icarus | SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney

My Christmas gift for all of you.

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: "Wait a minute. You're the drug addict he took out there? I thought you were going to knife him and steal his clothes for drug money!"
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and tireless betas,

rabidfan and

roaringmice (our skating consultant ;). Welcome to the team,

tingler. You guys have been fabulous.

Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. Following the Midwestern Sectional Championships, John is allowed to compete at Euroskate at Utrecht in the Netherlands. And then it's home for Christmas.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

Flying was a nice change of pace from being trapped together in a car for hours at a clip—which, hmm, come to think of it, wasn't that different after all. After John's performance this season, unsurprisingly the USFSA had given the nod for John to represent them at Euroskate in Utrecht, the Netherlands. Not the most prestigious competition—and not Vienna—but it would give John some international exposure. John had promptly made his own flight arrangements (air courier, sigh) without so much as consulting Rodney. It had taken three separate phone calls to book the seat next to his.

At least Rodney was spared John's maniacal driving. But, as if in recompense, the seven-hour flight gave Rodney a front row seat (all right, seat 45A, by the window) to some of John's worst habits. John worked his way down the aisle from the stewardess, smiling, his extra soda in hand.

"Did you get her phone number?" Rodney sniped.

"She was nice," John said, sipping his drink to an inch below the rim before sitting down. He gave Rodney a smug smile, his chin high. "She thought I was 'witty.'"

"She thought you were good-looking and available, you mean, and she's an itinerant tramp seeking to liven up her dull transatlantic existence with just about anything she can lure between the sheets."

"Say that a little louder, Rodney, I don't think she caught the first half." John wrinkled his nose and settled back in the seat. "Jealousy's not a good look on you." He pulled out the in-flight magazine, thumbing through it too quickly to actually be reading.

After a long moment John grumbled in an undertone, his shoulders up, "It was just a conversation."

"You were flirting!"

"I was being polite. No surprise that you don't recognize it."

"Oh, yes, right to the lowest common denominator. Let's take it to a personal level, shall we? We can talk about the way Rodney talks, or walks, or the way he eats—and, hey, let's not forget to get in a shot or two about his clothes!"

John slumped behind the in-flight magazine, scowling. "There's something wrong with a guy who talks about himself in the third person."

"See?!"

John slouched a few inches deeper in his seat, obviously sulking.

His page turning slowed, until it appeared he was actually reading—Rodney peered over his arm—dear God, an article on the current boom in cruise lines. Rodney stole a sip of John's soda, earning a little flick of his narrow eyes and a smothered smile. John lowered his chin, determined to read the "fascinating" piece, although Rodney knew he'd find a medical study on genital warts more interesting.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, if you're going to read, don't torture your mind with that abysmal crap." Rodney rooted around in his carryon till he found the skating magazines and handed them over his shoulder. "Here."

John accepted the peace offering. "Better than the in-flight mag."

"Probably not by much," Rodney admitted.

"Cool!" John said, straightening. "They have a piece on Yvonne's charity skate." He beamed. "With a photo spread."

"Let me see—" Rodney reached for it.

"Don't be an Indian giver," John said, holding it up high. He had long arms. "We'll share."

They hit the photos first. Rodney scanned the cast photo for John, who finally gave him a hint: "They always have me stand in the back."

"How'd they get that look on everyone's face? Tell them to say 'sneeze'?"

"At least it's not as bad as my hair."

"Oh. Hmm. That's impressive."

"They took them after the performance when we were all sweaty and tired. I get a little, um, windblown."

Rodney couldn't help the grin. "Yes, I've noticed."

They checked out the pictures of the closing, which had a wide angle shot of spinning black figures in blue and purple spotlights. They argued over which of the skaters was John. Then flipped the page—

—To find a full-length photo of John wearing a pirate costume in his final pose, with Yvonne tipped back over his knee. Her ruffled skirt spilled over her chest, revealing her panties.

"You've got your own page!" Rodney said, holding it up.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, Yvonne has her own page. I just happen to be on it."

And true, all the other photos on the two-page spread were of Yvonne. But the largest was the one with John. The caption under it read: Skating's cutest new couple, John and Yvonne, wowed them at the start of the second half. Is romance in the air? Those behind the scenes say, "Oh, yes, definitely."

"Rodney, I swear, I have no idea where they got that idea." John shook his head slow amazement.

Rodney smiled in smug satisfaction, utterly vindicated. His eyelashes fluttered as he gleefully read on, "Oh, and here's another choice quote, 'John explains, A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell.'"

"I wasn't talking about Yvonne!"

~*~*~

Their hotel room was curiously narrow and old-fashioned. It had flower print wallpaper and a little hallway leading past the bathroom into the bedroom, giving it a "studio apartment" feel. John got the impression from the way the bed took up almost the entire space that it had once been just a bedroom with no bathroom. Rodney grumbled behind him about the lack of a microwave and coffee, while John pulled aside lacey curtains to look outside.

After a lifetime of Hans Brinker stories, John had expected everyone to skate to work on the canals. They weren't even frozen, despite the inch or two of snow on the ground. There were pretty little arched bridges over the water, but Utrecht on the whole seemed rather flat and gray. A group of kids rode by on their bikes, which was weird enough to convince John that he was in a foreign country. In Chicago you put your bike away until spring, although John would be hard pressed to explain why.

"...if you'd just let me make the arrangements, we could have had an extra day or two to see Amsterdam. I was here in eighty-six, but I never got a chance to fully appreciate it...."

John tuned Rodney out, thinking it was neat they had a clawfoot tub.

~*~*~

The Euroskate competition was held at an arena instead of a rink, just like the U.S. Nationals. There was a lot more press and the security guards looked like they meant business. On the way to the competitor's entrance, a Japanese crew shoved a microphone in John's face. The other two aimed large hand-carried cameras at him.

"What do you think Akihiro Tashimoto's chances are today?" the reporter asked in very fast clipped English.

"Um." John swept his hands out in a confused shrug. "Good?"

Rodney dragged him away, telling them over his shoulder, "John competes today. Go bug some spectators or something."

Another group had caught up with a woman in line at the other entrance. She answered them in a mumbling guttural language that was probably Dutch. They frowned, then clustered together, talking amongst themselves in Japanese.

"Tashimoto's here?" John asked, a little stunned. He hadn't been at the morning's practice.

"Of course he is," Rodney said.

There was a long line outside the rink and a crowd was already milling around inside the arena. Rodney kept a steadying hand on John's back as they were ushered through security.

In the locker room the other skaters glanced up once, then returned to their conversations. Two skaters with very short hair chatted in a slurred French he could barely recognize from high school classes. A cluster of three skaters were smoking—John tried not to blink—mumbling together in what sounded like Russian. One flicked his cigarette on the floor and ground it out. The other languages he couldn't guess at. One was consonant-filled but could have been German or Dutch. John shut the locker door and pulled the Hawaiian shirt over his head, pretending he wasn't watching everyone else out of the corner of his eye.

He stripped his jeans down and stepped out of his underwear, feeling really naked as he pulled on the dance belt, snapping the waistband. John slid a pair of thin cotton stretch jeans, bouncing a little. He and Rodney had compromised on his costume. He didn't call his mom for replacement, but the jeans covered his legs. They'd torn off the hem and a back pocket and Rodney had splashed them with bleach for a beach comber look.

He realized one of the French skaters was watching him, eyelids half lowered, his lips pursed.

"Nice shirt," the French guy said blandly, in what John suspected was sarcasm.

"Thanks," John answered, deliberately taking him at face value.

He stuffed his jeans into the locker and shut it. Water off a duck's back, John told himself. He sat down and waited. Finally he decided to put on his skates, wishing Rodney would hurry back so they could do the makeup and get out to the ice.

The other skaters were leaving and John had done most of his makeup himself by the time Rodney arrived, brushing by the other skaters.

"He walked right past me!" Rodney announced, walking backward into the room.

"Thanks for your help, Rodney, but I'm already done," John said, snapping the makeup box closed.

"As if I wasn't even there...." Rodney said, blinking wide-eyed and astonished.

"Who?"

"Whatshisname, the East German skater. He beat me for the bronze in '86...."

"It was a long time ago," John pointed out.

"I called him a steroid twin. On national television!" Rodney said. "He has to remember that."

"We're not in Canada, Rodney."

"He must be just pretending not to recognize me," Rodney insisted. "And I can't believe he's still competing. He's what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?"

John didn't know what to say.

~*~*~

Back at the hotel, John sat on the bed with the lights off, one knee up, his back to the headboard. He was still wearing the stretch jeans from his short program.

He tugged his T-shirt up and over his head, slowly, then rolled his shoulder. He balled the T-shirt up and threw it across the room. He kneaded the shoulder, feeling the bruise there, though he knew it wouldn't show yet.

Rodney arrived with dinner. He peeked around the door nervously. "Ding, ding. Are you decent?"

John snorted.

Rodney snapped on the overhead light, then set about arranging Styrofoam boxes of grilled chicken and plastic forks and knives. John leaned forward and winced.

"It wasn't a bad fall," Rodney said.

John's eyes flickered up to his face at the bald-faced lie. "You mind telling my shoulder that?"

Rodney sat on the bed and huffed a sigh. "I figured out another reason why I don't do competitions. This sucks."

John couldn't agree more. He dug into his chicken, ignoring the twinge of pain when he moved his arm.

"We'll have to ice that."

John nodded, though he was really thinking,just let me eat now.

"You can still pull this out of the toilet."

Toilet was the right word. John hadn't stayed for the final four skaters, because he was in twelfth place, of twelve, and he wanted to leave open the possibility in his mind that he'd moved up. Maybe the other skaters had really blown their jumps and he was now in eleventh. Or ninth. He could handle ninth.

"Your long program is really much better than your short anyway...." Rodney continued.

"Rodney." John put down his fork and glared. "There's a former Olympic bronze medalist out there. You've got Tashimoto, who's ranked sixth or seventh in the world. I needed to come with my best game on, and that—" He gestured, although he wasn't really sure which way the arena was from their room. "—that was not my best game."

"No. It certainly wasn't." Rodney wiped his hands on a napkin and flicked them daintily. "Which is why I imagine that your long is going to be much better."

John shook his head. "It's a lot of ground to make up."

"You're not here to beat Tashimoto—okay, it would be nice, but I didn't expect it of your first time out. You're here to beat everyone else. Have you even heard of ninety percent of those guys out there?" Rodney gestured in the same direction. They'd apparently established a hypothetical location for the arena.

John admitted, "No."

"It's a lot of ground to make up, I'll grant you that, but today was nowhere near what you can do," Rodney said. "I expect much better of you tomorrow."

And despite a nasty fall and a weak technical program, John felt himself begin to believe. Against his will.

"I'm skating injured," he told Rodney.

"Skaters are always injured."

~*~*~

Much of the snow had melted during the day, leaving puddles in the parking lot that reflected the purple and pink line of sky that had appeared on the horizon. The Euroskate competition was still going on inside the arena, but it was over for John. He was still wearing his costume with his jacket on, unzipped, his head down.

John could almost feel the moment when Rodney wanted to open his mouth, and he raised his hand sharply, cutting him off. "Let's go home."

"At least you beat whatshisname, the East German."

John shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There is no East Germany anymore," he growled.

"Whatever." Rodney brushed this off as if ten years of world politics were inconsequential.

John looked over his shoulder at Rodney in disbelief. "Rodney. He came in last."

"Ah," Rodney said, pointing a finger at John. "But you didn't."

~*~*~

The tiny tree with blinking colored lights was John's idea. John kept fooling with the bulbs that made them blink in different rhythms, achieving a truly horrifying effect that John watched with a certain satanic glee, red and yellow lights shadowing his face in shifting patterns where he sprawled next to the tree.

Rodney should never have let him loose in Honest Ed's with a budget and a pat on the ass. But John had seemed glum since Utrecht, his body language wilted, with a vulnerable and confused expression like he was still replaying that performance in his mind and couldn't figure out what had happened. Taking to the distraction, John had unearthed Rodney's collection of Christmas classics—so old they were all on vinyl. Rodney hadn't realized he owned that many versions of "Greensleeves." He usually preferred to Scrooge his way through the holidays, sending any obligatory presents via parcel post (purchased mail order, of course, although the web was becoming increasingly useful in that regard).

When John suggested Christmas dinner, Rodney finally gave in. He let John make a list and then braved parking hell at the grocery store. He cracked through frozen slush into the crowded little store, which seemed to have three times as many people and ten times as much junk as normal. He added a few items of his own while everyone in line—himself included—slowly died of old age. If he and John were breaking their diets for one day, they were going to do so thoroughly. Though if John tipped above his prime jumping weight, Rodney was going to put him on bread and water till New Year's.

The dusting of snow they'd received the day before had melted and refrozen a few times, although even Rodney could admit he probably drove home excessively slowly—but ice was hazardous! So it turned out he'd given John enough time to inflict more Christmas horrors on the front porch, including a truly tasteless string of plastic reindeer-shaped lights the likes of which Rodney had never seen, and hoped to never see again. He pounded on the door, shouldering his groceries. An electronic version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" started playing.

John opened the door wearing his kiss-the-chef apron, grinning. "They're motion sensitive," he explained unnecessarily, his eyes crinkled in amusement.

"I've met your parents so I know this isn't their fault," Rodney sighed as he stepped into a house that smelled rich with baking. He decided to ignore the plastic angel with the wind up flapping wings on the coffee table, plotting its accidental destruction in an unfortunate storage mishap.

"Some people don't know how to have fun," John said, making himself useful as he took an armful of groceries.

"Admit it. You selected the obnoxious decor specifically to annoy me," Rodney said, following him.

"I'll have to take the fifth on that." John's smirk turned guilty and he raised a hand.

Rodney's opinion of John's Christmas talents went up considerably as he drew out a baking dish with lightly browned shortbread, while Rodney unpacked cartons of eggnog, various sorts of vegetables he'd never eaten for Christmas, and his last-minute cookie tins. "I suppose we won't be needing these," Rodney said, pulling the tins away.

"Ah, ah, ah. Everything goes into the feast," John said, grabbing them and setting them on the kitchen table.

Then he unceremoniously kicked Rodney out of the kitchen. "I just don't want you underfoot, okay?"

Although Rodney had been a little puzzled at John's request for duck over the more traditional turkey, as the house filled with the scent of roasting he had no complaints. He looked around at his spotless if slightly cluttered living room, littered with tacky Christmas decor, and tried to remember last Christmas. He seemed to recall a cup of excellent Christmas coffee (a gift from mom, opened early) and a sense of relief that he'd be free of students for two whole days.

He shook off a sense of bemused wonder and snatched up a roll of wrapping paper off the couch. He hadn't planned to wrap John's gift—it wasn't all that wrappable—but he was getting the impression that John took his holidays seriously.

A frustrating half hour later he emerged from his office with wrapped gift in hand. He heard John's slightly whiny nasal voice on the phone in the kitchen.

"They came out grainy. I swear, if Rodney did something to them... cream?" There was the sound of the refrigerator opening. "Shoot, I don't think we have any. How about milk? Can I use that? With butter? Okay, I think this is salvageable." It was followed by the whisper quick sound of a whisk in a mixing bowl. "Thanks, mom."

Rodney decided that prudence was the better part of valor and gave the kitchen a miss, despite the fact that the cookies were in there. He slipped John's present under the tree. Two small items, inexpertly wrapped with stick-on bows, were already waiting alongside the gifts from John's parents. Soft packages, bendable, a little too large for socks... he felt a looming presence behind him.

John brandished a greasy two-pronged fork in his hand, his sleeves rolled up, still wearing the apron as he glared. "Presents are opened tomorrow," he said.

"You say that like it's an incontrovertible fact," Rodney said, but at the moment John was too well armed to be argued with.

"You'll never figure it out anyway," John told him.

"It's obviously clothes," Rodney said, cheerfully smug.

John swung the fork. "Ah, but you forget that I'm fiendishly clever. I could have easily wrapped anything with a washcloth, just to throw you off the scent."

With a wistful glance back at his presents, Rodney had to agree that was true. He took the opportunity to sneak a few cookies before dinner.

~*~*~

"No, you can't come in," John snapped from behind the trophy room door. There came a tempting rustle of wrapping paper.

Rodney leaned towards the door, dressed in a bathrobe, holding a cup of the fine coffee his mother had sent for the umpteenth year in a row; it was a kind of consistency he appreciated and hoped to encourage in all his family members. He tapped again with one knuckle. "Come on. I did all my wrapping yesterday—and you already have two presents out here!"

"Learn to cook and I'll get all mine done earlier, too," John growled. "You interrupted me yesterday." But the door opened a moment later with John lugging a rather largish box. He gave Rodney a piercing look, a sparkle in his hazel eyes that said he was altogether pleased with himself.

John busied himself turning on Christmas lights. Rodney gave him his first Christmas present of the day: a steaming cup of cocoa.

"My brother and I used to get up at five am, but no one was allowed downstairs until dad turned on the Christmas lights. Then we'd race each other down the stairs," John smiled.

Rodney hummed agreement into his coffee, masking his careful 'no comment.' His own Christmases had always sucked. His parents used to give his sister more presents than him to make up for the extra attention and fame Rodney received. Then they'd force Rodney give to charity all the presents fans sent him, even the really nice ones. His father only tried to turn it into a photo op once, however. At fourteen Rodney had been incapable of faking graciousness.

To save the best for last, they started with the gifts from John's parents. A quilt for both of them made John snort, "Mom's cleaning the closets again."

But it was warm-looking and since John had cruelly vetoed Rodney's electric blanket, Rodney patted it appreciatively as he draped it on the couch. They simultaneously opened two embarrassing matched sweaters, making a pact on the spot to never, ever wear them at the same time.

Finally, John handed over the first of his little packages. Rodney tore it open and gave him a dismal, disgusted look. "Clothes."

"I only said I could throw you off the scent with a washcloth," John said, wagging a forefinger, but he was blushing. He curled up on the floor, chin on his knee, arms curled around his leg.

Sitting on the couch with his legs spread, coffee steaming on the coffee table, Rodney folded open a T-shirt that read, "I'm sorry, was it my job to fill your life with joy today?" Rodney fully planned to wear it to his next skating session. He tore into the second package, which was suspiciously the same size. Inauspiciously, this T-shirt was pink. It was printed in glitter and read, "All hail the Queen!"

Rodney swatted John with it.. John ducked away, grinning.

The third small package was square and kind of heavy. Rodney hefted it a moment. "Hmmm... miniature gumball machine," he guessed. "I can put it on my desk and charge all the kids a dime for every gumball."

"Just open it," John complained.

"You know, I only have the one gift for you," Rodney said, turning pink. Because there was still the big box under the tree.

John stretched on his side and sipped his cocoa. "That's all right. It's not about the presents."

Not in Rodney's experience, but he left that alone. It turned out to be a coffee cup, marked at each quarter cup, Homicidal ... Irascible ... Querulous ... Human. Rodney smiled at it and set it on the table.

"Now it's your turn," he said. He knee-walked over to the tree and handed John his gift, eyeing John steadily.

John tore it open at the corners first, confused at the coffee maker box, as well he might be. He opened it and pushed aside the tissue paper. He paused with a funny look. "They're my skates." He pulled them out and turned them over, scuff-marks and abused uppers and all. "That's... different."

"Aren't you supposed to read the card first?" Rodney asked, annoyed at his obtuseness.

"Riiight," John recalled.

He dug through the wrapping paper for the card. Then his face slowly fell as he read it. "Oh ... no. Rodney, I couldn't...." He looked up, eyes filled with amazement.

"Obviously you'll have to go in person to be fitted, and this isn't really doing you any favors because we'll have to brave Boxing Day to give you any time at all to break them in."

"Rodney, once you add in both boots and the blades, this is almost a grand," John said.

"Not for me," Rodney explained, leaning forward to take the card from John's limp grasp. "I give them so much business, they're free."

"Yes, I know, but..." John said, still arguing. He looked down at the card, reread it, and then leveled a gaze at Rodney. "...they're supposed to be for you. And you skate at least as much as I do. Maybe more."

"You're not allowed to say no on Christmas," Rodney said, smug in his victory. "I wish I could have given them to you earlier without a fight—"

"I wouldn't have accepted," John assured him.

Rodney smiled, legs crossed, both elbows on his knee. That was a yes, unless he was quite mistaken.

"I seem to recall there's another gift," he reminded John, peering over at the larger box, leaning forward.

John dragged it out from under the tree with an amused smile. It was definitely heavy-ish. Rodney shook it and heard a rattle of moving parts.

"Okay, open it before you drive me crazy," John insisted.

The paper ripped easily across the top. Underneath was a battered box labeled Atari. A video game set?

Now it was Rodney's turn to be confused. He opened the side and pulled out two joysticks and some sort of box with wires. "Um. I'm an adult. I've outgrown this sort of thing."

"You can't outgrow something you've never had," John told him, curiously emphatic.

~*~*~

By the time the phone rang that afternoon, they were still in their pajamas, still hadn't taken showers, and still hadn't eaten anything more than fruit and Christmas cookies. Although Rodney had had coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. He was two games ahead of John, and held the current high score in Donkey Kong. They almost didn't hear the phone over the twittering tune of the game.

Rodney got up to answer it, calling over his shoulder, "They probably have newer games now, don't they?"

"You're just afraid of my impending winning streak," John yelled back. "You can sense it on the wind."

Rodney was still speaking as he picked up the phone. "Yes, that 'I'm a little rusty' excuse? Was tired four hours ago—hello, Rodney McKay, Champion of Champions," he answered, and John snorted in the next room. "Jeannie," Rodney said, mouthing 'it's my sister' to John. "Boy, are you lucky you can't smell my breath right now. We haven't moved from the living room for six hours. John bought me a video game—well, not bought so much as gave, since this was the one he had when he was a kid." He was silent a moment then laughed and said over his shoulder, "She says she hears you've been molesting her brother!"

"Guilty as charged," John said without missing a beat, his eyes not lifting from the game.

"Here," Rodney shoved the phone into John's hands. "You talk to her, because I need to pee so bad I think my eyes are turning yellow."

"Uh...." John said awkwardly as his character died in the background with a series of sad hoots. "Hi? Um. How's the weather in Vancouver?" he said, grasping for a topic of conversation.

"Raining, as usual," she said brightly, "Canada has failed us again."

"Yeah," John leaned over to peer out at the gray sky. "It looks like we're getting either freezing rain or flurries, it's hard to say. My money's on freezing rain."

"Bing Crosby has a lot to answer for."

"I know! He makes it sound like every year's perfect sledding weather, and yet, not so much." Then he remembered something he did want to mention to her. "Oh, by the way, good call on the composting toilet."

She seemed to draw a blank for a moment, then got it. "At the cabin? Thank you! At least somebody can appreciate a few basic necessities." Then she paused. "Wait a minute. You're the drug addict he took out there? I thought you were going to knife him and steal his clothes for drug money!"

"Rodney!" John snarled, his hand over the receiver. Rodney peered out from the bathroom, blinking around in confusion. "What have you been telling people?"

"Telling who what?" He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. "Gimme that phone."

John walked over and slapped it into his palm, annoyed.

Rodney's face went blank in surprise followed by irritation as he listened, Jeannie's voice faintly audible. "What?! No! I told you I trusted him implicitly... I am not naiv—well, obviously I was right because I lived to tell the tale." Rodney added, turning gleeful, "And you should see how I've trounced him today! This was not just a victory, it was a merciless slaughter, the Carthage of video games!"

"Hey...!" John complained.

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