the garage door being shoved open. Moments later, John walked out, disappeared behind the cars, and then returned hauling an awkward and heavy-looking workout bench that Rodney recognized from his old apartment.
Rodney got up to stick his head out the door. In doing so he got a spatter of water on his face, either rain or just shaken from the trees, it was hard to tell, and quickly ducked back just inside the door. "You need some help?"
"Nah, I got it," John said, lumbering.
Rodney watched him a moment longer edge past the Honda into the open garage, then shrugged and let the door shut.
Back and forth, for the next half hour, Rodney watched him through the picture window, reminded of a squirrel packing away food for the winter. John carried sets of barbells low in each hand, and then in the next trip, the upper half of a Nautilus machine slung over his shoulder. He walked back to his car, which was slightly out of sight behind the Honda, and returned with a canoe on his head—which Rodney had forgotten he had, although he'd seen it on John's wall dozens of times. Next he returned with a very old and dusty TV, the rabbit ears bouncing with each step. That was followed by a VCR perched on a box of VHS tapes. Two open boxes of pots and pans John carried directly in front of the window and up the porch steps.
The wind blew in as John shouldered open the door, boxes clanking as he dropped them in the living room with a grunt. He shut the door behind him and then set his keys on the little change bowl in the kitchen.
"What's for lunch?" John asked, settling in his chair.
[Previous][Next]
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: "I feel like I've stepped into some kind of hetero-normative middle class Twilight Zone," Rodney hissed. "At any moment now June Cleaver will come around the corner in a pearl necklace and apron."
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas,
rabidfan and roaringmice. Welcome to the team, tinglerPreviously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. Following John's performance in the Midwestern Sectional Championships, he and Rodney visit his parents for Thanksgiving.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
In the kitchen, John gathered up the plate with fresh baked bread, grabbing the butter in the other hand. This left Rodney to carry the extremely heavy Jell-O mould wrapped in one arm, with the cranberry sauce in the other hand. He was dead certain he'd trip, destroy their carpeting, their Thanksgiving dinner, and never be allowed to visit ever again.
John leaned over and murmured in a smiling undertone, "Just be sure you eat the dark meat."
"I prefer the white, thank you."
"No. You don't." John cast a surreptitious glance at the door. "Let's just say that mom's good at a lot of things, but she believes in cooking the bird until it's definitely dead."
"Ah."
Rodney managed to get the Jell-O to the table without mishap, and if he spilled a little of the cranberry sauce on the white tablecloth it was nothing a little strategic placement of the bowl couldn't resolve. He glanced around, his shoulders hunched, hoping no one had noticed that, but John had already sauntered through the arched French doors to the living room, hands in the pockets of his Dockers.
Not to lose John's protection (he still dreaded being left to his own devices with John's sister-in-law, Charlotte), Rodney came up behind him where he'd hesitated, hand trailing on the doorway. The television was loud, roaring with the crowd noise of yet another American ritual: football. Not the real football the rest of the world played, but the American kind. John's father had claimed the leather Lay-Z-Boy, while John's brother Kendall sat on the couch, his wife asleep and stretched out with her feet in his lap, her round belly making a third occupant more or less.
Mr. Sheppard held up a beer can like a toast. "You mind getting us another one, Johnny?"
John turned back to the kitchen without comment. Face in the fridge, he handed Rodney a can while he pulled out three more, squeezed between his chest and forearm.
"In a can?" Rodney hissed, appalled.
John straightened and shut the fridge with his hip. He shoved a second can into Rodney's hands. "Drink it."
"I feel like I've stepped into some kind of hetero-normative middle class Twilight Zone," Rodney hissed. "At any moment now June Cleaver will come around the corner in a pearl necklace and apron."
"Yeah, you're not far off."
"Just tell me there's something strange about your family. Please? Anything. A skeleton in the closet? Mad grand aunt buried in the basement?"
"There's one person who's a little different," John said.
"Yes?"
"Me."
John gave Rodney a slanted backward glance over his shoulder as he led the way back to the living room, his smirk wry.
There was only one spindly-legged uncomfortable looking chair remaining. John handed his dad and brother their beers and sat on the floor, his back to the arm of the couch, legs spread out in front of him. Rodney was left to awkwardly settle beside him, next to the Lay-Z-Boy. He looked at the couch with wistful regret and copied John as he spritzed open his can. The beer was weak and Rodney tried to suppress the face he made, but from the amusement in John's glance he figured he hadn't succeeded. Rodney held out his can and tried to settle in for the long haul. Football had extra innings sometimes, didn't it?
"What's the score?" John asked.
"14-7. The Lions are losing," Mr. Sheppard said with evident satisfaction.
John's smile showed teeth.
After a long moment of watching heavily padded men scrabble back and forth across the field, Rodney ventured, "So... which ones are the Lions?"
John nodded at the screen. "The ones in the blue with the silver helmets. They even have a helpful picture of a lion right there." He pointed at the screen that had flashed to a close-up with, yes, a lion outline. Rodney flashed on medieval heraldry.
"I assume that's to make it easier for the illiterate." Rodney shot him a dark look. How was he supposed to have known that? But since John had revealed his ignorance of this foreign sport to all and sundry he might as well fish for information. In for a penny, in for a pound. "The Lions are the bad guys then?"
"Well, this is Chicago, so yeah, sometimes. If they're playing the Vikings then they're the good guys. Everyone hates Minnesota."
"Now, Johnny, Minnesota has a great team this year," Mr. Sheppard chided.
"No way. They're 5-6," John said.
"And that's great," Mr. Sheppard said.
Everyone laughed.
Rodney leaned on his elbow, trying—and failing miserably—to get comfortable on the hard carpeting. "So... what exactly are these football teams trying to do?"
Everyone turned to stare at Rodney.
"What? I'm Canadian!"
John's father leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees in a manner strikingly like John—the first clue they were related, because the man's square jaw didn't look at all like John's sharp features—and proceeded to explain the intricacies of the "first down" and "fourth down" and the merits of passing versus running with the ball.
Then Rodney discovered the most frustrating aspect of this game. John leaped to his feet and whooped, punching the air. The other men roared and clapped their knees. "Touchdown!"
"What? What? What happened?" Rodney glanced around, dazed. He stabbed a finger at the screen. "That man deliberately hid that ball!"
"That's the point, Rodney. He was hiding it from the other team." John settled back on the floor next to him, picking up his beer.
"How am I supposed to follow this game if they're sneaking around?"
At "halftime" everyone got up and made a beeline for the bathrooms, the natural consequence of the beer tradition. Rodney wondered if anyone had ever thought this one through. The baby apparently had kicked and Rodney looked up hopefully as the mom-to-be levered herself up with a soft grunt, freeing part of the couch. He took up residence there with a little bounce on the comfy cushions.
Then John peered around the corner. "Hey, Rodney? You mind giving us a hand? Mom's giving Charlotte my crib."
"Unless you need it," Kendall joked from behind him.
John grit his teeth and poked him with an elbow. Kendall was taller than his little brother, broader across the shoulders, with a high forehead, widow's peak, and a longer face. Rodney noted with some smugness that he got the better-looking Sheppard.
With a regretful sigh and backward glance, Rodney gave up his seat.
It was hard to suppress a smirk as he took in John's room. A line of model airplanes were set in precise formation along John's dresser, with Dungeons and Dragons dice clustered on the corner, including a very worn twenty-sided die. Tiny green plastic soldiers were stationed on the windowsill, set in position on a plastic Navarone set. Figure skating posters were pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, their edges yellowed and curling. A skateboard plastered with stickers and a hand-drawn lightning bolt on the bottom—poorly rendered in ballpoint pen—leaned against the dresser. Gold and silver medals were looped over the bedpost next to John's pillow.
Rodney tapped the twenty-sided die. It rolled. "How did you convince me you were ever cool?"
"I was seventeen," John insisted. "No seventeen year old is cool. They just think they are."
Rodney indicated at the airplanes. "You don't have any decals."
"Didn't need them," John pursed his lips. "I knew what they were."
Rodney smiled. "You lost them, didn't you?"
"Every damn time. Slippery little buggers," John admitted, running his hand through his hair. "It was a logistical problem. You had to put them on last, and I'd leave them in the box but they'd just—disappear."
"Well." Rodney turned around. "It certainly doesn't look like your parents changed much."
"Yeah, it's weird," John mused. He walked to a mirrored door on one wall. "The second my brother moved out they turned his room into an office. But maybe they didn't need a second office."
Rodney walked over and examined the medals, turning a gold medal over. It read 1987.
"I've always done good at Regionals," John said, seemingly with eyes on the back of his head, because he was busy in the closet. He grunted as he tugged at something, glancing overhead. "It was Sectionals that were a killer." His eyes flicked to the medal. "I skated to Carmen that year."
"Everyone does Carmen," Rodney sighed.
There was clatter and Rodney watched a stack of board games collapse on John, raining Monopoly money, Scrabble tiles and tiny colored squares from Risk. They scattered across the floor.
"Shit," John said.
"I've got it," Rodney said, bending to sweep them up. He picked up some smallish colorful plastic cassettes. They were too large to be tapes. "What are these? Some sort of 8-Tracks?" Rodney turned them over in his hand, puzzled.
The look John gave him was stunned. "They're video games. No one topped my score in Donkey Kong."
"I never played video games," he said, somewhat defensively, standing straighter, "not unless there was an arcade in our hotel overseas. My training schedule didn't allow it."
"Oh."
Rodney handed them over, but John shook his head and gestured with his shoulder to set them on the bed.
"Let's get all that later. Help me pull this thing out," John said. He yanked at a folded wooden frame.
"Your neat streak seems to have been a late blooming trait," Rodney observed, eyeing the mess.
"It doesn't apply to closets."
John and Rodney wrestled the heavy crib out of John's closet, then dragged it through his bedroom and down the carpeted stairs. Rodney complained, "What is this—lead lined?"
"Solid oak," John said. "They don't make them like they used to."
"I can see why. You realize that if I injure my back, my career is at an end?" Rodney said, setting his end on the landing. "I can't skate in a wheelchair."
"Hey, I've got the hard part," John pointed out from the lower down the steps. He hefted it from his knee. "Now let's get a move on."
Kendall had returned from the rental car with an armload of blankets. He dropped them in the foyer and held the door open with his shoulder as he watched Rodney in bemusement. "Need some help?"
"No, he's got it," John growled, skewering Rodney with a look. "He was a world-renowned athlete—'was' being the operative word." Rodney shot him a dirty look and quickly picked up the other end, the corner of his mouth slanting in a frown.
Freed from indentured scutwork, Rodney hopped up the steps into the house. The couch was still clear. On the TV, the sound off, a group of scantily clad cheerleaders surrounded a float decorated with what looked like sparklers and Roman candles. "I'll save you a seat," he called out to John, beaming. He patted the spot next to him and toasted with his beer.
"You do that," John said with a smile, gathering the armload of the blankets his brother had left and carrying them upstairs.
Kendall had pulled out the hide-a-bed and their suitcases were crowded against one wall. His Air Force uniform was neatly folded on their dad's desk, John noted with a little twinge of envy, and all of Kendall's trophies were displayed in the bookcase behind his dad's broad leather swivel chair.
"Hey, squirt," Kendall chirped at John.
John shifted the blankets to one arm to flick him, but missed, and Kendall laughed.
"Just dump them on the bed. I have no idea where we're going to put all this crap." Kendall scratched his head, shutting the door to give John more room. "But mom seems to think we need it."
"Well, a baby...." John pointed out.
"She's excited," Kendall agreed, nodding. He folded his arms and leaned his back against the door. "So. Rodney."
"Different, I know," John said.
"He's your coach?"
"Um. That's not exactly legal, so don't spread that around."
Kendall snorted. "Yeah, I'm gonna tell everyone I know. Think I should start with the LT, or break the news to a general first?"
"Right." John nodded a little.
The Venetian blinds were down but slatted open, striping the room. The lines ran across Kendall's chest where he leaned against the door. His slid to sit on the carpet, letting his head tip back against the door, elbows draped loosely on his knees, and more or less holding John hostage. John eyed him warily.
"I knew it had to be something else," Kendall said after a moment, not looking at him. "You were always crazy to fly. I knew it couldn't just be figure skating."
John sighed but didn't answer.
"Are you sure?" Kendall squinted at him. "I mean, have you ever tried it?"
"With—?" John prompted.
"Yeah."
John shook his head and looked away. "It doesn't work out."
They were quiet several minutes and John amused himself by entertaining escape plans. The storm windows popped out easily; it was only the second floor. He'd jumped it before from his own room. But there were bushes down below and he'd probably wreck the blinds.
"I'm okay with it, with guys being gay," Kendall said finally. "There's a couple in the service and I don't care. I just..." He ran his hand through his hair, mussing it. "...wish I didn't have to meet the guy, you know? I don't want to have to picture it."
John shot him a look.
"My little brother. You know... who's top, who's bottom?" He winced, looking at John for reassurance, eyebrows rumpled with concern. "You're the top, right?"
"That's none of your business." John scowled.
"Good." His brother stood. "Let's keep it that way."
The Sheppards weren't much for talking when food was at hand, and Rodney was amused to note another similarity between John, his brother, and his dad, in the happy way they scooped up their mashed potatoes, eating rapidly, like they intended to beat each other to seconds. Rodney was reminded of rabid puppies; cheerful, until you tried to take their food away. He caught Mrs. Sheppard's eyes and she seemed to have a similar thought, her gaze almost purring at her family.
Kendall's wife stirred the food around her plate listlessly. Kendall gave her a questioning sardonic look, and she pressed her lips together and shrugged. He balled up his paper napkin and tossed it on the table. "We can make you a hamburger," he said.
John's father faltered in his eating. "Is everything okay?" His fork mixed at his vegetables as he looked over.
"It's chicken," she said. "I thought turkey would be okay...."
"I'll get it," Mrs. Sheppard offered. She rose from the table, her pearl necklace dangling. "When I was pregnant with John—"
"Why are your pregnancy stories always about me?" John whined.
"Because you I had to work for," Mrs. Sheppard said, picking up the gravy boat. "Fourteen hours," she informed Kendall's wife with a meaningful look, earning a sympathetic little gasp.
"Well, Ken, I'm glad you took care of that family responsibility," John said, and Kendall glanced at him with a smirk of amusement.
Kendall pulled the chair wide as his wife rocked to her feet, and pushed it back in to follow her. "We might turn in after this," he said, and his wife glanced up at him with a grateful expression. "It was a long flight this morning. I swear those airplane seats keep getting smaller."
"I felt like I was in a muffin tin," Charlotte agreed.
The three disappeared into the kitchen, their soft chatter indecipherable from around the corner, and Rodney found himself and John staring across empty plates and mostly melted candles at Mr. Sheppard. Who cleared his throat.
He turned to Rodney. "So. I understand you're a coach."
As Rodney had feared, the conversation took a turn for the inane, although they kept it focused on Rodney so at least the topic was interesting. Still, Mr. Sheppard skipped over all the best parts—Rodney's fame, his years as a teenage skating sensation, and even the Olympics which most people wanted to know about—to focus on the pedantic, mundane details of his present career.
"You've been coaching almost ten years then," he said, examining Rodney with a keen eye and silent respect, hands folded and elbows on the table. "You pay self-employment taxes?"
"Well, yes and no," Rodney began. He detailed the complex relationship between himself, Skate Canada, the skating clubs, and the rink that was his official employer but left him to handle all his own business affairs. He made a sweeping gesture, hands spread. "I just hand my money to a CPA and let her figure it out."
"It's steady or—?" Mr. Sheppard asked, his voice shading with doubt. His eyes cut over to John.
Rodney winced a little and shrugged his head to the side. "We get hurt by economic downturns just like anyone else, sports are a luxury after all." He wiped his mouth. "But the truth is that of all the sports, figure skating is hurt the least. It's a wealthy -- and dare I say elitist? -- clientele we cater to."
"I understand from John that you own your own house, too," Mr. Sheppard said, settling back in his chair, hooking an arm over the back in another gesture that was a lot like John.
"Yes," and Rodney gleefully launched into the story of his grandmother's brilliance, excellent mortgage terms, and his suburban neighborhood that had been slowly absorbed into Toronto. "I wanted a Porsche when I was sixteen, but all in all, I think she had the better idea."
"Seems you've done very well for yourself," Mr. Sheppard noted, nodding, and Rodney blinked.
He hadn't thought of it that way. Doing well in the figure skating world was measured in competitions, either your own or your students. By those standards he was hardly a superstar. Usually once his students got serious, they dropped Rodney for another coach because of his refusal to attend competitions.
"Um, yes, I suppose so," Rodney said, shooting John a confused glance.
John's expression was carefully blank, his shoulders taut and defensive.
Mrs. Sheppard interrupted their next discussion of Rodney's investments—long-term, buy and hold was his strategy—with dessert, explaining, "Charlotte and Kendall are going to get some sleep. It's been a long day for her." Small china plates were passed around with a clatter.
"More for us," Rodney said, handing John the pumpkin pie, which Rodney loathed. He had a sinister plot to trick John into eating it all so there would be none left.
"Come on, Rodney," John argued, swallowing, "It's good stuff."
Fortunately, Mrs. Sheppard made a wonderful rhubarb pie, so he was spared. Mr. Sheppard joined John in teasing Rodney to just try a slice. Matters degenerated to John hovering a forkful in front of Rodney's face, his hand gripping the back of the chair and edging deeper inside Rodney's personal space as Rodney ducked and dodged.
"Oh, Johnny, don't make him," Mrs. Sheppard laughed. Rodney became uncomfortably aware of Patrick Sheppard's gaze shifting between them, as if the nature of their relationship were just hitting home.
"It's the texture," Rodney explained, chin tucked in, embarrassed. "More like slime than pie really."
"Your loss," John said, wolfing down the offending forkful as he slumped back into his chair. Their chuckles settled with a happy, satisfied sigh as they returned to their desserts.
Mr. Sheppard finished his last bite and wiped his mouth. He took a breath, head lowered, as he opened, "I've been meaning to ask...."
It had the weight of something he'd been thinking about for some time. There was a warning look exchanged between John's mom and dad, but Mr. Sheppard barreled on regardless, eyes serious, elbows planted. He folded his fingers together, chin resting on his hands. "I understand they have domestic partner benefits in Canada."
"Free health care, actually," Rodney said with a smug smile.
Mr. Sheppard conceded this with a nod, relaxing. The warning from John's mom amped up with raised eyebrows. But his father continued, avoiding her gaze. "So I realize John isn't a Canadian citizen for all that he's been up there forever," he said, "but I wondered if he was eligible to be covered under your insurance somehow."
John and Rodney turned to each other with startled blinks. John's mom gave a broad roll of her eyes and looked away.
"I mean, you're obviously serious... It's been, how long?" He turned to his wife.
She sighed, then provided, "Johnny moved in last March."
He made an open-handed gesture. "Almost a year. Now John used to be covered under my policy when he was in college, but for the last few years it's been running about... well, it's up there."
"He needs it to compete," Mrs. Sheppard insisted, sitting forward. "It's a U.S. Figure Skating regulation."
"And I wouldn't want him on the ice without it," Mr. Sheppard said crossly.
Rodney's jaw had been dropping throughout this. "How much are we talking about?"
John ran his hand over his face, looking away.
"Roughly four hundred a month." Mr. Sheppard shrugged into a sideways slump. John turned a bug-eyed stare on him. "It jumped up a bit after the operation two years ago," Mr. Sheppard added, almost apologetically.
"Let me get you boys some ice cream," Mrs. Sheppard interrupted, her jaw firm. "Honey, why don't you help?" she added with a smile that wasn't a request.
Undeterred, Mr. Sheppard said, "Well. You two think about it." He patted the back of a chair as he rose.
John stared after his father, wide-eyed, and took a covering sip of beer.
As they left, her voice carried in a hiss from the hall. "...You just met him!"
"When are we supposed to ask, hmm? Over the phone? Next Thanksgiving?" The kitchen door thumped shut behind them.
John finally coughed on a mouthful of beer that had apparently gone down the wrong pipe.
Rodney stared at him, astounded. "Are they serious?"
John thumped his chest with his fist, still coughing.
"Oh. And by the way—" Rodney slugged him on the arm.
"Hey, ow! What was that for?"
"In what universe does paying five grand a year constitute 'not supporting' your skating?"
"Ow, you hit hard." John rubbed his arm and scowled at Rodney. "You're not taking their side now, are you? I mean, he's never been to a single one of my competitions." He pointed at the door. "Not even when I was a kid."
"Well, I could've done with a little more of a hands off approach!"
Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard returned with ice cream and cake. All four of them pasted on smiles. They busily applied themselves to eating, with uncomfortable exchanges of "good cake" and "yes, that's your mother's frosting recipe" and "ah, I thought I recognized it." John looked at Rodney with helpless child-like eyes over his fork while Rodney squirmed.
Plates cleaned, a silence descended. The grandfather clock ticked. Mr. Sheppard sat with his chair turned slightly away from the table, picking at a tooth and staring off into the corner. Mrs. Sheppard stacked plates, turning and adjusting them unnecessarily. John slouched in his seat, then licked the tip of his middle finger and picked up the remaining crumbs from his plate, his gaze locked on the tablecloth.
Rodney planted a forearm on the table in a businesslike manner and said, "Well. I hadn't exactly considered...." John and his mom looked up at once in alarm, and desperately tried to make "no, no, no!" signals, but Rodney barreled on regardless. "... should I be afraid of a shotgun?"
"If it comes to that," said Mr. Sheppard.
Rodney's face fell in panic. "He's kidding, right?" he asked John, who just tipped his head and cringed. "Of course he is. Right?" Rodney gave a nervous little laugh, looking around at them. "I mean, I feel like you're offering me your spinster daughter's hand in marriage."
Mr. Sheppard snickered. "You said it. Not me." He raised both hands as if he weren't touching this subject with a ten-foot pole. "I'll be satisfied with a career, college—anything," he added, with a slicing gesture for each item on his list.
John rounded on his father, smoldering with fury. "Except my skating."
Mrs. Sheppard's hands covered her face. And that was when Rodney knew he'd blundered.
"I don't see why you can't do one of those ice shows," Mr. Sheppard said. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.
"Because you have to be a name, you have to make the big time to be invited," John said with patient sarcasm, his shoulders squared.
"Exactly!" Mr. Sheppard's fist hammered the table. The forks rattled. "How long will it be till you admit—!"
"Please, you'll wake the baby," Mrs. Sheppard urged them.
"The baby hasn't even been born yet!" John snapped. The jut of Mr. Sheppard's jaw agreed with him, and then the two men returned to their trench war, each move, every salvo long memorized.
Rodney tried to make himself as small as possible.
Upstairs, they got ready for bed. John had the trundle bed, giving Rodney his old twin. The sheets matched the blue walls and had little cartoon airplanes printed on them.
Rodney could hear John brushing his teeth in the small attached bathroom. He spit, then shut the water off. For the last half hour they'd managed to avoid each other, each at opposite ends of the room. The house still rang with tension from the argument and Rodney was beginning to suspect, based on the suspicious silence from Kendall's room, that he'd gone upstairs early on purpose.
John peeked in from the bathroom, nervously hovering in the doorway like a little kid. Rodney paused. He was wearing a T-shirt and pajama bottoms Rodney had never seen before, the too-short cuffs skimming his ankles. His parents' house was apparently not clothing optional.
He shut off the light, stepped on the trundle bed, then climbed into the twin bed with Rodney, who lay on his side and slid over to make room, back tucked against the wall. John pulled the covers to his chest and stared at the ceiling.
Rodney shut his eyes. He began, "I'm sorry, I—"
"No. Don't. We always get into it." John huffed a sigh. "It's like a holiday tradition." They breathed in the silence a moment.
"I swear I wasn't trying to trick you or anything," Rodney burst out. He chewed his lower lip. "I just honestly hadn't noticed."
"What?" John shot him a confused frown.
"Almost a year-? I want you to stay for the rest of the skating season, at least, but after, if you want to find your own place we can always—"
"Rodney." John cut him off. "I'm the one that invited you to Thanksgiving," he said. "With my parents."
"True." Rodney rolled onto his back and blinked up at the ceiling, contemplating the signals that sent. "Why did you?"
"I dunno." The point of John's shoulder shifted against him as he shrugged. "I just thought you should be here."
"Huh."
"A year...." John shook his head with a little huff of disbelief. "You realize I've been paying thirty bucks a month for my storage unit?"
"Well, that's stupid. There's plenty of room in the garage."
Back home that Sunday, the sky was overcast and blustery, shaking the remaining leaves off the trees. They swirled in circles and scattered across the yard, destroying all the useless raking John had done before Sectionals. Rodney felt a smug satisfaction at being right. Nature was capricious. He had the Weather Channel on in the living room and an interesting Doppler graphic open on the computer—updated every ten minutes—while he did his billing. The news declared that a warm front and a cold front had collided over Niagara and, depending on which station you checked, it was either going to rain, snow, or blow over.
Elbowing aside and then picking up a stack of magazines on his desk, it became clear that short of dropping them on the floor, there was no room. He collected his monthly statements from the dot matrix and moved to the kitchen table to finish, enjoying the spectacle of the wind.
John's car had pulled into the drive behind Rodney's at some point, although John was nowhere in sight. He'd been gone all morning on "some errands."
Rodney heard the loud rumble of the garage door being shoved open. Moments later, John walked out, disappeared behind the cars, and then returned hauling an awkward and heavy-looking workout bench that Rodney recognized from his old apartment.
Rodney got up to stick his head out the door. In doing so he got a spatter of water on his face, either rain or just shaken from the trees, it was hard to tell, and quickly ducked back just inside the door. "You need some help?"
"Nah, I got it," John said, lumbering.
Rodney watched him a moment longer edge past the Honda into the open garage, then shrugged and let the door shut.
Back and forth, for the next half hour, Rodney watched him through the picture window, reminded of a squirrel packing away food for the winter. John carried sets of barbells low in each hand, and then in the next trip, the upper half of a Nautilus machine slung over his shoulder. He walked back to his car, which was slightly out of sight behind the Honda, and returned with a canoe on his head—which Rodney had forgotten he had, although he'd seen it on John's wall dozens of times. Next he returned with a very old and dusty TV, the rabbit ears bouncing with each step. That was followed by a VCR perched on a box of VHS tapes. Two open boxes of pots and pans John carried directly in front of the window and up the porch steps.
The wind blew in as John shouldered open the door, boxes clanking as he dropped them in the living room with a grunt. He shut the door behind him and then set his keys on the little change bowl in the kitchen.
"What's for lunch?" John asked, settling in his chair.
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Date: 2008-12-19 11:49 am (UTC)