SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17
That problem scene? Has finally been ironed out. Whew. Thank god.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: The cello began, slow and smooth as honey....
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas, rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice.
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 a particularly creative skating lesson, and months of Taekwondo, John's skating spirals out of control. Something had to give.
[ Previous][ Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Hands tucked behind his back, John stroked onto the ice. Clear afternoon sun trickled in through the windows overhead.
Rodney had left to meet with Sonja an hour ago, and hardly anyone was around, just a few students of Rodney's.
He asked the girls if they minded if he played some of his own music. They glanced at each other, smiling through bemused shrugs. "Sure. If we get to play ours."
He set up the boombox, adjusting the cord. In the silence, he skated backwards around the rink, speed ruffling his hair, shifting to turn forward, coasting in serpentine curves. He glided to a stop at center ice, adjusted his feet into position, and squared his shoulders. He felt like the pitcher on the mound at a baseball game, turning inward and going utterly still. He had all the time in the world to get this right.
The cello began, slow and smooth as honey, and John pushed off, slightly behind the beat, dragging his foot behind him with a languid tip of his head. At first he just skated the motions he'd imagined, but he let the low, shivery sound penetrate, making his strokes heavy, even if it meant he was a little sloppy, scraping his back blade on the ice. The perfectionist's voice in the back of his mind chattered away about "clean lines" and "no, no, upright carriage," but he held it at arms length, filling his attention with the music.
It was natural to pick up the pace once the electric guitar joined in, tremulous and uncertain behind the cello, his edges digging into the ice with the sharper guitar wail. John pushed hard, jaw tight, drawing out the tension in his arms, cutting into the ice. He spread his arms, swinging around the outside edge as the declaration of the guitar took over.
He scraped to a hockey stop. Bounced when the drum kit kicked off, like he was running foolhardy down an empty street, leaping puddles with the cymbal crashes, driving, pushing to pick up speed, barely in control as he did fast crossovers around the back wall, arms pumping, trying to catch the hot guitar licks. He flung himself into a fast, out-of-control triple, stumbling out of it two-footed and laughing.
Then he caught the music, or it had caught up with him, smoothing out, happy and buoyant. He grinned, bobbed his shoulders with it, free-interpreting footwork like he always had on rollerblades, playing with it like no one was watching. He drew his hands into fists, pulled his momentum in for a fast upright scratch spin on the high-pitched guitar squeal. Body loose and athletic with the wild guitar, he dug his toepick into the ice for a flying butterfly kick into a deathdrop, pulling the second low spin as tight as a top.
He pulled out of the spin with a light bounce. And out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the girls had followed, imitating him, trailing behind him like seagulls in the wake of a ship. One girl wiped out, landing on her hands, but a preteen with a curly braid-Bethany-had the power and speed to keep up.
Oh, yeah?
He raced across the ice and slid down on his knees with a Jimi Hendrix squealing guitar run, and scrambled up, leaving them all in the dust. He transitioned into spinning footwork, learning control now in a way he'd never considered it-not total, but just enough to pull him back from the edge. He borrowed steps from his long program and threw in another smaller jump. Spin, step, arms flung out to stop himself, then into choppy footwork. It felt stiff and strange. His body wanted to fall into old habits, to go through the motions, to do it "right"-but he couldn't do that. He let them be uneven, let the music mess it up, forgot where his arms should be, let his arm circle in an air guitar strum. Head back, watching the sky, he tried an only partially successful string of spinning step turns.
Then he leapt, up into the quad, the sky turning with him, almost in slow motion at the peak of the jump. He landed, the jolt running up his leg, then rocked his shoulders with the slower beat, kick stepping out as he moved backward onto his back edge, control coming more easily now, carrying the dance motion with his elbows to his hips.
He let the steady electric beat carry him to the next element, then threw himself into a huge triple axel, almost not sure he'd find the ground, the music in a breathless pause. He landed, leg swung out, arms outstretched.
Finally, the music cooled off and he put his hands on his hips, breathing hard, forehead going cold from sweat. He skated out the rest of the momentum with slow sweeping strokes.
He returned to a dazed awareness of his surroundings to recognize Rodney and Sonja on the side of the rink. Rodney was in his ugliest orange fleece sweater.
John blanked on when they'd come in. Though he should have noticed a Rodney that orange.
The music was still playing as Sonja ran out onto the ice in ballet shoes. She pounced on John, jumping up and hugging him. "That's it, that's it, that's it!"
John flailed to keep his balance at the sudden weight. There was a smothering scent of hairspray. She let go, squealed, then bounced up and squeezed him again.
Rodney stayed on the sidelines, chin drawn in, clearly working hard at being stern. "Well, now, you'll have to be able to repeat that, of course...." he began in his most professorial tone.
"Can you do that with my program?" Sonja interrupted, hands together, pleading in a little-girl voice.
John was just figuring out that something had radically changed. He weighed her question, trying to gauge his abilities, as tenuous they were, and found he could honestly say: "Yes." He bobbed and nodded his head, laughing in disbelief as he realized that it was true. "Yes, I think I can."
[ Previous][ Next]
Music:
Pachebel's canon for electric guitar, arranged by Jerry C.
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: The cello began, slow and smooth as honey....
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas, rabidfan, enname, and roaringmice.
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 a particularly creative skating lesson, and months of Taekwondo, John's skating spirals out of control. Something had to give.
[ Previous][ Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Hands tucked behind his back, John stroked onto the ice. Clear afternoon sun trickled in through the windows overhead.
Rodney had left to meet with Sonja an hour ago, and hardly anyone was around, just a few students of Rodney's.
He asked the girls if they minded if he played some of his own music. They glanced at each other, smiling through bemused shrugs. "Sure. If we get to play ours."
He set up the boombox, adjusting the cord. In the silence, he skated backwards around the rink, speed ruffling his hair, shifting to turn forward, coasting in serpentine curves. He glided to a stop at center ice, adjusted his feet into position, and squared his shoulders. He felt like the pitcher on the mound at a baseball game, turning inward and going utterly still. He had all the time in the world to get this right.
The cello began, slow and smooth as honey, and John pushed off, slightly behind the beat, dragging his foot behind him with a languid tip of his head. At first he just skated the motions he'd imagined, but he let the low, shivery sound penetrate, making his strokes heavy, even if it meant he was a little sloppy, scraping his back blade on the ice. The perfectionist's voice in the back of his mind chattered away about "clean lines" and "no, no, upright carriage," but he held it at arms length, filling his attention with the music.
It was natural to pick up the pace once the electric guitar joined in, tremulous and uncertain behind the cello, his edges digging into the ice with the sharper guitar wail. John pushed hard, jaw tight, drawing out the tension in his arms, cutting into the ice. He spread his arms, swinging around the outside edge as the declaration of the guitar took over.
He scraped to a hockey stop. Bounced when the drum kit kicked off, like he was running foolhardy down an empty street, leaping puddles with the cymbal crashes, driving, pushing to pick up speed, barely in control as he did fast crossovers around the back wall, arms pumping, trying to catch the hot guitar licks. He flung himself into a fast, out-of-control triple, stumbling out of it two-footed and laughing.
Then he caught the music, or it had caught up with him, smoothing out, happy and buoyant. He grinned, bobbed his shoulders with it, free-interpreting footwork like he always had on rollerblades, playing with it like no one was watching. He drew his hands into fists, pulled his momentum in for a fast upright scratch spin on the high-pitched guitar squeal. Body loose and athletic with the wild guitar, he dug his toepick into the ice for a flying butterfly kick into a deathdrop, pulling the second low spin as tight as a top.
He pulled out of the spin with a light bounce. And out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the girls had followed, imitating him, trailing behind him like seagulls in the wake of a ship. One girl wiped out, landing on her hands, but a preteen with a curly braid-Bethany-had the power and speed to keep up.
Oh, yeah?
He raced across the ice and slid down on his knees with a Jimi Hendrix squealing guitar run, and scrambled up, leaving them all in the dust. He transitioned into spinning footwork, learning control now in a way he'd never considered it-not total, but just enough to pull him back from the edge. He borrowed steps from his long program and threw in another smaller jump. Spin, step, arms flung out to stop himself, then into choppy footwork. It felt stiff and strange. His body wanted to fall into old habits, to go through the motions, to do it "right"-but he couldn't do that. He let them be uneven, let the music mess it up, forgot where his arms should be, let his arm circle in an air guitar strum. Head back, watching the sky, he tried an only partially successful string of spinning step turns.
Then he leapt, up into the quad, the sky turning with him, almost in slow motion at the peak of the jump. He landed, the jolt running up his leg, then rocked his shoulders with the slower beat, kick stepping out as he moved backward onto his back edge, control coming more easily now, carrying the dance motion with his elbows to his hips.
He let the steady electric beat carry him to the next element, then threw himself into a huge triple axel, almost not sure he'd find the ground, the music in a breathless pause. He landed, leg swung out, arms outstretched.
Finally, the music cooled off and he put his hands on his hips, breathing hard, forehead going cold from sweat. He skated out the rest of the momentum with slow sweeping strokes.
He returned to a dazed awareness of his surroundings to recognize Rodney and Sonja on the side of the rink. Rodney was in his ugliest orange fleece sweater.
John blanked on when they'd come in. Though he should have noticed a Rodney that orange.
The music was still playing as Sonja ran out onto the ice in ballet shoes. She pounced on John, jumping up and hugging him. "That's it, that's it, that's it!"
John flailed to keep his balance at the sudden weight. There was a smothering scent of hairspray. She let go, squealed, then bounced up and squeezed him again.
Rodney stayed on the sidelines, chin drawn in, clearly working hard at being stern. "Well, now, you'll have to be able to repeat that, of course...." he began in his most professorial tone.
"Can you do that with my program?" Sonja interrupted, hands together, pleading in a little-girl voice.
John was just figuring out that something had radically changed. He weighed her question, trying to gauge his abilities, as tenuous they were, and found he could honestly say: "Yes." He bobbed and nodded his head, laughing in disbelief as he realized that it was true. "Yes, I think I can."
[ Previous][ Next]
Music:
Pachebel's canon for electric guitar, arranged by Jerry C.