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icarusThe 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.
This is a rewritten section with two new scenes. Some of it may seem familiar, but keep reading. :D Explanation in the A/N.
A/N: By way of explanation,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roaringmice (my skating consultant) didn't have time to look over my last part before I posted (translation: Icarus jumped the gun). I should have waited for her. Turns out that skaters aren't given their skate order: they draw their own placement. This forced a rewrite. Thank you to my tireless betas, rabidfan and roaringmice, 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 instead. 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 one 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. Two baristas stocked shelves behind a Starbucks counter, busy despite the fact the first practice session wasn't for another couple of hours.
John passed the huge lighted sign that read "U.S. Figure Skating Championships" and tried to believe he was truly here. But it didn't seem real yet, and wouldn't until he was actually on the ice.
He left the Bradley Center behind, jogging 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 crossing a stone slab of a bridge crossing a river, his panting breaths loud to his ears. He tucked his hands in his pockets and clenched 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 clipped 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 would've argued 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.
~*~*~
John slowed into a walk a few blocks from the hotel, massaging the spot where his neck joined his shoulder, wondering if he should pick up 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 the Bradley Center. He caught sight of a familiar hatchback that had snagged the best parking spot right out front. The white Honda was angled in sideways, a sloppy eighteen inches from the curb.
Yep, John confirmed as he changed direction, Toronto plates. With Rodney's mug on the dashboard. Rodney couldn't parallel park worth a damn, though what he was doing at the arena so early was beyond John. Rodney didn't do early, not unless he was paid.
He paused at the glass door to pat down his pockets for his badge, though the guard just nodded him through. John supposed he must look like a skater or something.
A small line had already formed at the Starbuck's inside. He frowned as he peered into the arena. A surprising number of people had gathered in the stands. An hour early to watch the practice sessions? John looked around, puzzled. Down by the ice, a dozen guys collected, pacing and restless by the side of the rink. About half of them were in costume.
"John!" a familiar buoyant voice called.
John turned to catch Yvonne's bounce and wave behind a cluster of college age girls. Several people in line at Starbucks glanced around at the shout. She dodged through her friends and ran up to John, track jacket zipped over her yellow skating dress. She stopped several inches short of pouncing on him.
"Hi there," she said, dimpled and nervous. She swung her arms behind her, hands clutched in tiny fists.
"Hey," John said, eyes dark and alarmed, watching her for any sudden moves. They stood in awkward silence like two teenagers at a dance.
"So. You going to my short?" she asked, bright and hopeful.
"Uh...." John reached for an excuse as he scanned the ceiling. He let his hands drop to his sides as he came up empty.
She heard it coming. "Oh, come on...."
John cringed in guilt, one hand sweeping through his hair. The floor had been recently buffed to a shine.
"Please?" she said with a twinkle. "Pretty please?"
No rescue in sight, John dredged up a reluctant, "I... well, I can't see why not."
"Great!"
John staggered under the sudden armful of cheerful girl as she grabbed him in a hug. She dropped, beaming, and scampered back towards her friends. The people at Starbucks were still staring with prurient interest. The line hadn't moved. She paused to turn around again and walk backward a few hesitant steps, singing out with another wave, "See you tomorrow!"
John shut his eyes, swearing internally. He didn't need distractions.
"There you are!" Rodney's voice cut through the hall.
John followed the gaze of the Starbucks' line in the opposite direction. Rodney stormed towards him in a waddling stride.
"Where've you been?"
John looked behind himself as if Rodney might be aiming for someone else. "Jogging."
"For two hours? I thought you were going to miss the draw!"
"It takes longer without the inlines," John said, then did a double-take. "The draw? They're having it before practice?"
Rodney shrugged, dismissive, and held out what looked like a milkshake. John just frowned at it. "I dunno. Maybe Fletcher has an interview or something. They didn't explain."
"An hour before practice?" John asked, confounded.
"What? No! Practice is in twenty minutes. Lucky for you I brought your skates given you seem to think you can skate in trainers." Rodney gave his shoes a scathing glance. "They're out in the car."
"But it's six-thir...." John slumped and rolled his eyes at himself as it dawned on him, the picture of Toronto plates flashing through his mind, even as the evil knowing grin spread across Rodney's face.
"Not a word," John said, wagging his finger as he hurried down the stairs. He could skate in what he had on.
It was one of Rodney's worst qualities that he never missed an opportunity to rub it in.
"You see, there are these things called time zones," Rodney explained in a perky professorial tone as he unfortunately kept up behind John. "They were invented around the turn of the century to facilitate train schedules. Did you know that North America once had over two hundred and fifty different time-keeping systems-?"
"Wait," John said, stopping on the stairs. His eyes slanted back to Rodney. "I fixed that this morning."
"No, I set your watch last night," Rodney said, tapping his own chest.
"We both did. This is your fault!"
Rodney's eyes wavered. Then he rallied and pointed his finger accusingly. "Have you ever considered checking before you go change the time, willy-nilly? Because I looked at a clock so I was accurate when I did it."
~*~*~
A few more skaters straggled in until twenty or so young men gathered at the edge of the rink, lounging over seats, sipping Starbucks coffee. Some were in costume while others wore workout clothes like John. A small scattering of spectators peered over the railing like curious geese, then turned back to chat with each other. Sorry, folks. Stick around for the second act, John thought, looking up at them. He bounced his shoulder against the wall by the steps, hanging back. Rodney twitched impatiently beside him, jiggling one leg and tapping his fingers on his coffee cup.
John's stomach growled and he folded his arms over his chest, wishing the officials would get this show on the road. He hadn't had breakfast yet.
A velvet bag was brought out, the kind his mom used to hold her silver gravy boat. Tiles that looked like Scrabble pieces were dropped in and rattled around inside. At least they were keeping it simple. Some smaller competitions made a big production out of the draw.
Christian Yong Suk, a small stocky Asian skater with hair slicked back on the sides, got up from his seat and handed off his coffee. He took a tile out of the bag.
"Four," one of the officials read aloud, sounding like he was reading the verdict of a court case.
Other skaters shuffled forward in something that only marginally resembled a line. Another official, an older guy with glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, wrote down the skate order.
Rodney bumped John with his elbow. "Oh, let me pick. I like to pick." Rodney wiggled all ten fingers in the air. "I've got the magic touch."
John shrugged and let him forge ahead in the line. Usually the coach only drew if you couldn't make it for some reason.
"Eight." The official called it as he marked the name down.
A Hispanic-looking kid with huge eyes -- he was wearing eyeliner, wasn't he? John stared -- handed the official his tile. "Fourteen."
The next guy stepped forward, a thin colorless guy with a quick, light step. William Haas? John frowned. Didn't he retire last year? Must have unretired. Some guys couldn't give it up. "Five."
There was a slight stir and several of the guys glanced over. Fletcher had shown, flanked by his coaches. They held a whispering conversation in an undertone and Fletcher gave them one of his shy, sheepish smiles. Fletcher waited at the end of the line, which John liked, since some champions would push it. To acknowledge this, he decided to let Fletcher go ahead of him, resting a hand on Rodney's shoulder to edge him back. A couple of other guys did the same and Fletcher was gradually moved to the front of the line anyway.
Fletcher stepped up and craned his head like he wanted to peer into the bag, then gave up and made his choice.
"Seventeen," they read. He stepped down.
The next skater was right behind him. "Nine."
"Fifteen." Mike Estey stepped away, his jaw clenched. But that was a pretty good number, near the middle of the pack. Judges held their best scores to the end after they'd seen all the skaters. It wasn't fair, but John supposed post positions in horse racing weren't fair either. He and Rodney inched forward.
"Twenty-two."
John added this to his mental tally. Now they knew who'd skate last.
Several more skaters drew. Ten. Thirteen. John didn't envy the little kid who drew tile number one. Then Rodney stepped forward, rubbed his fingers together and selected.
"Eighteen."
Oh, mother fuck.... John rolled his head and looked away.
Rodney pranced, giving John a beaming grin. Not seeing the problem yet. "Told you."
John led him away, leaned closer, and said in his ear, "Remind me to never take you to Vegas."
Rodney did a rapid eye blink of confusion. "Eighteen's a perfectly decent spot –
granted, you might end up skating at midnight, but the later skaters are always scored higher."
"Rodney." John backed Rodney up until his hand pressed Rodney's shoulder against the wall. He said in an flat undertone, "Fletcher drew seventeen."
~*~*~
John softly shut the door to the hotel room. He had a just forty-five minutes to grab a bite and a shower. 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.
"So you're on right after Fletcher, that's um..." Rodney stepped out of the show and paced the room, scrubbing his hair with a towel. "... 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 their copy of 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."
"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]
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.
This is a rewritten section with two new scenes. Some of it may seem familiar, but keep reading. :D Explanation in the A/N.
A/N: By way of explanation,
roaringmice (my skating consultant) didn't have time to look over my last part before I posted (translation: Icarus jumped the gun). I should have waited for her. Turns out that skaters aren't given their skate order: they draw their own placement. This forced a rewrite. Thank you to my tireless betas, rabidfan and roaringmice, 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 instead. 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 one 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. Two baristas stocked shelves behind a Starbucks counter, busy despite the fact the first practice session wasn't for another couple of hours.
John passed the huge lighted sign that read "U.S. Figure Skating Championships" and tried to believe he was truly here. But it didn't seem real yet, and wouldn't until he was actually on the ice.
He left the Bradley Center behind, jogging 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 crossing a stone slab of a bridge crossing a river, his panting breaths loud to his ears. He tucked his hands in his pockets and clenched 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 clipped 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 would've argued 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.
John slowed into a walk a few blocks from the hotel, massaging the spot where his neck joined his shoulder, wondering if he should pick up 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 the Bradley Center. He caught sight of a familiar hatchback that had snagged the best parking spot right out front. The white Honda was angled in sideways, a sloppy eighteen inches from the curb.
Yep, John confirmed as he changed direction, Toronto plates. With Rodney's mug on the dashboard. Rodney couldn't parallel park worth a damn, though what he was doing at the arena so early was beyond John. Rodney didn't do early, not unless he was paid.
He paused at the glass door to pat down his pockets for his badge, though the guard just nodded him through. John supposed he must look like a skater or something.
A small line had already formed at the Starbuck's inside. He frowned as he peered into the arena. A surprising number of people had gathered in the stands. An hour early to watch the practice sessions? John looked around, puzzled. Down by the ice, a dozen guys collected, pacing and restless by the side of the rink. About half of them were in costume.
"John!" a familiar buoyant voice called.
John turned to catch Yvonne's bounce and wave behind a cluster of college age girls. Several people in line at Starbucks glanced around at the shout. She dodged through her friends and ran up to John, track jacket zipped over her yellow skating dress. She stopped several inches short of pouncing on him.
"Hi there," she said, dimpled and nervous. She swung her arms behind her, hands clutched in tiny fists.
"Hey," John said, eyes dark and alarmed, watching her for any sudden moves. They stood in awkward silence like two teenagers at a dance.
"So. You going to my short?" she asked, bright and hopeful.
"Uh...." John reached for an excuse as he scanned the ceiling. He let his hands drop to his sides as he came up empty.
She heard it coming. "Oh, come on...."
John cringed in guilt, one hand sweeping through his hair. The floor had been recently buffed to a shine.
"Please?" she said with a twinkle. "Pretty please?"
No rescue in sight, John dredged up a reluctant, "I... well, I can't see why not."
"Great!"
John staggered under the sudden armful of cheerful girl as she grabbed him in a hug. She dropped, beaming, and scampered back towards her friends. The people at Starbucks were still staring with prurient interest. The line hadn't moved. She paused to turn around again and walk backward a few hesitant steps, singing out with another wave, "See you tomorrow!"
John shut his eyes, swearing internally. He didn't need distractions.
"There you are!" Rodney's voice cut through the hall.
John followed the gaze of the Starbucks' line in the opposite direction. Rodney stormed towards him in a waddling stride.
"Where've you been?"
John looked behind himself as if Rodney might be aiming for someone else. "Jogging."
"For two hours? I thought you were going to miss the draw!"
"It takes longer without the inlines," John said, then did a double-take. "The draw? They're having it before practice?"
Rodney shrugged, dismissive, and held out what looked like a milkshake. John just frowned at it. "I dunno. Maybe Fletcher has an interview or something. They didn't explain."
"An hour before practice?" John asked, confounded.
"What? No! Practice is in twenty minutes. Lucky for you I brought your skates given you seem to think you can skate in trainers." Rodney gave his shoes a scathing glance. "They're out in the car."
"But it's six-thir...." John slumped and rolled his eyes at himself as it dawned on him, the picture of Toronto plates flashing through his mind, even as the evil knowing grin spread across Rodney's face.
"Not a word," John said, wagging his finger as he hurried down the stairs. He could skate in what he had on.
It was one of Rodney's worst qualities that he never missed an opportunity to rub it in.
"You see, there are these things called time zones," Rodney explained in a perky professorial tone as he unfortunately kept up behind John. "They were invented around the turn of the century to facilitate train schedules. Did you know that North America once had over two hundred and fifty different time-keeping systems-?"
"Wait," John said, stopping on the stairs. His eyes slanted back to Rodney. "I fixed that this morning."
"No, I set your watch last night," Rodney said, tapping his own chest.
"We both did. This is your fault!"
Rodney's eyes wavered. Then he rallied and pointed his finger accusingly. "Have you ever considered checking before you go change the time, willy-nilly? Because I looked at a clock so I was accurate when I did it."
A few more skaters straggled in until twenty or so young men gathered at the edge of the rink, lounging over seats, sipping Starbucks coffee. Some were in costume while others wore workout clothes like John. A small scattering of spectators peered over the railing like curious geese, then turned back to chat with each other. Sorry, folks. Stick around for the second act, John thought, looking up at them. He bounced his shoulder against the wall by the steps, hanging back. Rodney twitched impatiently beside him, jiggling one leg and tapping his fingers on his coffee cup.
John's stomach growled and he folded his arms over his chest, wishing the officials would get this show on the road. He hadn't had breakfast yet.
A velvet bag was brought out, the kind his mom used to hold her silver gravy boat. Tiles that looked like Scrabble pieces were dropped in and rattled around inside. At least they were keeping it simple. Some smaller competitions made a big production out of the draw.
Christian Yong Suk, a small stocky Asian skater with hair slicked back on the sides, got up from his seat and handed off his coffee. He took a tile out of the bag.
"Four," one of the officials read aloud, sounding like he was reading the verdict of a court case.
Other skaters shuffled forward in something that only marginally resembled a line. Another official, an older guy with glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, wrote down the skate order.
Rodney bumped John with his elbow. "Oh, let me pick. I like to pick." Rodney wiggled all ten fingers in the air. "I've got the magic touch."
John shrugged and let him forge ahead in the line. Usually the coach only drew if you couldn't make it for some reason.
"Eight." The official called it as he marked the name down.
A Hispanic-looking kid with huge eyes -- he was wearing eyeliner, wasn't he? John stared -- handed the official his tile. "Fourteen."
The next guy stepped forward, a thin colorless guy with a quick, light step. William Haas? John frowned. Didn't he retire last year? Must have unretired. Some guys couldn't give it up. "Five."
There was a slight stir and several of the guys glanced over. Fletcher had shown, flanked by his coaches. They held a whispering conversation in an undertone and Fletcher gave them one of his shy, sheepish smiles. Fletcher waited at the end of the line, which John liked, since some champions would push it. To acknowledge this, he decided to let Fletcher go ahead of him, resting a hand on Rodney's shoulder to edge him back. A couple of other guys did the same and Fletcher was gradually moved to the front of the line anyway.
Fletcher stepped up and craned his head like he wanted to peer into the bag, then gave up and made his choice.
"Seventeen," they read. He stepped down.
The next skater was right behind him. "Nine."
"Fifteen." Mike Estey stepped away, his jaw clenched. But that was a pretty good number, near the middle of the pack. Judges held their best scores to the end after they'd seen all the skaters. It wasn't fair, but John supposed post positions in horse racing weren't fair either. He and Rodney inched forward.
"Twenty-two."
John added this to his mental tally. Now they knew who'd skate last.
Several more skaters drew. Ten. Thirteen. John didn't envy the little kid who drew tile number one. Then Rodney stepped forward, rubbed his fingers together and selected.
"Eighteen."
Oh, mother fuck.... John rolled his head and looked away.
Rodney pranced, giving John a beaming grin. Not seeing the problem yet. "Told you."
John led him away, leaned closer, and said in his ear, "Remind me to never take you to Vegas."
Rodney did a rapid eye blink of confusion. "Eighteen's a perfectly decent spot –
granted, you might end up skating at midnight, but the later skaters are always scored higher."
"Rodney." John backed Rodney up until his hand pressed Rodney's shoulder against the wall. He said in an flat undertone, "Fletcher drew seventeen."
John softly shut the door to the hotel room. He had a just forty-five minutes to grab a bite and a shower. 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.
"So you're on right after Fletcher, that's um..." Rodney stepped out of the show and paced the room, scrubbing his hair with a towel. "... 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 their copy of 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."
"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: 2009-03-28 08:57 pm (UTC)also, i spent countless hours watching video of ice skating after i followed your link. didnt know it was there. my eyes are so tired.
i will read the fic later today, but just wanted to say, " yaaaaaaayyyyy".
:: smiling::
no subject
Date: 2009-03-28 09:31 pm (UTC)But of course, only me and the betas see the results and all the work.
I plan to go into a heavy updating cycle from now until I finish the fic.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-29 10:56 pm (UTC)ps john forgetting the time difference was so cute! :)
no subject
Date: 2009-03-29 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-29 06:17 am (UTC)How many times have I rewritten this scene over the last month?
no subject
Date: 2009-03-29 02:40 pm (UTC)Okay, I've got it now.
no subject
Date: 2009-03-29 11:13 pm (UTC)"Wait," John said, stopping on the stairs. His eyes slanted back to Rodney. "I fixed that this morning."
"No, I set your watch last night," Rodney said, tapping his own chest.
"We both did. This is your fault!"
Rodney's eyes wavered. Then he rallied and pointed his finger accusingly. "Have you ever considered checking before you go change the time, willy-nilly? Because I looked at a clock so I was accurate when I did it."
Thank you.
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Date: 2009-03-29 07:34 am (UTC)Go John! *much waving of pompoms*
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Date: 2009-03-29 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-30 05:04 pm (UTC)Mwah ha ha! And exactly how much of a difference is there between Haas' age and John's? I loved that bit.
Also, the mishap with John's watch.
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Date: 2009-03-30 06:59 pm (UTC)As for the watch, Rodney cannot be wrong under any circumstances. This is a fact of the universe.
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Date: 2009-03-31 09:39 pm (UTC)John can SO beat Fletcher *raises foam finger even higher and shouts "woohoo Go John!!!"
*\o/* Sheppard Sheppard he's our man! If he can't win it no one can! *\o/*
Okay, that was made of cheese... but that's okay!
Lookinf forward to the next installment... you're teasing me on purpose aren't you? lol
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Date: 2009-03-31 11:09 pm (UTC)But I have updated a little more, just for you (http://icarusancalion.livejournal.com/871142.html).
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Date: 2009-04-03 12:19 am (UTC)