Current mood:	woo!
Current music:	Steppenwolf - Born To Be Wild

SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds - John/Rodney - NC-17 overall
Now a serious update, nine pages in my version of Word -- the actual Nationals competition begins.

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: Then, in an electric moment, John's flight stood as if pulled by a string, though it wasn't clear who'd told who it was time. The short program begins.

A/N: Thank you once again to my tireless betas (we're having fun), rabidfan and roaringmice, and now tingler and mariamme, too.

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.

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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus


"There is sufficient light for photos. Please, for the sake of the safety of our skaters, no flash photography during the competition. Thank you."

Despite the warning little firefly flashes scattered around the arena.

Night darkened the arena while John waited in the locker room for his warm-up group, in costume, his head propped on his fingertips, glassy-eyed and numb. Thin, tinny music trailed into the back area where skaters and coaches edged past each other, bumping elbows, ignoring one another. An hour and a half of clapping followed by pregnant silence, and then unintelligible scores. Sometimes the cheers were quiet and perfunctory. Sometimes they were loud and enthusiastic. John tried not to pay attention.

Then, in an electric moment, his flight stood as if pulled by a string, though it wasn't clear who'd told who it was time. He pressed through his competitors and stepped into the sudden shock of cold and the hum of noise to the edge of the rink, rock and roll playing softly in the background. Spectators in the seats nearest turned towards them and pointed.

John suddenly needed to go to the bathroom. He knew that was just nerves. He shook his arms and moved a little in place, trying to fit in a little pre-warm up.

Next to John along the boards the little redhead, Peters, did the same and bounced on his skates. He was going to be the first to skate. His face was white against a green leaf-patterned Robin Hood costume. John made a wild guess what his music was.

Eyeliner-guy was at John's back, his chiseled chin high, hands on his hips. He did a few deep knee bends. Ballet training always showed. Beyond him, Svick, a burly skater who relied on pure power-jumping, mouthed the words to the popular rock song. He was dressed in a ripped and burned red shirt, his shoulder turned away from John. Looked like they weren't on speaking terms. Svick spit out his gum into a tissue and gave it to his coach.

A little further up the boards, tall and slim in gauzy purple, Mike Estey rocked his shoulders in time with the music. He made some side comment to Kyle Fletcher. But Fletcher seemed to miss it as he watched the overhead screen, a million miles away. Fletcher wore a strange black PVC costume that looked like a combination of scales held together with black spider web.

John stood at the boards, feeling the cold, which meant he really needed this warm-up. Squealing guitar music began as the announcers called their names.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Frances Caliaro ... Michael Estey ... Kyle Fletcher ... Nathaniel Peters ... John Sheppard ... Mark Svick...."

John was already there.

~*~*~

"Welcome back to the 1999 U.S. Figure Skating Championships! Tonight we continue with the men's short program."

"And what a night it's been! After a total upset in pairs earlier today, Jeff Kulka, last year's bronze medalist and the most likely contender for a medal after Kyle Fletcher ... well, there's no gentle way to say this –blew his short program. He is now moldering in third with most of the field left to skate."

"Former champion William Haas, who retired and then unretired midway through the season, turned in a lackluster performance. He isn't even on the map."

"I bet he wishes he stayed retired."

"No doubt. That leaves Christian Yong-Suk currently in the lead."

"But the current silver medalist, Mike Estey, and Kyle Fletcher both skate in this next group."

"Mike is hoping for a miracle. He's been plagued with injuries since that horrific fall during last year's Worlds."

"At this rate I'm wondering if even the gold will be up for grabs."

Over the loudspeaker, an announcement echoed, too far away to be intelligible on the air. The skaters ended their warm up and circled toward the edge of the rink, stepping through a door in the boards one after the other. A tall dark man in purple gauze stepped off first, followed a much smaller skater in shiny black spiderweb. Behind him came the tallest skater in a swaying gaudy Hawaiian print, his hair wind blown. Finally a young man, darkly Italian, paused behind a broad-shouldered sandy blond in ripped and burned red.

They left the smallest skater behind, carving expectantly on the ice.

"First up is Nathaniel Peters. This is his first National championship."

"He is so young."

"They seem to get younger every year, Kelly."

Then, Nathaniel swept his arms out like bird flying into center ice, his skates carving a wide sweeping curve to bring him to a stop.

The cellos thrummed the opening to the "Overture to Robin Hood." He swept out a hand from his chest as he skated around the ice, leaned forward, feet working for speed. He threw a high triple with the triumphant trumpet declaration, landing lightly.

"Beautiful triple axel!"

The woman announcer giggled. "He looks like a little elf."

~*~*~

Peters took his final bow, curving around to pick up stuffed toys thrown for him. He had an armful. Frankly, Rodney missed the days where they threw flowers. It was so much more elegant, though he understood the dangerous mess rose petals left.

Two tiny girls in matching pink dresses skated out to pick up the remaining clutter of toys.

The skater that John called "eyeliner guy," an Italian with wavy dark hair and the proud manner of a dressage horse, warmed up, stroking around the ice. John had escaped to the back room to wait, walking out his choreography, eyes almost crossed in concentration.

Rodney waited rink-side, prepared to do all the worrying for him. He scowled as a rink official bumped into him sans apology.

Peters held up both hands and waved for the camera as it was announced that he'd moved into sixth place. So far. Rodney raised his eyebrows and clapped a little. Not bad for a newcomer. They'd have to keep an eye on that one.

Rachmaninov's bouncy but intense Prelude in G Minor began. Mentally, Rodney congratulated the choreographer on matching the music to the Italian guy, and smirked that she didn't have a better skater to work with. Grace didn't make up for being agonizingly slow.

~*~*~

The cameramen next to Rodney chatted amongst each other as Caliaro received his scores -- just as Rodney predicted, down in the bottom of the pack.

They scrambled, setting aside their cokes once Mike Estey passed by. This one was silver medal material, with a human interest story built in if he pulled it off and won today. They'd want every bit of footage they could lay their hands on.

The crowd nearly held their breath as Estey turned backward a few steps, then hopped forward. Various signs with "Mikey, we love you!" and the painful "Estey, you're the Bestey!" shook as they cheered.

Up over the snack stands the television screen switched to the announcers who said to each other, "Okay. This is it for Mike Estey."

"I don't know about you, but I'm starting to sweat."

The gentle violin strains of "I Will Wait For You" began, and Estey moved around the arena as smooth as cool vanilla, elegant but fast. Rodney sighed in envy, leaning on his palm. Estey spread his arms, turning off-center, his following foot out. He threw himself up into a triple -- and tripped backward, bouncing off the ice.

The crowd said, "Oh!" and then clapped their encouragement as he pushed himself back up. The violins sang.

~*~*~

John paced in the locker room, swinging his arms to clap his fist into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and wished he'd drawn tile number one.

Or seven. Seven would have been good. A lucky number, without the tortuous wait.

Someone touched his arm, pressing him gently aside. John glanced up to find he'd stepped in front of a camera as it beamed in on Kyle Fletcher. Who was standing up now, straightening his costume, picking up his water bottle, preparing to go out to the ice.

Oh, God. John was next. He looked around the room and wondered if it was too late to quit figure skating.

~*~*~

The room was dark. Largely because John had shut the bathroom lights off.

"Um. Sheppard?" Rodney's voice was tentative. He spilled light into the room in a widening square around him. The noise of the locker room seemed louder for the two minute respite.

"I know," John said, getting up. He took a shuddering breath.

He made a straight line for the ice, not looking around or hesitating for anyone. The applause for Kyle Fletcher was thunderous.

~*~*~

One announcer chuckled as John warmed up on the ice, the oversized shirt rippling. Her voice was warm with amusement. "Looks like we're going to the beach.

John squirmed his hips into his opening pose. He sniffed and rolled his shoulders, making the shirt swing, the sequins glittering turquoise and purple.

"I think I bought that shirt in Hawaii. But my wife made me promise never to wear it." They laughed. "This is John Sheppard's first National championship...." the announcer murmured in the breathless pause before the music.

"Actually, Frank, Sheppard's been here six times before. He placed ninth last year."

"Oh. Uh. Well. He's... um... changed quite a bit then."

"Virtually unrecognizable. He's been training hard under former World champion, Rodney McKay."

The camera shifted to Rodney on the sidelines, his hands folded together and resting on the edge of the boards.

"Now there's a sight for sore eyes. Who knew McKay would ever return to figure skating?"

John let out a visible breath. Then he folded his arms behind his head, one hip canted. His face was serious and intent.

The mellow guitar licks began. John rolled his shoulders with the music as he pushed back and back, working into a very fast circuit. He moved his hips into a series of sweeping if stiff kick-turns.

He carved a broad serpentine curve and hop-turned at the wall, dipping down like a surfer playing with a wave. He drove through center ice in a spread eagle, bending backward, then hop-turned at the opposite wall, shifting direction. Stretched one arm up. Spun in a small loop and tapped the ice into an effortless quad, arms drawn in, landing it in a spray of ice.

The crowd drew a sharp breath and started clapping. But John was already on to the next series of serpentine curves.

"Beautiful quad jump."

"He makes it look easy."

Both arms outstretched, John stepped forward, knee bent, then swung around and launched, twisting in the air. He bobbed forward on the landing and his skate skidded out from under him. The crowd gasped.

"Oh! So close."

"No, he was too far forward to make it."

John pushed himself off the ice, a patch of white on his knee. He stroked to catch up to the music.

"That's going to cost him."

"Yep. He would have been better off falling on the quad."

He flung himself up into flying leap into a sit spin, burning into the ice as the high guitar strains played. He stood out of the spin, letting the momentum of his arms swing him into the next round of curves. He popped up onto one skate, his leg aimed ahead of him like an arrow, one arm in a trailing gesture, the other up high as he switched to the inside edge. Then he let the extended leg fall, angled downward as he turned, slowing -- then launched, twisting. He landed with a grunt, reached behind and pushed into the air. He landed the second triple clean, swinging his arms out in a two-fisted punch. The audience cheered.

"Combination jump... triple axel, triple toe...."

"And there's his triple axel."

"He's juggling. That was a triple flip in practice."

On the bass refrain, John came to a sharp stop in front of the judges, shoulders squared. His left arm swooped in and down for a swim, his right arm swooping to follow. He rolled his left shoulder out, followed by the right, the momentum sweeping his hips in a rocking motion as he let his head nod to the music. He drew his elbows to his hips, snapping his fingers, head down as he pushed backward to the left, then back again to the right, skates together, gathering speed, and then swiveled into his footwork sequence with the raspy saxophone.

"I remember that dance move! That was popular when I was a kid." The other announcer laughed.

On the sax trill, John threw himself around and stabbed the ice, teeth gritted, pulling his arms in tight in the air --

"Another quad! Amazing."

-- landed, his free leg swinging back to reach for –

"Triple – nope! Under-rotated. That'll count as a double toe."

"Oh, he might have salvaged this, he just might...."

The crowd began belated clapping as John rocked forward on the landing. Someone whooped.

He dove into his combination spin, the sit spin tight to the ground with his leg outstretched, long and perfectly straight, fierce and picking up speed. As he bobbed up, he ran his hands along his legs and drew himself into a camel spin, his long leg in a clean line parallel to the ice, fast as a propeller. He smoothly changed position, hands folded at the small of his back as he tipped his chest towards the ceiling.

He stepped out of it into backward circular steps, sharply flinging his arms. Then kicked his leg high, and sprang into his final triple Lutz, landing backwards solid.

"And there's the Lutz."

With a tap of his toe pick, John leapt into his final spin. He deliberately slowed the spin, gliding into his ending pose, arms tense and smoothing the gesture in a diagonal line, describing the surface of the ocean on the final dreamy guitar trill.

The crowd burst into applause.

Mouth open in shock, John stretched his hands up and bowed, eyes glassy and dazed as he came back up to bow to the opposite side. The crowd cheered louder.

"Everyone loved it."

"However it turns out score-wise, that was a crowd-pleasing performance."

Digging sharply into the ice, John skated for the Kiss 'N Cry. He swerved up to the side then stepped off the ice, slapping on the skate guards.

"Mother fucking son of a bitch!" John stormed. He dusted the ice shavings off his pants.

"National television, John!" Rodney said, his face in his hands. On the other side of Rodney, Sonja tipped her head back and laughed.

"Oh." John looked around blank-faced to stare into the ABC cameras pointed right at him. The cameraman behind it was grinning, shoulders shaking. "They don't usually show me."

The announcers both roared with laughter. "Did we bleep that fast enough?"

"I don't know about you, but I'd be willing to guess that Sheppard wasn't entirely satisfied with that performance."

"No, siree."

The crowd murmured with amusement as word spread of John's language from those rink side, and those who'd seen it on television at the snack stands.

"Let's have a look at the instant replay."

The television showed a slow-motion John, hair spiky, arms pulled in tight as he turned in midair.

"There's his opening quad ... tight position, feet close together. Look at the height he gets! He has time to fix his tie up there."

The camera switched to his slow turn, take-off leg leading.

"Ah. And there's that triple axel. You're right. He was too far forward."

He pushed into the air, turning, then his foot touched the ice and slid straight out. He went to one knee, looking up in desperation. The frame froze.

"Couldn't hold that edge."

"His coach, Rodney McKay's reaction...."

Rodney had his folded hands up to his mouth, biting down on a knuckle. He spun in circle with a furious flinging gesture at the ground.

"Hope he didn't leave teeth marks."

The image switched to John, a light of determination in his eyes, pushing up into his second quad, and froze.

"And here we have his second quad toe, double toe. Most skaters struggle to hit one."

The cameras returned to the Kiss N' Cry. Rock music played softly in the background. John sat sandwiched between Sonja and Rodney with his legs sprawled open like a teenager. Sonja wore an eye-searing tie-dye shirt, and was in the midst of chiding John. "... You were a surfer, then you fell, and you gave it all up," she said, fluttering her hand. She looked away, miffed. "Just skated like usual."

Rodney leaned around John to scowl at her. He made a sweeping gesture at the judges' stand. "Would you mind not telling the judges that?"

Finally, John's scores rang out across the stadium.

"5.7 ... 5.6 ... 5.8 ... 5.6 ...."

John ducked down, shaking his head and lighting up in relief. A broad beaming sideways grin spread across Rodney's face. Sonja straightened, visibly struggling to remain displeased.

"Oh. I'd say he has nothing to complain about there."

"Yeah, he's looking a little happier now. That puts Sheppard currently in second place, beating Christian Yong-Suk by a hair."

"With only four skaters to go, Sheppard is guaranteed a slot in the top six. You're watching the U.S. Figure Skating Championships. We'll be back after these messages."



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Steppenwolf - Born To Be Wild (warm-up music)
Michael Kamen - Overture to Robin Hood (Nathaniel Peters' music)
Rachmaninov - Prelude in G Minor (Frances Caliaro's music)
Itzak Perlman - I Will Wait For You (Mike Estey's music)
Michael Kamen - Meet Martin Riggs (Mark Svick's music)
Danny Elfman - Men In Black (Kyle Fletcher's music)
The Lively Ones - cover of Surf Rider (John Sheppard's music)