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icarusThis section has been reworked and rewritten. Read this post instead.
Who thought I'd last a week away from LJ, even with midterms? Funny how once I wasn't spamming you guys on LJ I got a lot more writing done. *looks guilty*
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: Bracken crackled underfoot as John created his own shortcut through a dead flowerbed – then he caught sight of the massive lake stretching the horizon. Wind brushed his bangs aside.
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 ;), as well as tingler and mariamme.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
They were just setting out the continental breakfast in a room off the main lobby, the scent of warm muffins and coffee strong as John reached the bottom of the stairs. He jumped the last step. Two girls in sweats were taking most of the available space between the tables to do ballet stretches, ignoring each other so eloquently it was obvious they were competitors.
John stepped over one girl's legs with an insincere apology and passed on the donuts -- those and the croissants were on Rodney's "no, not a chance, not on your life" list -- dunking a teabag in some hot water. He tipped in a sugar cube (sugar cubes were the main reason to stay in hotels) and finished it standing up at the counter. Then he dusted off his fingers and snapped on his headband, snugging it over his ears. He tugged the windstopper tights down from where they were starting to slide up his butt, kicked his foot a little, and began a loping run through the ornate hotel lobby.
Outside, the cold hit him. His breath streamed away to the east and he looked up at a deep blue early morning sky, squinting at street lamps. There was no traffic at this hour despite the double lanes going both ways. He jogged in place then crossed at the light, heading north towards the arena. He liked to know the lay of the land.
Warmth bled through him, that runner's euphoria combined with the silence and the fun of exploring a new city. Milwaukee had a staunch warehouse feel, like it could take anything you threw at it. He pulled down the zipper of his turtleneck. He jogged past square brick buildings, his footsteps and breaths making a slow, regular beat.
The Bradley Center Arena turned out to be only a few blocks away although Rodney would probably insist on driving there anyhow. Highlighted beyond the glass wall a heavyset security guard walked with lazy confidence past the doors, while two baristas stocked shelves behind a Starbucks counter, busy despite the fact the first practice sessions weren't for another hour at least.
John passed the huge lighted sign that read "U.S. Figure Skating Championships" and tried to believe he was here. But it didn't seem real yet, and wouldn't until he was on the ice.
He jogged along a brick and cobblestone street lined with Bavarian-looking buildings, and thought they must have one hell of an Oktoberfest around here. The moist scent of water filled the air and he turned east again, toward the rock and slap of water against levies.
The sky opened up around him as John found himself on a stone slab of a bridge crossing a river, his panting breaths loud to his ears. He tucked his hands in his pockets and curled his shoulders against a sharp wind which had shifted around to the northeast. His nose and cheeks stung and he mentally added "ski mask" to his list for the next run. Reaching the other side, he gratefully turned down a sheltered wooded street.
This side of the bridge seemed more upscale. He glanced around at the glass buildings and carefully tended trees as the street climbed at a steady incline. He felt his legs actually starting to work now, a satisfying burn, and missed his inline skates, but Rodney had forbidden them. He'd argue a little harder but he didn't have a leg to stand on there.
The hill topped out at a park. That's when he heard it: the soft rolling thunder of breakers on Lake Michigan. He'd lived in Chicago long enough to recognize it anywhere. Too gentle for the ocean. Too loud to be anywhere else. The wind picked up as he threaded through tiny winding paths, though he didn't mind it this time. Bracken crackled underfoot as he created his own shortcut through a dead flowerbed – then he caught sight of the massive lake stretching the horizon. Wind brushed his bangs aside.
Dawn had begun to stain the sky a lighter blue. The water was a steely deep gray beneath it. After a moment John took a snaking path down to the parkway that followed the waterline. He wondered if this turned into the same Lakeshore Drive that ran through his hometown. A white arching museum perched on the rocky shore, like a bird ready to take flight.
Welcome back, John thought.
~*~*~
It wasn't until John set foot in the smothering warmth of the hotel lobby that he felt the cold again, radiating from him like he'd been on the rink for hours. The hotel fairly thrummed with excitement, an undercurrent John could practically feel, like a subsonic hum.
More people were in the lobby now, parents and skaters and stoic coaches. Several younger kids in skating club jackets over skirts bounced nervously, their high voices snappish. Another little girl stood silently apart from the others, her shoulders squared, tense and serious as she nibbled some dry toast. Competing today, John was willing to bet.
Nine or ten teenagers clustered around yesterday's registration table, now unmanned, rifling three stacks of paper. A thickset balding man radiating that studied calm of a coach during competition season waded through them, hands high, and picked up a sheet.
Ah. The skate order had been posted. The short program was always random. John figured they picked the names out of a hat.
He did stretches, knee planted on an overly ornate couch, waiting for the coast to clear. Then he sauntered over to the table, massaging where his neck joined his shoulder, wondering if he should get a bagel for Rodney or make him get off his lazy butt and get it himself. John weighed the benefits (a grateful, perky Rodney munching his bagel and making happy sounds) versus the minuses (Rodney getting crumbs on the bed) as his eyes skimmed down the schedule.
He skated last in the second group, which wasn't bad, scoring-wise. Judges tended to score the first skaters conservatively, leaving room in their standings for later. Then he noticed the name right before his.
"Oh, mother fuck...."
~*~*~
John softly shut the door to the hotel room. A room service tray sat on the dresser with a half-devoured bowl of winter melon, yogurt, granola, and a pitcher of green juice that he couldn't identify. John's protein shake mix was helpfully open beside it. Rodney emerged from the bathroom swathed in towels.
"Got the schedule," John said, flat-voiced, all expression wiped from his face.
"Where have you been?"
"Jogging."
"For two hours?"
"It takes longer without the inlines. Here." He handed the sheet to Rodney like an accusation. Rodney's quick eyes scanned down the page.
"Looks pretty good." Rodney shrugged and held it out again. "Four pm's not so bad. I had to start at midnight once, but that happens when you're in first after the short."
"No." John pushed it back towards Rodney. "Read it."
"There's nothing...." Rodney's breath caught and his eyes went wide and panicky as he saw it. Yep. "So you're on right after Fletcher, that's um..." He swallowed and raised his eyebrows. "... well, it could be worse." He rolled his shoulders, squirming at the lie.
John tipped his head at Rodney in a grim disbelieving stare.
Rodney spread his hands with a huff of frustration and spun around. "Look. What do you want from me? An empty platitude?" He handed John the schedule in a firm gesture. "It sucks, okay?"
"Okay." John nodded once, agreeing.
"Right."
"Good."
They were silent a long moment with nothing more than the rustle of paper as John folded the schedule and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. He sat down in a chair next to the dresser and picked at the melon, not feeling very hungry. Rodney stretched out on the thick burgundy bedspread with an exuberant sigh. He cuddled his shoulders back into the pillows like a smug Persian cat.
"I could beat Fletcher," Rodney said, his head cupped on his laced fingers.
John snorted.
"I so could," Rodney insisted, turning annoyed. "What? He's not that great." He disentangled one hand and wagged his forefinger at John. "And he doesn't have the quad. Not consistently."
"True." John bobbed his head to one side, hands folded loosely in his lap. "I've got him there."
"And it's better to skate after him than before," Rodney mused. "He can warm up the crowd for you."
John couldn't help but smile.
[Previous][Next]
Who thought I'd last a week away from LJ, even with midterms? Funny how once I wasn't spamming you guys on LJ I got a lot more writing done. *looks guilty*
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: Bracken crackled underfoot as John created his own shortcut through a dead flowerbed – then he caught sight of the massive lake stretching the horizon. Wind brushed his bangs aside.
A/N: Thank you to my tireless betas,
rabidfan and roaringmice (our skating consultant ;), as well as tingler and mariamme. 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. After a year of training and preparation... the U.S. Championships.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
They were just setting out the continental breakfast in a room off the main lobby, the scent of warm muffins and coffee strong as John reached the bottom of the stairs. He jumped the last step. Two girls in sweats were taking most of the available space between the tables to do ballet stretches, ignoring each other so eloquently it was obvious they were competitors.
John stepped over one girl's legs with an insincere apology and passed on the donuts -- those and the croissants were on Rodney's "no, not a chance, not on your life" list -- dunking a teabag in some hot water. He tipped in a sugar cube (sugar cubes were the main reason to stay in hotels) and finished it standing up at the counter. Then he dusted off his fingers and snapped on his headband, snugging it over his ears. He tugged the windstopper tights down from where they were starting to slide up his butt, kicked his foot a little, and began a loping run through the ornate hotel lobby.
Outside, the cold hit him. His breath streamed away to the east and he looked up at a deep blue early morning sky, squinting at street lamps. There was no traffic at this hour despite the double lanes going both ways. He jogged in place then crossed at the light, heading north towards the arena. He liked to know the lay of the land.
Warmth bled through him, that runner's euphoria combined with the silence and the fun of exploring a new city. Milwaukee had a staunch warehouse feel, like it could take anything you threw at it. He pulled down the zipper of his turtleneck. He jogged past square brick buildings, his footsteps and breaths making a slow, regular beat.
The Bradley Center Arena turned out to be only a few blocks away although Rodney would probably insist on driving there anyhow. Highlighted beyond the glass wall a heavyset security guard walked with lazy confidence past the doors, while two baristas stocked shelves behind a Starbucks counter, busy despite the fact the first practice sessions weren't for another hour at least.
John passed the huge lighted sign that read "U.S. Figure Skating Championships" and tried to believe he was here. But it didn't seem real yet, and wouldn't until he was on the ice.
He jogged along a brick and cobblestone street lined with Bavarian-looking buildings, and thought they must have one hell of an Oktoberfest around here. The moist scent of water filled the air and he turned east again, toward the rock and slap of water against levies.
The sky opened up around him as John found himself on a stone slab of a bridge crossing a river, his panting breaths loud to his ears. He tucked his hands in his pockets and curled his shoulders against a sharp wind which had shifted around to the northeast. His nose and cheeks stung and he mentally added "ski mask" to his list for the next run. Reaching the other side, he gratefully turned down a sheltered wooded street.
This side of the bridge seemed more upscale. He glanced around at the glass buildings and carefully tended trees as the street climbed at a steady incline. He felt his legs actually starting to work now, a satisfying burn, and missed his inline skates, but Rodney had forbidden them. He'd argue a little harder but he didn't have a leg to stand on there.
The hill topped out at a park. That's when he heard it: the soft rolling thunder of breakers on Lake Michigan. He'd lived in Chicago long enough to recognize it anywhere. Too gentle for the ocean. Too loud to be anywhere else. The wind picked up as he threaded through tiny winding paths, though he didn't mind it this time. Bracken crackled underfoot as he created his own shortcut through a dead flowerbed – then he caught sight of the massive lake stretching the horizon. Wind brushed his bangs aside.
Dawn had begun to stain the sky a lighter blue. The water was a steely deep gray beneath it. After a moment John took a snaking path down to the parkway that followed the waterline. He wondered if this turned into the same Lakeshore Drive that ran through his hometown. A white arching museum perched on the rocky shore, like a bird ready to take flight.
Welcome back, John thought.
It wasn't until John set foot in the smothering warmth of the hotel lobby that he felt the cold again, radiating from him like he'd been on the rink for hours. The hotel fairly thrummed with excitement, an undercurrent John could practically feel, like a subsonic hum.
More people were in the lobby now, parents and skaters and stoic coaches. Several younger kids in skating club jackets over skirts bounced nervously, their high voices snappish. Another little girl stood silently apart from the others, her shoulders squared, tense and serious as she nibbled some dry toast. Competing today, John was willing to bet.
Nine or ten teenagers clustered around yesterday's registration table, now unmanned, rifling three stacks of paper. A thickset balding man radiating that studied calm of a coach during competition season waded through them, hands high, and picked up a sheet.
Ah. The skate order had been posted. The short program was always random. John figured they picked the names out of a hat.
He did stretches, knee planted on an overly ornate couch, waiting for the coast to clear. Then he sauntered over to the table, massaging where his neck joined his shoulder, wondering if he should get a bagel for Rodney or make him get off his lazy butt and get it himself. John weighed the benefits (a grateful, perky Rodney munching his bagel and making happy sounds) versus the minuses (Rodney getting crumbs on the bed) as his eyes skimmed down the schedule.
He skated last in the second group, which wasn't bad, scoring-wise. Judges tended to score the first skaters conservatively, leaving room in their standings for later. Then he noticed the name right before his.
"Oh, mother fuck...."
John softly shut the door to the hotel room. A room service tray sat on the dresser with a half-devoured bowl of winter melon, yogurt, granola, and a pitcher of green juice that he couldn't identify. John's protein shake mix was helpfully open beside it. Rodney emerged from the bathroom swathed in towels.
"Got the schedule," John said, flat-voiced, all expression wiped from his face.
"Where have you been?"
"Jogging."
"For two hours?"
"It takes longer without the inlines. Here." He handed the sheet to Rodney like an accusation. Rodney's quick eyes scanned down the page.
"Looks pretty good." Rodney shrugged and held it out again. "Four pm's not so bad. I had to start at midnight once, but that happens when you're in first after the short."
"No." John pushed it back towards Rodney. "Read it."
"There's nothing...." Rodney's breath caught and his eyes went wide and panicky as he saw it. Yep. "So you're on right after Fletcher, that's um..." He swallowed and raised his eyebrows. "... well, it could be worse." He rolled his shoulders, squirming at the lie.
John tipped his head at Rodney in a grim disbelieving stare.
Rodney spread his hands with a huff of frustration and spun around. "Look. What do you want from me? An empty platitude?" He handed John the schedule in a firm gesture. "It sucks, okay?"
"Okay." John nodded once, agreeing.
"Right."
"Good."
They were silent a long moment with nothing more than the rustle of paper as John folded the schedule and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. He sat down in a chair next to the dresser and picked at the melon, not feeling very hungry. Rodney stretched out on the thick burgundy bedspread with an exuberant sigh. He cuddled his shoulders back into the pillows like a smug Persian cat.
"I could beat Fletcher," Rodney said, his head cupped on his laced fingers.
John snorted.
"I so could," Rodney insisted, turning annoyed. "What? He's not that great." He disentangled one hand and wagged his forefinger at John. "And he doesn't have the quad. Not consistently."
"True." John bobbed his head to one side, hands folded loosely in his lap. "I've got him there."
"And it's better to skate after him than before," Rodney mused. "He can warm up the crowd for you."
John couldn't help but smile.
[Previous][Next]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-19 04:54 pm (UTC)I first clicked the link to this story out of morbid fascination at the thought of Rodney Mckay on ice, but after aproximately three sentences, I was caught hook, line, and sinker. Your writing is incredibly easy to read a la James Patterson, but at the same time I don't get the juvenile undertones of, say, Stephanie Meyer. Very solid.
It reads like a novel and you've actually made the characters your own instead of relying on fandom cliches. It is refreshing to say the least.
I absolutely believe that Rodney is an ex-Olympic skater with his own slightly crotchety brand of joie-de-vive. He is so much fun and such a human being. I can completely see his messy house (possibly because mine is much the same) and that crazy "I-know-where-everything-is" attitude unique to brilliant but messy people everywhere. I especially love that Rodney's younger mouth keeps biting him in the ass. He would piss off most of the figure skating world.
As for John, I almost wept at the reality of him. This is possibly the most gorgeous interpretation of John Sheppard I have ever read. He has that attitude that makes him totally aware of his faults, but still clueless as to the reasons why and the way to fix them. I cannot enthuse enough over him.
Also, Sonja makes my heart smile and Radek makes the rest of me smile. This entire story is a masterful blend of Canon and Original Characters that few people can pull off effectively. I actually care when OCs get text time because it is all completely relevant. There is not a single person here that I do not believe. The under-story for everyone is rock solid and completely there without being too obvious.
I enjoy this fiction so much that it is difficult to choose any favorite scene, but a couple of the ones that stick with me the most and keep making me chuckle are the conversation twixt John and Hockey Coach Caldwell, and the yard-cleaning after the storm.
Alright, this is getting ridiculously long, so I am just going to continue eagerly awaiting more in silence.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-20 08:17 pm (UTC)I had to ... transform? ... the characters because I needed to make them both younger than they are in canon. That forced me to write a much younger and more immature John, for example. Radek was never supposed to be part of the AU, yet he turned up of his own accord. After he showed up, he apparently left the door open for all the other SGA minor characters.
Sonja muscled her way in one morning while I was getting dressed: the scene was there with Rodney meeting her at the restaurant, a skater so self-absorbed she can't be bothered with politics who would have a very different take on John. I didn't want a major OC but I couldn't get rid of her.
Bethany was supposed to be two-dimensional, likewise Melanie, but they started turning into little people over time. They were much more polite about it than Sonja, however.
I'm swamped at school, three weeks before the end of the quarter, taking Sanskrit and two history classes (reading, reading, reading and more reading). But I'm really close to done. I have about five scenes left to write and then I can piece together the last 30 pages or so.
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 02:13 am (UTC)Frankly, I'm glad the others muscled their way in. It made the entire story more dynamic by a hundred fold.
Also... Oooooh, Sanskrit! I'm a language fanatic myself (which I assume you to be at least to some extent because otherwise, who in their right mind would take Sanskrit?).
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 02:59 am (UTC)I think people want the story to go on forever. But it's not possible to have a good story that goes on forever, just for pacing reasons.
So there are two options:
Option A - An unfinished WIP ("I don't want you to finish soon" and "I have mixed feelings about you finishing soon")
Option B - A finished WIP ("I can't wait for it to be done!")
Do I sound moderately stressed?
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2009-02-23 03:23 pm (UTC)You have to understand that when we say things like that we don't always quite mean it that way. Mostly it's just fandomy petulence shining through.
We're rooting for you!
no subject
Date: 2009-03-31 11:42 pm (UTC)Here's the rewrite, with two new scenes (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/870040.html) and a little more, because a rewrite seems like I'm not giving you enough (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/871142.html).