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icarusHere you are, a larger piece of Out Of Bounds, ~3,000 words. And now maybe I can get caught up on comments. Or, huh, I probably should write, shouldn't I?
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: "This is entirely your fault, you know. You said I could create my own adoring minions and people the skating world with them, raising them like well-trained puppies."
A/N: Thank you to my tireless betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan and roaringmice (our skating consultant ;). Welcome to the team, tingler and mariamme. You guys have been fabulous.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The ice rumbled under John's skates, the last person on the ice after a busy freestyle session at the Hurwitz's rink. The shavings looked like damp snow. He left tracks through them as he skated. There was a loud clang and metallic thump. Then the Zamboni beeped like a truck backing up. The driver cut a quick glance at John, who took his cue and glided smoothly over to the edge, snatching up his hard guards as he stepped off the ice. The Zamboni engine growled as it rolled forward, and John stood there calmly, pinching his fingers down the blade of one skate, swiping it clean. He snapped on the guard, then did the other one.
He leaned his chin on his arm draped over the railing and watched the driver cut the rink in two, leaving a wet stripe down the middle. The front screw cut the ice, grinding and cleaning, while the man on top spun the wheel and rolled slowly around the outer edge of the rink. The brush thrummed along the boards, cutting and scrubbing, and the driver worked the plunger on the pump several times.
John wondered if they'd ever gotten a glove or mitten caught in the machine, if that would bring it to a halt, or if the machine could grind on without noticing it. Upstairs they hadn't taken down the "Go Bethany" banner. And, okay, he didn't want to be the one to do it either. But if it were him, he'd want the reminder off the wall. Now.
John watched the Zamboni make its circles, relentless and slow. He'd always wanted to drive the thing. He'd studied the patterns they made often enough that he was pretty sure he could do a better job. Because, there, right in front of John, the guy missed a spot and was gonna have to come around for an extra pass. The trick was to overlap by just a few inches; maximum coverage, maximum efficiency. As a skater John knew that wherever the Zamboni made an extra pass, the ice turned out a little bit rough. He thought only skaters should be hired to drive them. Or hockey players. Hockey players were acceptable.
The Zamboni rumbled by, covering that missed patch in glossy smooth water. It smelled faintly of chlorine and swimming pools to John. Then the machine curved and rolled over the final dry line of ice and made its way clumsily to the door, a lumbering cross between a turtle and some kind of prehistoric bottom feeder. It lifted its back bar and dumped a small snow bank line of ice. Then the driver drove the Zamboni off the rink. He returned moments later with a shovel and began scooping up that last pile.
John shifted in place. He watched the ice dry in patches, well-lit streaks of wet in diffuse winter light, and sighed into his sleeve.
~*~*~
"I knew it. I am always right, but sometimes I am merciful and it's always a mistake," Rodney announced without preamble.
"Good morning, Rodney." Radek's voice sounded suspiciously and inappropriately cheerful. The sound grew briefly muffled, like he'd put his palm over the receiver, and he murmured, "Family. It'll be a few minutes."
"Family? Who's there?" Rodney complained.
Radek's voice returned to normal volume. "I have a conference call in a moment."
"Conference call?"
"I'm at work. You've called me at ten o'clock in the morning. It is a novel experience. Has John been teaching you about time zones?"
"Time zones?" Rodney squinted at the clock on the stove, then sagged. "Oh, Christ, it's four am. I've been up all night," he swore and paced his kitchen. He lowered his voice, however, mindful of John asleep in the bedroom, hissing, "This is entirely your fault, you know. You said I could create my own adoring minions and people the skating world with them, raising them like well-trained puppies—"
"I don't remember saying—"
"It was implied. Instead, I have skaters!" Rodney's arm swept out to encompass the entire skating world. "First there's Melanie Weir who, despite her many failings in her jumps, has inexplicably fixated on her spins--her saving grace--convinced that she can't do them anymore because she flubbed one at an inopportune moment. One! I have her snippy mother standing over me with folded arms saying, 'Fix it, Rodney,' like I'm qualified to deal with psychosis.
"Then ever since Canadians, Bethany has been fit to be tied. One minute she's biting my head off; the next she's in tears. And she did great! She debuted at Junior Nationals at age twelve, something that I did of course, but it's young and impressive and quite an achievement. Her long was disappointing, yes, yes, but due to a mistake, not a fundamental problem, she has years ahead of her—but can I shake any perspective into her skull? No!
"And because she's 'the calm one,' all my students are acting up. I'm ready to take her off the ice just for the sake of my own sanity.
"Worst of all is John, who doesn't even have the excuse of being a teenager." Rodney huffed. "I pieced him back together after Utrecht where, admittedly, he lost and lost badly, but now he's moping around like some creature from outer space has sucked the life out of him, and it's not as if he lost at Canadians."
"Some people are not as, ah, thick-skinned as you are, Rodney."
"Oh, don't you start, too! I've had enough 'Jesus, she's just a kid' from him!" Rodney stabbed a finger at the floor. "She may be twelve but she's a pro and she's better than this. Frankly it's going to get harder, not easier for her."
"You think she's that good?" Radek said with bemused surprise.
"I've had to adjust my timeline, yes," Rodney said, stiffly, chin lifting. "Someday a researcher is going to do a study and discover that all skaters are genetically predisposed towards melodrama."
"Ha. I have a top-ranked ski jumper in the hospital with his jaw broken. Why? Because he reacted badly to something a local football team said. Not football player. Football team." Radek's chair squeaked. "I'll take your dramatic skaters and raise you tiny skiers with Napoleon complexes any day of the week."
"Athletes," Rodney said, his shoulder slumped to one side in disgust.
"We could kill them, but they're too good at killing themselves."
"Well, John has less than two weeks to get his head together before Nationals. Short of brain surgery I've no clue what to do. We're just lucky they're not till February this year ... which is kind of late, come to think of it."
"Mmm, yes. The networks asked the USFSA not to schedule them the same weekend as the Superbowl any more. I think the term 'ratings disaster' came up"
"Huh. Well, luckily John's watching some rodeo Sunday. He's been going on and on about the broncos."
~*~*~
The cold cut to John's lungs. After a crystal blue morning the clouds had rolled in again, low and soft gray, promising warmer temperatures and more snow. Around him snow had accumulated in puffy drifts sealed with a thin crust of ice, making curled wave-like shapes over the edges of the little gully. It had been a mild winter. Then arctic air had swept down from the North Pole and temperatures had plummeted below zero. The lakes froze overnight into glassy smooth black ice.
Wind had frozen glittering rivulets down the sides of the birch trees. Road conditions were treacherous. Half of Rodney's clients had cancelled and John's tires had spun on black ice all the way up here.
John took off the ski pants and sat on them to lace his skates, his fingers pink and chapped in the open air. His icy breath disappeared almost immediately and he gladly stuffed his down mittens back on.
He balled up the ski pants and set them on his boots. He left his parka on, though, along with the ski mask. His legs felt thick under multiple layers of capilene, stretch tights, and windproof fleece.
The first few feet of ice were rough, and popped and crackled as he tested it. The sound of his blades was as loud as the crunch of his snow tires had been, echoing off trees that protected the pond. Ice was always thinnest around the edges. Then he hit dark ice as solid as concrete and glided, whisper soft.
The wind breathed across the snowdrifts, making surface snow shift and hiss. John squinted and turned his back to it, wind pushing him like a hand. He moved clumsy and slow, and made a curve around the pond, warming up clenched muscles before he lengthening his strokes. John did easy moves, things he hadn't thought about since he was a kid and skated just for fun rather than competitions. He skirted the edge of the pond that was overhung with willow branches. Tempting as it was to go under them and dodge the bower of whippy boughs trailing toward the ice.
"An Olympic-sized rink and you choose to skate on a puddle?"
Rodney stood on the ridge, bundled like a fat red snowman, snow crumbling over the edge toward the pond.
John slid to a stop and squinted up at him. "How'd you find me?"
"Your car was parked by side of the road. The rest didn't exactly take an expert tracker." He waved back towards John's wide footsteps where they broke through knee-high snow. Which didn't exactly explain how he'd found John's car. "It's freezing out here." Rodney wrapped his arms around himself. "What?" he said to John's incredulous look. "Rinks are refrigerated, not sub-zero!"
John snorted. "It's not that cold out." Though it kind of was.
"Wind chill!"
"I promise I'll be home before dark, mom," John said.
"Hmph," Rodney replied with a sniff. The snow around the little ridge crumbled a bit more as he left, the snow making a squeaky sound as it crunched underfoot.
John held his right leg back behind him, curving in slow arches on one skate, although thanks to Rodney he was now highly aware of how cold the gusts of wind were. Minutes later, he heard the rustle-scrape of ski pants and looked up to see who else had come to disturb him.
Rodney tumbled snow on all sides as he strode through it, holding his skates and a small boom box high while he floundered over the little ridge down to the pond. He managed to hit a branch with his skates and dropped more snow on himself, muttering deprecations under his breath. "Of all places to skate... I fail to see the appeal of the so-called great outdoors...." He shook his hands, then finally thought to set the skates down.
John relieved him of the boom box while Rodney dusted snow off himself with both mittens. He looked around for a seat, like you'd find at a rink, looking confused, until he sat on John's snow pants to put on his skates.
He looked up at John with wide blue eyes. "Unless you mind," he said, half a question.
"Nah, it's cool," John said. He turned to point out the hazards. "You need to stay away from that log and those willows over there," he instructed. "The ice is sure to be rotten and I doubt you want to find out if the pond is frozen solid or not."
He found a spot for the boom box where they hopefully wouldn't forget it. "And you won't need this."
"No music?" Rodney was lacing his skates up quicker than John had ever seen him.
John shook his head with a tight smile.
Rodney grumbled over the imperfections on the pond's surface -- but that's just what natural ice was like. John even had to stop Rodney from gouging at one with the end of his skate, sheesh. At last, Rodney was contentedly stroking, hands folded at his back.
John let his inside leg cut behind the other. He lined up both skates, lifting the following one in an incomplete arc of a leg lift, letting it fall, the motion aimless, thoughtful, his head down. He came to a stop at a random point. Then he walked his skates forward, pushed back by the wind before he threw his weight into it, knees bent, arrowing across the pond. Going for speed like a hockey player. He hit the far edge in seconds, shaved the surface with his inside skate as he turned, then let the momentum carry him to another random point, enjoying the scuff of blades in the open.
He was suddenly pushed forward with a hard shove to the back.
"Tag!" Rodney said, scooting off.
John tilted his head at him with a closed-mouth warning smile, eyes gleaming. "You have nowhere to run."
"Ah, but you still won't catch me," Rodney said, one gloved finger raised. He moved backward with little teasing pushes as John approached.
He dodged John's first grab deftly, ducking under his arm. His laugh was almost a giggle and he swept away from John's second try. John paused to reconsider his strategy. He was beginning to think Rodney had played hockey.
~*~*~
The setting sun dappled the underside of the cloudbank, making it look solid. The sunlight etched steep shadows, outlining the birch trees in gold, and the ice reflected the gold sky like a mirror. John and Rodney stretched on their backs on the golden ice like they were about to make snow angels, all laughed out. The cold seeped through John's parka, and through the down vest underneath, but he ignored it, breathing up at the sky. Sunlight was warm on his face.
Rodney sat up first and narrowed his eyes at the skyline in a calculating manner. "We have maybe twelve minutes before dark, possibly less."
John nodded his agreement, sitting up with a satisfied sigh.
They trudged over the edge of the gully, following their tracks. They stamped their feet to get warm. The boom box swung in Rodney's hand.
"You know what I want?" John said.
"Mmm?" Rodney said, sleepy-eyed and peaceful.
"Hot chocolate."
"Ooo! With mini marshmallows?"
"Yeah."
~*~*~
It was feeding time at the zoo. Rodney was reminded specifically of the orangutan cage, with all the hooting and squalling and leaping about. From his kitchen he regarded the invasion of his living room with arms folded.
"Woo!" John said, his hair sloppy and damp after the most recent touchdown. His yoga teacher, a gruff man larger than most bouncers whose name was Ronon, apparently, followed John into the kitchen where they extended their incursion to the refrigerator.
It was half time, or the first quarter, or something like that, Rodney didn't quite follow. But on TV, Kiss was performing in full makeup staggering around on a large float. Kiss.
"Good game?" Rodney asked politely. He was grateful that at least he wasn't required to attend.
"Terrible game," John said, smiling. He ripped open a bag of baby carrots and dumped them into a bowl, biting one in half and chewing. He wore an oversized football jersey with the number eleven on it.
"Yeah. It's a slaughter," Ronon agreed in a low rumble.
"They should have Elway play with one arm tied behind his back to even the odds," John added, his smile turning mean. "Give the Falcons a fighting chance."
"His passing arm," Ronon added. He ripped a bag of chips in half, and dumped them into a salad bowl John provided. Ronon handed it to him with an offering nod.
John held up his hand. "The chips are for you. I'm not allowed."
Ronon tossed a chip at him. It stuck in John's hair. "You're a flyweight."
"I have to be," John fired back, brushing the chip out of his hair.
"We've gotta start you on Ashtanga yoga. Now that's some serious shit. It's got jumps...."
They returned to the living room with all the quiet of overgrown puppies. Rottweiler puppies. Kiss yammered in the background. Rodney sighed in relief.
Finally, the squealing rock music ended and the television hushed with anticipatory crowd noise. John and Ronon fell silent, perched on the couch. John leaned his elbows on his knees. Despite himself, Rodney was drawn forward. He leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, arms crossed protectively.
There were two rows of men in shiny tights, bent over, facing each other. One man crouched with his hands between the legs of the guy in the center. Rodney squinted. He didn't remember this from Thanksgiving.
"You know...." Rodney said, "...that's really suggestive."
John cast him a naughty, bright-eyed smirk over his shoulder. "Now you're getting it."
Ronon shook his head, snickering. "You guys are sick – oh, oh, oh!" He turned back to the television and pounded the chair. The ball had sailed over the field and someone had caught it right away, running it back. "First down!"
"There is pain in Atlanta tonight," John crowed, curling forward. "Physical pain."
"Last year's was a better game," Ronon said. He dug around in a bag of pretzels.
"Don't remind me," John said, glaring at the ground. "I was at Nationals at the time. I had to catch the highlights on SportsCenter afterward."
"Ouch."
Rodney stayed a bit longer. The men in helmets spanked each other's butts a few times, but did little else of interest, just ran around in nonsensical patterns until they crashed into one another, followed by long periods where nothing much happened at all. American football was a cross between the Roman legions and bumper cars, he decided. He wandered off, retreating to the semi-quiet of their bedroom. He picked a pair of his underwear off the pillows and tossed it to the floor. John called the bedroom the last refuge of the refuse.
The house filled with the television hiss of crowd noise, punctuated by random outbursts from John and Ronon. Frankly, not that Rodney would ever admit it, but he was a shade intimidated by John when he was like this. Just a hair. It had been hard to picture such a lean, graceful skater shooting guns, but now he could credit it. Rodney wasn't sure he appreciated feeling like the effete opera queen of the household. He made himself comfortable on his pillows and tried to read.
There was bellowing and whooping. Louder crowd noise that barely drowned out a triumphant marching band. Rodney stirred, blinking himself awake. His book had fallen shut and he'd lost his page. The floor shook and John jumped and landed with a "Yeah!" -- and Rodney realized that's what had probably woken him.
The bedroom door slammed open. John tackled him on the bed.
"Nobody wins two Superbowls in a row! Nobody! You know how old Elway is? Thirty-eight years old. They said he should retire. And now he's won two Superbowls!" John thumped his own chest. "I'm only twenty-eight! They're telling me to retire? Fuck that!"
He gave Rodney a violent, sloppy kiss, then leapt for the living room, punching the air with a whoop.
Rodney wiped his mouth, re-evaluating football. Then got up to see if there were any potato chips left.
[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: "This is entirely your fault, you know. You said I could create my own adoring minions and people the skating world with them, raising them like well-trained puppies."
A/N: Thank you to my tireless betas,
rabidfan and roaringmice (our skating consultant ;). Welcome to the team, tingler and mariamme. 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 Bethany's performance at the Canadian Nationals John has just two weeks to get his head together.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The ice rumbled under John's skates, the last person on the ice after a busy freestyle session at the Hurwitz's rink. The shavings looked like damp snow. He left tracks through them as he skated. There was a loud clang and metallic thump. Then the Zamboni beeped like a truck backing up. The driver cut a quick glance at John, who took his cue and glided smoothly over to the edge, snatching up his hard guards as he stepped off the ice. The Zamboni engine growled as it rolled forward, and John stood there calmly, pinching his fingers down the blade of one skate, swiping it clean. He snapped on the guard, then did the other one.
He leaned his chin on his arm draped over the railing and watched the driver cut the rink in two, leaving a wet stripe down the middle. The front screw cut the ice, grinding and cleaning, while the man on top spun the wheel and rolled slowly around the outer edge of the rink. The brush thrummed along the boards, cutting and scrubbing, and the driver worked the plunger on the pump several times.
John wondered if they'd ever gotten a glove or mitten caught in the machine, if that would bring it to a halt, or if the machine could grind on without noticing it. Upstairs they hadn't taken down the "Go Bethany" banner. And, okay, he didn't want to be the one to do it either. But if it were him, he'd want the reminder off the wall. Now.
John watched the Zamboni make its circles, relentless and slow. He'd always wanted to drive the thing. He'd studied the patterns they made often enough that he was pretty sure he could do a better job. Because, there, right in front of John, the guy missed a spot and was gonna have to come around for an extra pass. The trick was to overlap by just a few inches; maximum coverage, maximum efficiency. As a skater John knew that wherever the Zamboni made an extra pass, the ice turned out a little bit rough. He thought only skaters should be hired to drive them. Or hockey players. Hockey players were acceptable.
The Zamboni rumbled by, covering that missed patch in glossy smooth water. It smelled faintly of chlorine and swimming pools to John. Then the machine curved and rolled over the final dry line of ice and made its way clumsily to the door, a lumbering cross between a turtle and some kind of prehistoric bottom feeder. It lifted its back bar and dumped a small snow bank line of ice. Then the driver drove the Zamboni off the rink. He returned moments later with a shovel and began scooping up that last pile.
John shifted in place. He watched the ice dry in patches, well-lit streaks of wet in diffuse winter light, and sighed into his sleeve.
"I knew it. I am always right, but sometimes I am merciful and it's always a mistake," Rodney announced without preamble.
"Good morning, Rodney." Radek's voice sounded suspiciously and inappropriately cheerful. The sound grew briefly muffled, like he'd put his palm over the receiver, and he murmured, "Family. It'll be a few minutes."
"Family? Who's there?" Rodney complained.
Radek's voice returned to normal volume. "I have a conference call in a moment."
"Conference call?"
"I'm at work. You've called me at ten o'clock in the morning. It is a novel experience. Has John been teaching you about time zones?"
"Time zones?" Rodney squinted at the clock on the stove, then sagged. "Oh, Christ, it's four am. I've been up all night," he swore and paced his kitchen. He lowered his voice, however, mindful of John asleep in the bedroom, hissing, "This is entirely your fault, you know. You said I could create my own adoring minions and people the skating world with them, raising them like well-trained puppies—"
"I don't remember saying—"
"It was implied. Instead, I have skaters!" Rodney's arm swept out to encompass the entire skating world. "First there's Melanie Weir who, despite her many failings in her jumps, has inexplicably fixated on her spins--her saving grace--convinced that she can't do them anymore because she flubbed one at an inopportune moment. One! I have her snippy mother standing over me with folded arms saying, 'Fix it, Rodney,' like I'm qualified to deal with psychosis.
"Then ever since Canadians, Bethany has been fit to be tied. One minute she's biting my head off; the next she's in tears. And she did great! She debuted at Junior Nationals at age twelve, something that I did of course, but it's young and impressive and quite an achievement. Her long was disappointing, yes, yes, but due to a mistake, not a fundamental problem, she has years ahead of her—but can I shake any perspective into her skull? No!
"And because she's 'the calm one,' all my students are acting up. I'm ready to take her off the ice just for the sake of my own sanity.
"Worst of all is John, who doesn't even have the excuse of being a teenager." Rodney huffed. "I pieced him back together after Utrecht where, admittedly, he lost and lost badly, but now he's moping around like some creature from outer space has sucked the life out of him, and it's not as if he lost at Canadians."
"Some people are not as, ah, thick-skinned as you are, Rodney."
"Oh, don't you start, too! I've had enough 'Jesus, she's just a kid' from him!" Rodney stabbed a finger at the floor. "She may be twelve but she's a pro and she's better than this. Frankly it's going to get harder, not easier for her."
"You think she's that good?" Radek said with bemused surprise.
"I've had to adjust my timeline, yes," Rodney said, stiffly, chin lifting. "Someday a researcher is going to do a study and discover that all skaters are genetically predisposed towards melodrama."
"Ha. I have a top-ranked ski jumper in the hospital with his jaw broken. Why? Because he reacted badly to something a local football team said. Not football player. Football team." Radek's chair squeaked. "I'll take your dramatic skaters and raise you tiny skiers with Napoleon complexes any day of the week."
"Athletes," Rodney said, his shoulder slumped to one side in disgust.
"We could kill them, but they're too good at killing themselves."
"Well, John has less than two weeks to get his head together before Nationals. Short of brain surgery I've no clue what to do. We're just lucky they're not till February this year ... which is kind of late, come to think of it."
"Mmm, yes. The networks asked the USFSA not to schedule them the same weekend as the Superbowl any more. I think the term 'ratings disaster' came up"
"Huh. Well, luckily John's watching some rodeo Sunday. He's been going on and on about the broncos."
The cold cut to John's lungs. After a crystal blue morning the clouds had rolled in again, low and soft gray, promising warmer temperatures and more snow. Around him snow had accumulated in puffy drifts sealed with a thin crust of ice, making curled wave-like shapes over the edges of the little gully. It had been a mild winter. Then arctic air had swept down from the North Pole and temperatures had plummeted below zero. The lakes froze overnight into glassy smooth black ice.
Wind had frozen glittering rivulets down the sides of the birch trees. Road conditions were treacherous. Half of Rodney's clients had cancelled and John's tires had spun on black ice all the way up here.
John took off the ski pants and sat on them to lace his skates, his fingers pink and chapped in the open air. His icy breath disappeared almost immediately and he gladly stuffed his down mittens back on.
He balled up the ski pants and set them on his boots. He left his parka on, though, along with the ski mask. His legs felt thick under multiple layers of capilene, stretch tights, and windproof fleece.
The first few feet of ice were rough, and popped and crackled as he tested it. The sound of his blades was as loud as the crunch of his snow tires had been, echoing off trees that protected the pond. Ice was always thinnest around the edges. Then he hit dark ice as solid as concrete and glided, whisper soft.
The wind breathed across the snowdrifts, making surface snow shift and hiss. John squinted and turned his back to it, wind pushing him like a hand. He moved clumsy and slow, and made a curve around the pond, warming up clenched muscles before he lengthening his strokes. John did easy moves, things he hadn't thought about since he was a kid and skated just for fun rather than competitions. He skirted the edge of the pond that was overhung with willow branches. Tempting as it was to go under them and dodge the bower of whippy boughs trailing toward the ice.
"An Olympic-sized rink and you choose to skate on a puddle?"
Rodney stood on the ridge, bundled like a fat red snowman, snow crumbling over the edge toward the pond.
John slid to a stop and squinted up at him. "How'd you find me?"
"Your car was parked by side of the road. The rest didn't exactly take an expert tracker." He waved back towards John's wide footsteps where they broke through knee-high snow. Which didn't exactly explain how he'd found John's car. "It's freezing out here." Rodney wrapped his arms around himself. "What?" he said to John's incredulous look. "Rinks are refrigerated, not sub-zero!"
John snorted. "It's not that cold out." Though it kind of was.
"Wind chill!"
"I promise I'll be home before dark, mom," John said.
"Hmph," Rodney replied with a sniff. The snow around the little ridge crumbled a bit more as he left, the snow making a squeaky sound as it crunched underfoot.
John held his right leg back behind him, curving in slow arches on one skate, although thanks to Rodney he was now highly aware of how cold the gusts of wind were. Minutes later, he heard the rustle-scrape of ski pants and looked up to see who else had come to disturb him.
Rodney tumbled snow on all sides as he strode through it, holding his skates and a small boom box high while he floundered over the little ridge down to the pond. He managed to hit a branch with his skates and dropped more snow on himself, muttering deprecations under his breath. "Of all places to skate... I fail to see the appeal of the so-called great outdoors...." He shook his hands, then finally thought to set the skates down.
John relieved him of the boom box while Rodney dusted snow off himself with both mittens. He looked around for a seat, like you'd find at a rink, looking confused, until he sat on John's snow pants to put on his skates.
He looked up at John with wide blue eyes. "Unless you mind," he said, half a question.
"Nah, it's cool," John said. He turned to point out the hazards. "You need to stay away from that log and those willows over there," he instructed. "The ice is sure to be rotten and I doubt you want to find out if the pond is frozen solid or not."
He found a spot for the boom box where they hopefully wouldn't forget it. "And you won't need this."
"No music?" Rodney was lacing his skates up quicker than John had ever seen him.
John shook his head with a tight smile.
Rodney grumbled over the imperfections on the pond's surface -- but that's just what natural ice was like. John even had to stop Rodney from gouging at one with the end of his skate, sheesh. At last, Rodney was contentedly stroking, hands folded at his back.
John let his inside leg cut behind the other. He lined up both skates, lifting the following one in an incomplete arc of a leg lift, letting it fall, the motion aimless, thoughtful, his head down. He came to a stop at a random point. Then he walked his skates forward, pushed back by the wind before he threw his weight into it, knees bent, arrowing across the pond. Going for speed like a hockey player. He hit the far edge in seconds, shaved the surface with his inside skate as he turned, then let the momentum carry him to another random point, enjoying the scuff of blades in the open.
He was suddenly pushed forward with a hard shove to the back.
"Tag!" Rodney said, scooting off.
John tilted his head at him with a closed-mouth warning smile, eyes gleaming. "You have nowhere to run."
"Ah, but you still won't catch me," Rodney said, one gloved finger raised. He moved backward with little teasing pushes as John approached.
He dodged John's first grab deftly, ducking under his arm. His laugh was almost a giggle and he swept away from John's second try. John paused to reconsider his strategy. He was beginning to think Rodney had played hockey.
The setting sun dappled the underside of the cloudbank, making it look solid. The sunlight etched steep shadows, outlining the birch trees in gold, and the ice reflected the gold sky like a mirror. John and Rodney stretched on their backs on the golden ice like they were about to make snow angels, all laughed out. The cold seeped through John's parka, and through the down vest underneath, but he ignored it, breathing up at the sky. Sunlight was warm on his face.
Rodney sat up first and narrowed his eyes at the skyline in a calculating manner. "We have maybe twelve minutes before dark, possibly less."
John nodded his agreement, sitting up with a satisfied sigh.
They trudged over the edge of the gully, following their tracks. They stamped their feet to get warm. The boom box swung in Rodney's hand.
"You know what I want?" John said.
"Mmm?" Rodney said, sleepy-eyed and peaceful.
"Hot chocolate."
"Ooo! With mini marshmallows?"
"Yeah."
It was feeding time at the zoo. Rodney was reminded specifically of the orangutan cage, with all the hooting and squalling and leaping about. From his kitchen he regarded the invasion of his living room with arms folded.
"Woo!" John said, his hair sloppy and damp after the most recent touchdown. His yoga teacher, a gruff man larger than most bouncers whose name was Ronon, apparently, followed John into the kitchen where they extended their incursion to the refrigerator.
It was half time, or the first quarter, or something like that, Rodney didn't quite follow. But on TV, Kiss was performing in full makeup staggering around on a large float. Kiss.
"Good game?" Rodney asked politely. He was grateful that at least he wasn't required to attend.
"Terrible game," John said, smiling. He ripped open a bag of baby carrots and dumped them into a bowl, biting one in half and chewing. He wore an oversized football jersey with the number eleven on it.
"Yeah. It's a slaughter," Ronon agreed in a low rumble.
"They should have Elway play with one arm tied behind his back to even the odds," John added, his smile turning mean. "Give the Falcons a fighting chance."
"His passing arm," Ronon added. He ripped a bag of chips in half, and dumped them into a salad bowl John provided. Ronon handed it to him with an offering nod.
John held up his hand. "The chips are for you. I'm not allowed."
Ronon tossed a chip at him. It stuck in John's hair. "You're a flyweight."
"I have to be," John fired back, brushing the chip out of his hair.
"We've gotta start you on Ashtanga yoga. Now that's some serious shit. It's got jumps...."
They returned to the living room with all the quiet of overgrown puppies. Rottweiler puppies. Kiss yammered in the background. Rodney sighed in relief.
Finally, the squealing rock music ended and the television hushed with anticipatory crowd noise. John and Ronon fell silent, perched on the couch. John leaned his elbows on his knees. Despite himself, Rodney was drawn forward. He leaned against the kitchen doorjamb, arms crossed protectively.
There were two rows of men in shiny tights, bent over, facing each other. One man crouched with his hands between the legs of the guy in the center. Rodney squinted. He didn't remember this from Thanksgiving.
"You know...." Rodney said, "...that's really suggestive."
John cast him a naughty, bright-eyed smirk over his shoulder. "Now you're getting it."
Ronon shook his head, snickering. "You guys are sick – oh, oh, oh!" He turned back to the television and pounded the chair. The ball had sailed over the field and someone had caught it right away, running it back. "First down!"
"There is pain in Atlanta tonight," John crowed, curling forward. "Physical pain."
"Last year's was a better game," Ronon said. He dug around in a bag of pretzels.
"Don't remind me," John said, glaring at the ground. "I was at Nationals at the time. I had to catch the highlights on SportsCenter afterward."
"Ouch."
Rodney stayed a bit longer. The men in helmets spanked each other's butts a few times, but did little else of interest, just ran around in nonsensical patterns until they crashed into one another, followed by long periods where nothing much happened at all. American football was a cross between the Roman legions and bumper cars, he decided. He wandered off, retreating to the semi-quiet of their bedroom. He picked a pair of his underwear off the pillows and tossed it to the floor. John called the bedroom the last refuge of the refuse.
The house filled with the television hiss of crowd noise, punctuated by random outbursts from John and Ronon. Frankly, not that Rodney would ever admit it, but he was a shade intimidated by John when he was like this. Just a hair. It had been hard to picture such a lean, graceful skater shooting guns, but now he could credit it. Rodney wasn't sure he appreciated feeling like the effete opera queen of the household. He made himself comfortable on his pillows and tried to read.
There was bellowing and whooping. Louder crowd noise that barely drowned out a triumphant marching band. Rodney stirred, blinking himself awake. His book had fallen shut and he'd lost his page. The floor shook and John jumped and landed with a "Yeah!" -- and Rodney realized that's what had probably woken him.
The bedroom door slammed open. John tackled him on the bed.
"Nobody wins two Superbowls in a row! Nobody! You know how old Elway is? Thirty-eight years old. They said he should retire. And now he's won two Superbowls!" John thumped his own chest. "I'm only twenty-eight! They're telling me to retire? Fuck that!"
He gave Rodney a violent, sloppy kiss, then leapt for the living room, punching the air with a whoop.
Rodney wiped his mouth, re-evaluating football. Then got up to see if there were any potato chips left.
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Date: 2009-01-25 12:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-25 01:45 am (UTC)When I was a kid, every single Grade school had an outdoor rink. Our little town has one beside the swimming pool and one in another place. And I know there are people who skate on the river near us during very cold winters like this.
They even make a "road" across the river so they don't have to drive all the way to the bridges. I've never been up for that, though. =>}