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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]
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Date: 2009-02-26 12:25 pm (UTC)