Out Of Bounds
by Icarus

January, 1999

His scores echoed throughout the rink, loud and unintelligible like an airport announcement, canceling each other out while young skaters scoured the ice for thrown flowers and dropped gloves. The crowd was noisy and disinterested, with a smattering of applause for John, biding their time impatiently for the big names.

In the center of the ice, John Sheppard let his hands drop. He didn't look up, his shoulders heaving as he shut his eyes and skated tiredly to the Kiss-and-Cry. He accepted a bottle of water from Ed, his coach, then dropped his head to his knees, running his fingers through sweaty dark hair, which made it stand up even more, half his bangs stuck to his forehead. He was still breathing heavily.

"Five three … four point six …

"That was good, Sheppard," someone said, his footsteps loud and hollow on the raised wooden platform. John didn't notice who it was, just nodded as he slumped back against the wall, staring up at the lights as disembodied voices declared he'd moved up to thirteenth place after the freeskate. The next skater warmed up on the ice in front of him, hands tracing graceful arabesques.

"Pretty good, John," that was his coach's gravelly voice, "if Yong Suk's injuries pan out you could place as high as eighth this year."

"Yeah. Thanks," John said. He took a swallow of water so he didn't have to say more. Then picked at an ugly blue sequin on his sleeve and flicked it away.

"Better than last year," his coach added. He was met with silence. John snapped the plastic guards over the blades of his skates.

"Your jumps are good," he continued, in a determined voice. "Really very good. Not many can pull off a quad."

"Yeah," John said, squinting at the next skater who glided to center ice in a flame-red costume with trailing sleeves, head down in concentration, just as John's had been five long minutes earlier.

And that was it. John's coach patted him on the arm and John blinked up. They gathered their gear to leave the Kiss-and-Cry as Scheherazade began. The next skater made a sweeping gesture. They stepped over duct-taped microphone and camera wires and found a space on the nearest available bench. An overweight man in a warm-up jacket got up and edged by them, angling towards the snack stand. John leaned back, pulling his gear out of the way.

There was a patter of applause as the other skater did his first double-triple combination.

"We'll work with your strengths, aim for the quad flip," his coach was saying.

John's breath misted as he let out a sigh. He bent his head and pulled a battered pair of sneakers from his bag.

"If you want to hang in there, that is. You've been at it ten years now. You might want to think about going pro." John's narrow shoulders tensed a moment in a barely perceptible pause but he didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the floor as he dug carefully around in his gym bag. "The kids sure like you."

"You think I'm doing good." John winced, unlacing his skates. He'd have to ice the knee tonight. He licked his lips as he watched his numbers disappear from the scoreboard.

"Yeah, you're good," the coach said, earnest and encouraging. "John, these are the best in the country. Few people make it this far. Eighth place, hell, even thirteenth is better than I ever hoped for."

John pursed his lips and stared off over the rink, nodding his head slowly. He got the picture. "Don't take this the wrong way, but," he said in a calm, thoughtful tone as if the idea had just occurred to him, "You're fired."

~*~*~

"Yes, well, I have to spend more time with her because she's better than all three of you put together!" Rodney explained with a sweeping gesture.

Rodney McKay, former world champion, perhaps a little chunkier than he'd been ten years ago, with a hairline going north faster than any thirty-year-old would care to admit, surveyed the beneficiaries of his years of experience and knowledge. Four young mournful faces looked up at him.

He knew he was in trouble when the pouts began. His wide shoulders slumped. No, no, no, not with the pouting....

"Aw, come on, it's not like I said you were terrible!" He attempted a reasonable tone, hands spread. "You'll all be perfectly adequate skaters one day, I'm sure, it's just that when there's real talent at hand, I need to focus my efforts—"

Logic wasn't working. It never worked on nine-year-olds. Even their little pigtails seemed to droop as the pouts deepened and their eyes started to shine with tears.

"Mr. McKay!" a woman's voice called out from the edge of the rink.

"Go away, I'm busy!" he shouted, casting an impatient wave over his shoulder. "No, no, you don't – Stop looking at me like that, it's not like I ran over your puppy! It's just...." One of the girls sniffled and there was a little gasp of a smothered sob from the other.

"...Oh, no...." he whimpered, his blue eyes going wide, his mobile face desperate.

"Mr. McKay?" the same voice repeated.

"What?!" He spun around and indicated the girls. "Yes, yes, I realize I screwed up here – it's pretty obvious since they're all crying." He turned to his star pupil who was biting a quivering lip, his voice turning scornful. "Oh, now what are you crying about? I just complimented you!"

Her shoulders started to shake with sobs. Then the other three followed suit, crying openly, their faces red, tears leaking down their cheeks.

"Oh, God." Rodney put his face in his hand.

"Mr. McKay?!" the woman said again more insistently.

"What?!" he snarled.

"Telephone!" The woman wore a blue suit and held out the cordless phone from the press box.

"Oh."

Who would call him on that line?

Rodney pressed his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache, then ran his hand through his hair and rolled his eyes skyward. He sliced the air with a dramatic cutting gesture. "That's it! Cancel all my group classes – I'm doing private lessons only from here on out."

He stabbed a finger at a tiny little girl with freckles and a complete inability keep time with the music. "You! Spins."

"You—" He pointed at the tall thin girl with long dark hair who spent more time falling than skating. "—get the music, I want to see your entire short program.

"And you." He indicated the one who day-dreamed and didn't care about skating, forced to live out her mother's fantasy. He waved a hand vaguely at her. "...I dunno, practice jumps or something."

Then he turned to Bethany, his star, her frizzy hair up in a tight braid and eyes wide and scared. "And you, toughen up. You're going to beat girls twice as good as they are and they'll all cry." He clapped his hands several times as the dispirited girls didn't respond, still wracked with tears. "If you have energy to cry, you have energy to skate!" he declared as he slid to the edge of the rink to accept the call.

Gliding to a stop with a sigh, he shouldered the phone and said brightly, "Rodney McKay, Evil Overlord and skating coach."

"Evil Overlord?" a man's slightly nasal voice puzzled.

"I work part-time." He lifted his face from the phone and shouted, "I don't see much skating, girls! Thank you." They started shuffling along the ice, though it barely qualified as movement, let alone figure skating.

"Personally, I was mostly interested in the skating coach end of the deal, but you should hang onto that Evil Overlord gig. I hear it's a growth industry."

"I'm sorry. And you are...?" Rodney squinted at the phone.

"John Sheppard. I was at Nationals this year."

"Never heard of you," Rodney said.

"Yeah. That would be part of the problem."

~*~*~

They met at a coffee shop a block from Rodney McKay's favorite little rink. John wasn't hard to spot, wearing battered warm-ups with his skates tied together and slung over his shoulder like a teenager. He had a firm handshake, was ridiculously good-looking, tall for a skater, with a shock of unruly brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. He was also easily in his late twenties sliding towards thirty, not much younger than Rodney.

"Nice to meet you," John said with a polite nod and diffident smile.

He didn't have a shot in hell.

"I take it Ed Wilcoxin thought you should be taken to the glue factory," Rodney answered with an amused gleam, returning the handshake with interest.

His new student -- because of course Rodney was going to take him on -- covered his laugh with a cough, his shoulders relaxing as he scuffed the floor. "Yes. That pretty much sums it up."

Except that wasn't the half of it.

~*~*~

John slowly glided to edge of the rink, hands on his knees as he panted, the black jumpsuit a stark contrast to the ice. He cut a sharp edge when he reached Rodney, spraying him with ice, clearly more pissed off than injured. Several other early morning skaters cast him curious glances then went about their business.

"Get back out there," Rodney said quietly in his calmest, brooks-no-nonsense sort of voice, chin out and raised, holding onto his authority with both hands. Barely.

"No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll hurt less." John glared at him, eyebrows drawn together over hazel eyes.

"Aw. Did baby fall down and go boom?" Rodney mocked him. "Stop complaining. You're not good enough yet. You're nothing more than a gymnast on skates. Skate, skate, jump! Skate, skate, jump! Have you even noticed there's music playing?"

"At least I'm not a fifth-place failure who washed out of the Olympics at seventeen."

Rodney looked sucker-punched but he took it in stride, chin high. He'd had a week to learn John always lashed out viciously after a bad practice. He silently counted to ten and said with controlled calm, "At least I made it. Thus, I know what it takes to get there."

John dug in harder, his voice dry and mean. "You couldn't lay down the big moves. Couldn't take the pressure."

"And yet, strangely enough, somehow I got there. You've been competing for, what? Ten years? And you haven't even touched what I reached in grade twelve." Rodney pulled off his jacket and adjusted his gloves with a long-suffering sigh. He stepped onto the ice and skated backwards, forcing John to reluctantly follow. Gaining some speed, Rodney laid down the pattern of footwork he'd asked of John.

John stopped, arms folded, eyes narrowed in annoyance. He shouted to Rodney halfway across the rink, "It's easy."

"Prove it!" Rodney shouted back.

With an eye roll, John picked up speed with two quick strokes, then turned around and repeated Rodney's pattern. Sloppy edges, hands careless, all elbows, he didn't point his toes, ice spray everywhere... then he threw in a perfect triple Lutz at the end. He skated back to Rodney with a bright grin.

"That was shitty," Rodney said about everything but the jump.

"Whatever."

John held and stretched one leg behind him, touching his skate nearly to his shoulder in an enviable display of careless balance and flexibility. Anyone watching would think he was a great skater, could see his potential, that effortless strength and grace. Rodney stared, mouth open with undisguised awe.

Then John let his leg fall. "I'm giving hockey some serious thought." He nodded to himself as if this were a great idea.

"You'll look better with all your teeth," Rodney answered with a little flippant wave. "Besides, the thought of you cooperating in a team is ludicrous: you don't even cooperate with me, and you're paying me to listen to you whine." He didn't let John get a word in edgewise, gliding closer to skate in a tight circle around him. "But you're right, it is easy. Why can't you do it?"

"Fuck these transitions." He flung an arm out in a frustrated gesture. "They throw everything off! I never missed a quad until you showed up."

"Your coaches were all morons and should be shot. They let you get away with murder and they've practically ruined you as a skater. You're lucky I turned up."

"They were working with my strengths," John muttered to his skates.

Rodney snorted, then pursed his lips and thought very quickly, frozen in place as he scanned the distance unseeingly. He bobbed his head once in agreement with his own genius and raised a hand, announcing, "All right. New rule: you're not to do any jumps."

"What?!"

"You are to only skate to music -- pick something you like -- and I want you to skate in a pair." Rodney ticked his rules off on gloved fingers.

"What? How am I supposed to keep in form on my jumps, pairs are a completely different type of skating, where am I supposed to find someone to skate with -- and are you out of your mind?" John growled, leaning closer. "The jumps are all I've got."

Rodney blinked. He hadn't realized John knew that. Even though everyone else did.

It suddenly made sense why he'd hired Rodney McKay, who had a reputation as an artist who couldn't keep up as the jumps progressed from doubles to triples to quads, becoming more and more important to the sport; John's complete opposite.

Welcome back to the 1986 Olympic Games, the men’s final freeskate. Next up -- Canada’s Rodney McKay!

McKay's a solid skater, Frank, not a single wasted motion. His sense of timing is like a metronome. Look at that gesture, very unique, wonderful choreography, great speed... he's so smooth you hardly know a jump is coming.

Oh-! That was supposed to be a triple and he doubled it.

That's going to cost him.

He's just not built for the jumps, Anne. He's stockier than the other skaters and it works against him. Those broad shoulders; I tell you, he's built more like a middle linebacker!

I remember him from Nationals two years ago. He was fifteen, so light on the ice, such fire! But Frank, and this happens to a lot of young skaters: as they grow their bodies just change. And there's nothing you can do about it.

Rodney's spectacular falls and litany of injuries had made news for the next two years. He'd never landed a quad in competition. Photos of his miserable expression when he finished fifth, sweat plastering longish curls to his forehead as he skated off the ice, had made Sports Illustrated. It was the most common photo to turn up if you Googled his name. Rodney hated that picture.

"I don't believe that's true. You can do more than just jump." Rodney's voice came out a little hesitant, but he squared his shoulders in defiance against John's reputation. He added a little desperately, "You have to try. If it is true, then you're wasting your time and you might as well get your teeth knocked out in hockey."

"I thought you said I'd look terrible without my teeth." John skated away from him a moment and threw a quick rebellious single jump.

Rodney watched him, shaking his head with an exaggerated huff. "Coaching is the sixth circle of hell. The Catholics were right. This is payment for something I did horribly wrong."

"How's not-jumping supposed to help me?"

"Just... trust me? For a change?" Rodney complained, letting his arms fall to his sides in frustration. "As for who you'll skate with: I'll skate with you."

John's eyebrows raised as he glided backwards with tiny little pushes, heading for the edge of the rink. "Are you hitting on me?"

"You'll have to pay me a lot more for that." Rodney skated behind him. As they reached their stuff, John threw Rodney a towel and Rodney mopped his forehead. "Besides -- and more to the point -- you're out of my league."

John paused and frowned, staring straight ahead. "What makes you think I'm...."

"Oh, please. A straight figure skater is about as common as a straight dancer."

John pursed his lips and then conceded the point with an amiable tip of his head.

"Breakfast?" Rodney suggested, brightening.

"You like food too much. You probably only lost because you gained weight," John noted. He slung his skates over his shoulder.

"I'm off the clock, therefore not coaching, therefore I don't have to put up with your crap now, thank you very much," Rodney pointed out. "And bear in mind that if you don't improve I'm your only brush with greatness, so show some respect."

John wrinkled his nose and made a face.

~*~*~

"So why do we have to skate in the nude again?" John peered at Rodney doubtfully for a moment before stripping off his tee-shirt.

"Improved aerodynamics," Rodney explained, hands on his hips. He was already naked, except for the skates of course.

John rolled off his pants, taking his underwear with them. Then he glided out onto the ice, practicing a leg extension, long and lean, with his toe -- thank god -- pointed. Already he was improving under Rodney's masterful care. "I think you're just trying to freeze my nuts off."

"No, ah, those should probably stay attached," Rodney said, looking his fill.

A loud pounding noise made Rodney turn his head.

The skating rink evaporated around him as he sat up, suddenly aware that he was chilly. He'd fallen asleep on the couch with no blanket and the TV was blaring a three am infomercial. "Executrex! I've no idea what I did without you!"

The pounding repeated, louder this time.

"Rodney!" John's voice was muffled through the door. "I've been waiting in the car for twenty minutes!"

Rodney had known it was a dream, or how else did John get his pants off over his skates? But it had been such a nice dream. "Coming, coming!" He scrambled to find a clean shirt, dirty underwear, swiped a quick roll of deodorant under his armpits and sniffed--

"Rodney…" John complained.

"Hang on a sec!" Rodney pulled on his capilene warm-ups, socks, sneakers, slung his skates over his shoulder, and snatched up a hat to cover his dirty hair. He grabbed his coat, not bothering to turn off the TV, yanking the door open.

He found the object of his bleary fantasy leaned against the doorjamb, looking bright-eyed and irritated, his dark hair deliberately tousled. John seemed to sparkle and had a kind of playful intensity about him even at his worst. Unlike a lot of skaters his charisma on the ice carried over in person. He wore a thick jacket and loose jeans, but he might as well have been nude as far as Rodney was concerned, with that dream still fresh in his mind. Rodney paused, dazed, and his breath made a puff of white mist.

John flipped his car keys in his hands. "Took you long enough. What did you do in there? It sounded like you were tearing the house down."

Rodney ignored the question. "Like you've never been late -- look, can we get some food on the way in? Tim Horton's?"

It was all that was open at this hour.

"If you're buying."

"Good, good," Rodney said absently, fumbling with the lock as his screen door squeaked and tried to close on him.

He turned, and found John was giving him an assessing up-and-down glance that turned into a slow smirk. Rodney realized he must look like hell -- and probably still smelled like sex after his dream.

"Late night?" John drawled with a little smile.

"Oh. Well, being a superstar and all that," Rodney breathed, hunching his shoulders and wishing desperately that he'd showered, "life in the fast lane."

"Right," John said, a little too sarcastically.

~*~*~

Rodney sighed with satisfaction as he bit into a lovely warm muffin, humming a little. He heard John snicker and glanced up. John slouched in the vinyl booth across from him, toying with a cup of coffee which he didn't seem particularly interested in. Outside the window a street lamp glowed with a frozen halo. It was a bitter night in Ontario.

"So, why do you want me to skate pairs?" John opened, narrowing his eyes in a puzzled expression. "I mean, the lifts look pretty hard but…."

"What? Oh, I thought you knew," Rodney said with his mouth full. He quickly swallowed his bite. "Pairs is far more difficult. Twice the weight means twice the speed, and you have to match each other. It demands precision." He wiped his mouth with his napkin and picked up a few crumbs off the table with a fingertip. "I started out as a pairs skater myself. Part of why I'm so good."

"Really? You? Throwing the girls around? That's hard to picture."

"Oh yes. I started skating with my sister actually. I was six, she was five." Rodney bit into his egg sandwich, talking with his mouth full. "Our parents thought we were getting too chunky so they signed us up for skating lessons."

"Chunky, huh? Can't imagine," John said wryly, eyes skimming him.

"Shut up." Rodney scowled over his breakfast. "She was bigger than me and a full five pounds heavier yet they still made me do all the lifts just because I was the boy." Rodney was indignant even decades later, chewing noisily. "She should have been carrying me."

"You were doing lifts when you were six?"

"Well, more like eight, but yes." Rodney continued with an evil gleam and a smirk, "I admit, I dropped her. A lot. And not always by accident. Although she'd get me back. Have you any idea what a skate in the stomach feels like?"

John shook his head, bemused. "Can't say that I do."

"They should never allow brothers and sisters to skate together."

"I always thought it seemed, well, a little incestuous. I mean, skating's kinda sexy," John observed.

"Hmph." Rodney thought about this, tilting his head. "Jeannie was more dangerous than anything else." He finished the last of his sandwich with a smack of his lips. "Anyhow, she had no talent whatsoever and I was brilliant. By the time I was competing in singles I was so relieved not to have to carry her, it was a breeze."

Rodney glanced at his grape juice and realized it was gone. John still hadn't touched his coffee. "Are you gonna drink that or just admire it from afar?"

"I don't really like coffee," John admitted. "I just feel obligated to buy it for some strange reason."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "I'll drink it."

He settled comfortably against the booth and watched John. He really didn't feel like skating today and it was taking every effort to move. "So… what about you? How'd you start skating?"

"Well," John began with a shy tip of his head, "there was this pond out back behind my parent's house. It had a little rise above it with a tire swing that we used to climb, swing out across the pond, and then see if we could land on the ice without falling."

John paused. Rodney's coffee cup had stopped halfway to his mouth. He squinted at John.

"How high was this thing?" Rodney asked, verging on appalled. He set the cup down without taking a sip.

"Oh, I dunno. Six or eight feet?"

"You're insane."

"Well, stupid more like. A few people got hurt, though I only fell through the ice the one time. Now that--" John squirmed in the booth. "--was the definition of cold. I discovered you really had to wait till it was frozen solid." He balled up his paper napkin. "Anyhow, when we moved we didn't have the pond anymore, so my parents let me go to the ice rink. I imitated the kids' jumps there." He shrugged, one-shouldered and casual. "A coach saw and wanted me to try out. Only they didn't tell me there was gonna be an audience at the competitions."

"You're kidding. You didn't know? How could you not know?"

"I'd never heard of figure skating. The Olympics was all ice hockey and skiing as far as I was concerned."

"What on earth did you expect?"

"I just wanted it to be like the practices."

"Huh." Rodney chortled. "I guess it didn't go very well then, eh?"

"No, I did pretty good. Didn't want to embarrass myself. But boy, I was pissed." Sheppard grinned. "Of course once I saw my scores and realized I did better than everyone else I decided to stick around."

"Are you glad you did?" Rodney asked with a canny glance.

"Well. Sometimes."

It was an honest answer, and Rodney liked him for it. "So you didn't even start figure skating until you were a teenager?"

"Does it make a difference?" John's tone was challenging, eyebrow raised.

It did, but Rodney didn't answer, tapping the side of his cup speculatively as he stared off at a pyramid of ugly logo mugs for sale. He had a sneaking suspicion John's coaches had forgotten he was so new to the sport. John's late climb in the standings began to make a little more sense. Rodney stood and put a fist in his back, stretching. "Ready to suffer?"

John simply sighed.

Rodney dropped a tip in the jar as they headed for the door. He'd worked a lot of these jobs in his years as a skater, scraping by, and tried to be generous when he could.

"I've one question that's bugged me for years," John said, zipping up his coat. "Why is it traditional to skate at these godawful hours in the morning? Why not ten o'clock? Or noon?"

"I have a theory about that." Rodney held up a finger, the line of his mouth in a thin, smug smile. "It's to prepare you for the inherent masochism of the sport. If you're willing to get up at three am to skate, you have the capacity to skate through injuries, cracked ribs, torn ACLs, pulled muscles -- not to mention falling regularly on ice that's as hard as concrete."

"So what you're saying is the skating gods are sadists."

"No. I'm saying the coaches are sadists. But it's revenge really." Rodney smirked at him. "We all hate you because you still get to compete."

They laughed and John held the door for Rodney. The sky had lightened to faint gray-blue, and the brisk pre-dawn wind cut through their clothes.

"So. You think skating's sexy?" Rodney teased him, chafing his hands while John warmed up his Chevy. The thought amused him for some inexplicable reason.

"Not my skating, no, I just like the jumps. But everyone else's? Sure. Don't you?"

"Think your skating is sexy?" Rodney considered. He'd been watching John for weeks now but hadn't thought about it from this angle. "No," he said, wonderingly, voice soft with surprise. "You're not."

There was definitely something wrong with that.

~*~*~

Their first session had gone rather well, Rodney thought, though it had just consisted of a standard warm-up, with a few laps around the rink and then some spins.

It annoyed Rodney that John seemed to have a natural talent for spins since he'd always struggled with them himself -- though that was probably Jeannie's fault for throwing them off-balance. He'd once believed she'd done it on purpose, but after teaching talentless kids for the last few years, he'd decided that some people were pathologically incapable of finding a center of gravity, doomed to flop around like ragdolls.

John was antsy throughout the entire practice, until he admitted that he'd never hit the ice without doing jumps. "I feel like I haven't even skated," he complained, shaking his foot. "They usually are my warm-up."

"You'll be fine." Rodney snorted.

Naturally, John had brought the boombox but had forgotten to bring any of his music.

Rodney set to familiarizing John with some standard holds and positions for pairs, but the morning was more theory than actual work. John cast some embarrassed shifty-eyed glances around the rink as he gingerly held Rodney's hip.

Rodney snapped his fingers in John's face. "Hey! Eyes front and center! I'm not going to explain this twice."

"But people can see us…" John muttered under his breath, gazing after a young skater who passed them, her leg extended angelically.

"She's twelve, and obviously I'm your coach. Don't worry about it." Though Rodney beamed and didn't bother to hide the fact he found John's shyness endearing.

At the end of their session John took off for the showers. Rodney rolled his shoulders, skating a slow lap around the deserted rink. He felt tight himself, like he hadn't really skated either.

They had a good ten minutes before the hockey team showed up… and he almost never got to have fun these days, what with all his attention devoted to his "protégés." Speeding up, Rodney glided to his bag. He had the tape -- lucky thing that -- and slammed it into the boombox.

He hurried to the center of the rink, mentally peopling it with the soft roar of an audience. He struck his starting pose.

The trumpets of Stravinsky's "Danse Infernale" began and Rodney started powerful backward stroking, working up speed, circling the rink nearly to the wall, the wind whipping his face.

He threw himself into a double toe-loop as the orchestra struck. Then the second, unexpected, on the next high note. He bobbled the landing a little bit, but recovered, with speed to spare. The music was unforgiving because of the time-signature changes, and the judges knew it.

Slowing a little, he carved light footwork on the clarinet solo, dainty steps on the tips of his skates -- Scott Hamilton was his hero -- then stretched his arms for maximum velocity for the surprising surge in the tempo. He hopped up into a spin, which he cut short to pop into a second spin… losing speed was the big danger here… then he let himself wobble as if off-balance to mimic the barely in-control strings, and pulled himself upright.

That always got people clapping. A roar of approval from the announcers, over something that wasn't a jump. Very rare. That took strength!

His twizzle steps followed the whirl of the orchestra as it changed time signatures again, forward stroking, playful now.

Then the startling long legato as the wash of music turned into a waltz, where he rested in a long extension… his leg wasn't as high as it should be… he pushed it… there! Changed positions and then…

The soft build to gain speed again. He bounced into the splits, just for style points. Then he turned around and circled with his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth like a sailor on a ship as he prepared for a final jump late into his program. Grimacing, with a grunt he landed a double; that's all he could do right now.

Arms outstretched as the trumpets drove him on, just as he was getting tired and feeling his legs scream, the power of the music increasing. He dove into a tight sit-spin and dragged his arms in, fighting centrifugal force, stood and increased the speed to a dizzying crescendo.

He nailed the stop. Foot out, arm flung upward dramatically.

Right on the beat.

God, he was good. Rodney grinned.

His chest heaved, he panted, his mouth open, and he finally felt the sweat trickling down his back. Not bad, not bad for not having done it a while.

Someone clapped. What was the sound of one man clapping? Rodney looked around, dazed, still more in his body than in his mind, only slowly registering John's presence where he was a dark splotch propped up against the wall.

With a happy breath, Rodney skated to the edge of the rink.

"I always think of a ship lost at sea when I skate that," Rodney said, cheerfully grabbing a towel and burying his head in it. He scrubbed the sweat out of his hair. "It's been too long."

"Wow. You're really good!" John said. Rodney pulled the towel over his shoulders to catch John blinking in astonishment. "Really good."

"Well, of course I am."

John ignored him, babbling, "I mean, everyone said told me that you were 'The Artist' and would be able to help me with my program, but jeeze, toss in a few big jumps and you'll have it."

"You didn't think I was any good?" Rodney said in disbelief.

"Well, what I saw was that fif--"

"--fifth place finish," Rodney interrupted wearily, putting his head in hands. He said between his fingers, "That was me 'tossing in a few jumps.'"

"Have I said something wrong?" John scowled. "Because I thought I just said you were good."

"I'm immortalized for the worst performance of my career," Rodney said bleakly, throwing the towel into the stands.

Rodney felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find John had leaned closer. John pressed his hand for emphasis on each point. "I said you were good."

And he finally got it. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." He took a deep breath. "Glad you finally noticed."

~*~*~

John's one-bedroom apartment was on the ground floor of a building that used to be a hotel, complete with lobby, paneled walls and an old-fashioned elevator that didn't work. Rodney didn't need to look at the room numbers to find him: there was only one person who'd be playing Creedence Clearwater Revival that thumping loud at three o'clock in the afternoon. Rodney wondered if John knew "Mustang Sally" was a favorite with strippers the world over.

John's door was unlocked. His floors were uneven worn wood, and John had a canoe mounted to the wall, while a ten-speed and a pair of sneakers blocked the hallway. Aside from an unmade futon in the corner and a stack of milk crates there was no furniture in the main room, just scattered work-out equipment.

Broad windows let in gray light where John was silhouetted in the kitchen, doing a handstand.

"Okay, okay, enough fooling around," Rodney clapped twice and John dropped to the floor.

"Hey, Rodney. Just having a little fun." He grinned.

"Work-outs aren't fun. They're a necessary evil to keep yourself from breaking something in competition."

John snorted. "With that attitude no wonder you're a little tubby."

"I'm in terrific shape for a man my age." Rodney tossed his coat on John's bed and kicked off his shoes. "I'm assuming you've already done your stretches?"

He set his water bottle next to himself on the floor and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. It followed his coat in an arc onto the bed.

"Well… if you count handstands…" John equivocated in a mild amused voice.

"On the floor." Rodney already had his heel drawn in to his crotch, the other leg stretched along the floor, feeling the slow pull as he pressed his chest towards his knee. John slid effortlessly into the splits.

Rodney winced. "Don't do that."

"Relax, Rodney."

"No, I mean it! How did you manage to avoid learning any discipline at all?" Rodney snapped.

"I'm disciplined."

"You could easily pull a groin muscle if you do that without warming up first, and let me tell you, it hurts!"

"I've been doing handstands."

"You could set us back for weeks." John sighed at him. "I'll make you practice through any injuries you sustain as your just desserts." It was an idle threat; Rodney would do no such thing. "And don't forget to breathe."

"I always breathe," John snarled, but he let out a long exhalation as he bent over his knee, touching his forehead to the floor.

"Picture it going into your muscles wherever it's tight, melting that spot like butter," Rodney murmured.

"What are you, some kind of guru now?" John eyed him.

"It's a rolphing technique," Rodney purred. "I love stretches. I could practically fall asleep like this."

"Okay." John rolled, pushing himself up from the floor. He bobbed his chin to the music and made his way to the weight bench. "I'll spot you. Two sets of ten and then the leg lifts?"

Rodney stood and bounced on the soles of his feet. He shook out his fingers. "I don't lift weights," he said, blinking primly.

"How can you get any strength with the jumps if you don't…" John paused, a light dawning in his eyes.

"This isn't about me, this is about you!" Rodney snapped, suddenly irritable and defensive. "Now up. I need a leg extension from you, as pretty as a ballerina. C'mon, c'mon, we don't have all day."

John complied, lips tightly locked but he gave Rodney a meaningful look that spoke volumes. Rodney ignored the intense guilt-inducing stare.

At Rodney's direction he did a waltz step, then the Lutz, bouncing up and landing facing the opposite direction, one foot extended. "Now watch me carefully," Rodney said, and he did the same.

John frowned in confusion. "So?"

"Get my timing down perfectly. Cross-step, cross-step, then one – two – three!" Rodney landed. "Now together."

After several tries John still stumbled, landing slightly after Rodney who looked him over critically, like John was a car he planned to buy. "You're really not much of a dancer."

John's shoulders slumped. "Give it a chance, will you? You take such teenie steps."

"I was trying to make it easy for you."

"Well stop, you're making it harder!"

"Here." Rodney huffed a sigh and tucked an arm around John's waist. "Now don't be shy." He smirked.

John rolled his eyes. They repeated the cross-steps pressed hip-to-warm hip, this time working out a happy medium in their strides. John watched his feet carefully, tongue between his teeth in concentration.

Rodney chucked him under the chin, shaking his head. "Don't look at my feet. Trust me when I say you'll never get it that way."

After several successful tries, Rodney varied the rhythm, forcing John to improvise. John chuckled, "Let me lead sometime, okay?"

Rodney grinned. He clapped his hands together. "Okay then, let's try this one more time. With the Lutz."

They separated. Then did the three cross-steps, stepped into the jump, one – two – three! John landed on a dime, dead even with Rodney, at least as far as Rodney could tell. And he even held the pose without slouching out of it. They breathed a long minute.

"Well," Rodney said, the line of his mouth pulled into a smug smile as he let his foot drop. "I'd say we made tolerable progress today."

"I'd say that was pretty damned good," John nodded slowly. He laced his fingers together over his head and stretched. "I can do my cardio later. Wanna stay for dinner?" he offered, padding in his bare feet over to a small sink and a cupboard. A card table was set against one wall by the windows. "We're having… either leftover pad thai or – ooo! – macaroni and cheese." John waggled his eyebrows.

"Much as the menu sounds enticing," Rodney slumped to the floor, legs outstretched like a two-year-old's, "I have a four o'clock lesson to give. Someone who isn't actually behind on paying me."

"Shit. Rodney—"

"No, no, don't worry about it," Rodney swiped the air lazily and leaned on an elbow with a sigh, crossing his ankles comfortably. "It's nice to coach someone who doesn't need me to tie their skates."

"No. Rodney," John gave him a funny look. "It's four thirty."

"Already?!" Rodney swore, scrambling up to grab his clothes. He hopped up and down as he put on his shoes. "How did this happen?"

"You need me to call? I can call for you, make up some kind of excuse… you were shot, run over by a bus…."

"It's a tiny little shoebox of a rink. They don't have a paging system! I can't believe this!" He flung John's door open and suddenly stopped and spun around, stabbing a finger in John's direction. "Tomorrow. Four am. Music, and the boombox. Don't forget this time!" Rodney was already running down the hall when John yelled after him, "Do you want a three am wake up call?"

Rodney's answer to this helpful suggestion really wasn't very nice, nor was the hand gesture he gave over his shoulder, not looking back. But John simply grinned and started heating water for macaroni and cheese, the dinner of champions, and cranked up the music.

~*~*~

The morning was off to a terrific start when Rodney slammed the door of John's Chevy, hopping onto the vinyl seats with a loud sigh -- and discovered it just as cold inside as outside. "Hey…."

"Sorry. Heater broke," John explained with a rueful cringe. He lifted his chin and peered into the rear view mirror, adjusting it.

"You need to win a competition or the lottery or something," Rodney complained, "so you can pay me and put your life back together."

"There's always male prostitution," John drawled.

Rodney's jaw dropped and his mouth went dry.

"Kidding, McKay."

"Oh," Rodney sighed and he started breathing again. "Of course you are."

But his mind was still reeling through the dangers of that. HIV, Hepatitis, assault and battery, John injured for life, wheelchairs, never able to skate again… John would leave a tragically good-looking corpse.

"My parents send me what they can but I don't like to ask. The apartment's subsidized so that helps…." John shrugged. "I worked as a dishwasher for a while before I got fired: four am skate times and late shifts just don't seem to mix."

"Well, if it gets too bad you can always move in with me."

Rodney froze, stunned at what had just come out of his mouth. No, stunned that he'd even thought it. John's work-out equipment would never fit, and that was just for starters.

John's expression went blank and oddly vulnerable. Not turning his head, he eyed Rodney. "Do you make that offer to all your students?"

"Not if they're under the age of nine, no. Their parents would find it very upsetting." Rodney tried to make light of it with a nervous little laugh. "So, ah, did you bring the music?" he added in a tight, desperate voice, eager to change the subject. "And the boombox?"

John blinked and handed Rodney a plastic bag of CDs. He reached up and made an irritated growl in the back of his throat, scrubbing the inside of the windshield with his sleeve; the heater being out apparently meant that the defroster didn't work either.

"I didn't mean for that to sound, um…" Rodney began, circling one hand as he held the bag limply in the other.

"No, it's all right. It's a generous offer." John flashed him a smile.

"I was just thinking about the wheelchairs…" Rodney said absently.

"What?" John twisted in his direction, brows furrowed.

But Rodney was already distracted as he stared into the bag. "What is this crap?"

"What crap?"

"Country music? Keith Urban? Johnny Cash? You can't skate to any of this!"

"You said pick out something I like," John frowned, a little petulant.

"That was founded on the assumption you had a modicum of taste and some concept of what makes appropriate skating music," Rodney said in exasperation. "I realize you learned how to skate at ma and pa's 'ce-ment swimming hole,' but surely you've been doing it long enough to know better." Rodney dug through the bag irritably.

"I hate classical…." John whined.

Rodney produced one CD, waving it in the air. "Aha! The Clash. Now we're getting somewhere."

John gave him an uncomfortable half-smile. "Well, that's more for listening than for skating."

"Obviously. But at least I can tolerate hearing it for months on end." He turned towards John, brandishing the CD. "Look, the rule of skating music is simple: pick out something you like but not something you love. That way you can live with it, but you don't ruin it for yourself by having to play it nine billion times."

John nodded once, decisive. "Take Johnny Cash out of there."

"We're gonna go one better." Rodney patted his shoulder. John stared at that spot, but Rodney ignored him and jerked his chin in the direction of his door. "C'mon, follow me. I should've done this to begin with."

Inside his house, Rodney tried the technique of pretending the mess was invisible. Ignore the piles of papers, medicine bottles, empty dishes and glasses on the coffee table, the dirty clothes strewn about the couch and on the floor, and hopefully your guest would be immediately struck blind. Naturally it didn't work on John.

John paused in the doorway, looking around hesitantly as he slipped the door shut behind him. He stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze openly taking in the wreckage.

"Nice place you've got here." He glanced up at the ceiling as he picked his way across the room. "I'm thinking of turning down your offer."

"Shut up, you people take up all my time," Rodney snapped as he crouched down and slid open his dusty stereo cabinet. "Though maybe if you paid me I could afford a cleaning lady."

"I'm guessing there're not a lot of guests rolling through here. Because something this impressive takes effort."

"Of course not."

"So… no parade of international stardom?" John said meaningfully.

Rodney gave him a hard look. "Ten years ago, yes. It's amazing I found any time to skate. Now, no. No one's interested in a slightly overweight has-been."

"Well. I wouldn't say no one."

Their eyes met for a moment.

"This is hero worship, isn't it?" Rodney asked calmly as he returned to digging through his CDs.

"You did just offer to be my sugar daddy," John said with a dry smirk.

Rodney sighed, shoulders hunching defensively. "I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I?"

John crouched beside Rodney with a satisfied little grunt. "Nope," he breathed. "Not a chance."

"Well, you're wasting time here! We're already late." Rodney gestured to the line of CDs he'd just reorganized by composer. "I've picked out the most likely candidates for your -- and please be aware I'm stretching the term -- 'style' of skating."

"Just now?"

"Well, I am a genius. I simply just chose to, oh," Rodney beamed beatifically at him, "follow my Muse."

John rolled his eyes in disgust, changing the subject as he scanned the entire cabinet. "That's a lot of CDs."

"I've an exceptional collection. Now. What do you like that doesn't include caterwauling about broken hearts and truck pulls? Tchaikovsky's always reliable -- 'Romeo and Juliet,' perhaps? You have to like it or this won't work."

John wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Classical's boring."

"You clearly haven't heard the right kind of classical music. Handel is boring."

"I like drum solos… guitar solos…." John suggested doubtfully.

Rodney brightened, snapping his fingers. "Oh! I know just the thing." He grabbed a handful of CDs and gestured John to the door, checking his watch. "If we cut short your spins we can still try this."

"Try what? And I saw you pick up that Tchaikovsky, Rodney."

"Always have a back-up plan," Rodney sing-songed.

"Yeah, I've got a back-up plan," John said, following Rodney as they trampled loudly down the wooden steps to John's car. He said over the roof as he swung open the door, "If what you picked sucks I'm skating to Willie Nelson."

~*~*~

The sky was turning pink by the time they pulled into the nearly empty parking lot. Just inside the door they stamped their feet to warm up, gym bags in hand as Rodney followed John into the glaring lights of the rink. It was always too bright first thing in the morning. And quiet. A few people were down at the far end of rink, though not enough to disturb them. There was an echoing laugh as someone fell, and the soft scrape of blades.

Being late meant they were technically going to go over their skate time, but no one had ever made a move to throw Rodney out yet, and the hockey team wasn't scheduled today -- they were the only ones who needed the whole ice. The Hurwitzes, who owned the rink, were pleasant people who seemed to like John; besides, they got a lot of business from Rodney's clients. It wasn't often a coach of Rodney's caliber chose a rink so out of the way.

John hopped over a bench, kicked off his shoes and began pulling on and lacing up his skates with quick yanks. Rodney stripped off his coat and sweater, blinking and smothering a yawn.

John as usual was first on the ice, stretching his arms over his head. He turned the stretch into a half-spin.

He did a quick warm-up lap, then returned with slow gliding steps.

"So, we're going to skate together today?" John glanced nervously over his shoulder to the other skaters -- who were miles away.

"Actually, we're going to try something a little different."

Rodney hadn't really warmed up yet, but he pushed off the wall and with a few stiff strokes came up behind John and slowed, laying a hand on his back. "I want you to shut your eyes and just follow me. Trust me; I won't steer you into a wall."

John gave him a suspicious dark-eyed look, then sighed and did as he was told.

Rodney took two backward strokes holding John's shoulder, and John reluctantly followed.

"Okay," John said, his back tight and his eyes still squeezed shut. "Now what?"

"I want you to match my strokes." Rodney pushed off again with the lightest touch on John's shoulder.

John did two slow pushes, still complaining. "I can't see your—"

"Ah, ah!" Rodney cut him off. "Remember our work-out? I'm simply behind you at the moment, that's all."

"Then shouldn't we have practiced it like that?" John said sarcastically, his eyes open again. He cut an edge and spun around to face Rodney.

Rodney drew himself to a stop, thumping a finger on his own chest then pointing at John. "Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that."

"I'm just saying."

"--That you can't do it," Rodney interrupted.

"No, I can do it. I can so do this." John's jaw was set and he closed his eyes again, turning to present his back. He fell still, as if preparing for a race. He shook his hands out like a boxer; then he was ready.

Rodney was careful not to smile, though sometimes, John could be refreshingly predictable. He started with a hand on John's shoulder again, at arms-length, skating backwards as he led John.

John matched his pace, his mouth in a firm line of concentration. Then, as he grew more accurate tracing the length of Rodney's steps, Rodney slid his hands to John's hips, just below his waist. John threw him a quick startled glance, but made no comment, matching his pace again.

They glided for several seconds, nothing more than that.

Rodney drew him in closer, shortening the distance by half. John blinked his eyes open and cleared his throat, saying, "This has to look bad."

"Eyes closed," Rodney demanded. "No one's watching."

He lied. Several people had taken notice; pairs skating did not usually involve two men. As they passed the most interested culprits, two girls in pastel skirts, Rodney spoke in an authoritative voice a little more loudly than necessary: "Good, that's good!"

"Ow. I'm right here." John winced.

Catching on that he was 'The CoachTM,' their spectators lost interest and went back to their business.

One more lap and John followed him smoothly, shortening his usual long strokes to match Rodney's. It was effortless. Rodney admired his clean lines accentuated by dark stretch-fleece.

"Crossovers," Rodney warned him, one hand on John's shoulder again, giving him more room as they crossed one foot over another, picking up speed in a slow broad circle. Confident John had it, though he did have his eyes open again, Rodney moved in closer to catch his hips. Their combined power and velocity sling-shotted them around the rink and Rodney caught a trace of a smile at the corner of John's mouth, though he had to pay more careful attention to what he was doing now.

Rodney cut a wide circle. "Let it glide," he ordered.

"No, let's go faster," John argued.

But Rodney let go of his hips and let the momentum carry him further until turning to coast a stop. Of course John stopped like a hockey player in a spray of ice. It would probably take a zamboni weeks to smooth out the gouge.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about the speed!" John said, catching his breath as he skated over, arms loose. "I felt like I was draughting behind a truck with you breaking all the wind resistance."

"Pairs skating has its advantages," Rodney agreed. "Though I've only done that with thirteen-year-old girls. I admit, I'd underestimated the sheer velocity when one's combined weight is over four hundred pounds -- and did you just compare me to a truck?"

"Four hundred," John's eyes were calculating, narrowed as he did the math. "You weigh over two hundred—?"

"Not the point, Sheppard." Rodney rolled his eyes and ended this line of questioning. "That was a good start. Now," he approached with two strokes, "I want you to lean back into my hands."

"You want me to do a layback?" John peered at him. "What's next? A dress?"

Rodney sighed at the prejudices of the sport. "More like slump into my hands. Pretend that you're unconscious."

John tipped his head to one side and shrugged, backing up to Rodney. "I'm really not seeing the point of all this."

"Coach here!" Rodney raised a hand in frustrated reminder.

On the first try, Rodney fumbled his grip and John set his weight back on his skates, barely catching himself before they fell. Rodney backed up awkwardly.

"Okay, not quite that unconscious." They stopped. "Just don't give me all your weight. Just some of it."

"A layback," John insisted, hard-eyed.

"All right, fine! Call it what you will. But do it without the arched back, please."

John cut his eyes to the side then nodded agreement, swiping at his mouth. This time, while his weight pushed them into a little wobbly glide, Rodney was able to hold him. He pushed backwards, keeping up a steady rhythm.

"Now melt like butter and just slide behind me…." Rodney murmured.

John had closed his eyes automatically, just like Rodney had hoped. He turned them gently into a curve. Easy does it.

John's eyelashes made little arcs on his cheeks, his face soft almost as if he were sleeping, except for the tight line of concentration across his brows. Rodney decided he had rather pouty lips.

Suddenly John stiffened up, jerked, his shoulder smacked the ice as he grabbed -- and yanked on Rodney's arm. Rodney tripped forward, spiraled and slammed to his hands and knees. Rodney skidded a little before coming to a complete stop.

Not for the first time Rodney wished there were a way to fall gracefully. He and John glanced around as if crowds of people were ready to point and laugh.

"What was that?" Rodney snapped, putting a hand on his thigh as he leveraged himself off the ice. He winced; that knee throbbed.

"Sorry. It just occurred to me that I wasn't the one driving. I didn't like it much," John sneered, dusting off the seat of his pants as he stood.

"Hmm. Interesting." Rodney's mouth tipped up into a smug smile.

"What's interesting?" John asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Rodney said, but he beamed, positively brimming with insight. Being right was the best part of coaching; that little thrill of hypothesis and discovery when you saw what had been eluding you sitting there, directly under your nose. "Except that I was right, oh-so-frighteningly correct, as usual."

"What?"

"You can control the jumps. But everything else you keep oh, how do I say this? Outside of yourself if that makes any sense." He waved a hand. "You don't like the music to be in charge."

"No, that's not it," John corrected him patiently. "The jumps feel good. The other stuff's just boring filler."

"Well, it shouldn't be."

"What should it be then?"

"The other 'stuff,' as you call it, is the point." Rodney drew closer, drawing the number three on the ice as he turned on an edge. "It should be, hmm…" Rodney thought about his phrasing an instant, tipping his head in happy amusement. "Sexy."

He smirked and John snorted a laugh, looking skyward as he followed Rodney, his back straight.

"Try it again," Rodney said.

John was considerably more uncomfortable this time, arms stiff as he tried to lean back and stopped, pinwheeling. Rodney jerked away.

"Halfway's not good," he warned. Though it took everyone a moment to recover from a fall.

John's narrow eyes flicked to the side, glinting with suspicion. "I still don't see the point of all this."

"You will."

"Thanks for the clarification, Yoda."

But this time he leaned back, trusting his weight to Rodney again. Though it looked like he was holding his breath. Rodney shut his eyes briefly as his body registered its high opinion of their relative positions. He decided to ignore what John couldn't see. They moved into a slow glide.

For all that John was relatively tall, over six feet, a good two inches taller than Rodney, he was slim and very light. Narrow through the shoulders and chest, built delicately, enough so that Rodney briefly wondered if he had hollow bones like a bird -- well, most birds. No wonder he could practically fly.

"Jumping must be pretty easy for you," Rodney observed out loud over the grinding glide of their skates.

John's hazel eyes squinted up at him. "Of course it is."

Rodney brought them to a slow stop, tipping John back up to his feet, a little less gracefully than with most of his students, the majority of whom were female.

John blinked and rolled his shoulders. "Well, that was relaxing." He skated to the wall, picking up his water bottle.

"Hmm," Rodney hummed agreement. "Good. Means you're ready for the next step."

He turned his back to John to cover what the soft warm-ups did little to hide. He grabbed from the bench the over-sized pale blue sweatshirt and pulled it on, the hem brushing his thighs. John swept him with an amused glance before becoming conscientiously distracted by something non-existent on the other side of the rink. Rodney tugged his shirt lower. He wasn't fooling anyone but he didn't have to be obvious about it.

John winced, taking another sip. "You don't think people were watching us." It was half a question as he scanned the ice alertly.

"I didn't notice," Rodney admitted.

"You're going get me beat up by a hockey team," John complained, putting the cap on the water bottle, though he didn't seem too serious, Rodney thought.

Without ceremony Rodney popped in a CD and clicked play.

"Tchaikovsky?" John folded his arms defensively.

"We'll try something else first."

The complicated guitar work began, followed by the steady rolling drumbeat like a march.

John burst out laughing, bending almost double. He came back up with a smile. "It's a tango."

"Flamenco music's very masculine," Rodney pointed out.

"I need a red cape," John joked. But he was still grinning at Rodney, as amused as all heck.

"Olé," said Rodney, pushing off the wall and spinning around. "Now you lead."

"What do you mean?" John asked curiously, eyes still crinkled in a smile, following Rodney with a lazy step.

"Just… play with it. Here. Watch."

Rodney got himself up to tempo, one arm drawn up to his chest as if he were holding said cape. He winked at John, then did long crossover steps, scooping left than right in a serpentine pattern with the sway of the tango, then he circled back around. "Just make it up."

"I can't do that."

"Shy, eh?" Rodney smirked. "I'll make this easy for you. I need a shower. Bad. So the rink's all yours." He gestured dramatically to the empty ice.

"I thought I was paying you to coach." John squinted.

"Ah, leaving aside that whole 'payment' issue-? Your hour was up, oh," Rodney looked at a watch he wasn't wearing, "at least half an hour ago." He slapped John on the back. "Have fun."

Picking up his gym bag, he held up a cautioning finger. "Remember: No jumps!"

~*~*~

Rodney was wrapped in the telephone cord, one coil over his hip stretched tight as he reached up to grab the oregano. He slammed the cabinet door with an elbow. The water ran at full blast where he was washing dishes, multi-tasking, the steam rising -- Rodney believed in temperatures that could boil lobster. Several open cans of organic tomatoes from the co-op were on the counter, advertising 'No preservatives!' in bright letters.

"You wouldn't believe it!" Rodney fumed.

He readjusted the phone, giving the cord a good yank. He padded over to peer into his fridge. "Hold on, hold on, I can't find --" He grabbed a plastic bag of herbs from the back. "-- Never mind. Disaster averted."

"How much is this phone call costing you?" the voice on the other end wondered. "And what are you doing?"

He disentangled his arm, flopping his elbow impatiently to free it, and poured an enormous amount of oil into a pot the size of a small vat.

"It's cooking day," Rodney snapped into the phone. "I wouldn't have to do this if all the restaurants in town weren't out to kill me -- anyhow, you'd think someone could follow simple directions. All I said was 'skate.' A one-word instruction isn't overly complicated."

"Skate?" said the voice on the phone. "That is all?"

Rodney took a breath and started to explain, "He's one of those types that jumps—"

"Yes, yes, I've seen him, good jumps but not much—"

"Not much style, no," Rodney sighed. He dropped garlic into the pot and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The garlic sizzled. He leaned closer and decided to add more.

"Have you tried getting him to—"

"That was exactly what I was doing!" Rodney exclaimed, flailing the spoon. "I went to take a shower -- to give him a little privacy, to get into it of course."

"Of course, of course…."

"I came back out, and what was he doing? He was playing hockey with some twelve-year-old! Hockey!"

"What did you do?" The voice was suddenly wary.

"I threw my gym bag at him!" Rodney said, exasperated. "Radek, I don't have time to waste my talents on someone who doesn't have the brains to realize that by ignoring me, he's throwing away his entire career!" "You threw your gym bag at him?"

"And his! And the water bottle! I would have thrown the boombox next but the owners of the rink have been very nice to me and I didn't want to do any lasting damage." Rodney stirred the contents of the pot with unnecessary vigor, throwing in the oregano. "I told him that at least if he were paying me I might be getting something out of this."

"You threw things at him?"

"As it was, he was an endless black hole into which I throw my time and energy -- and nothing ever emerges!" Rodney banged the spoon on the edge of the pot.

He added in the sudden radio silence, "And don't think I don't know he's still doing the jumps, because he looked twitchy when I brought it up."

"Rodney… how much is this telephone call costing you?"

"I can never figure out Euros; they're not a real currency." Rodney brushed the question off with a gesture. "He even made me late for Mrs. Bevington's daughter, and yes, the kid will never reach John's level and probably give up skating to join the marching band, but having the little automatons do what I say is infinitely preferable to watching talent go down the drain."

"Rodney. Why is it you are calling me?"

"What?"

"Go out, Rodney."

"What?"

"Your house, it is probably a big mess and looks like shit—"

"It does not!"

"--and you have nothing in your life but these babies," the voice went on, undeterred. "Go out. See people."

"My house is fine!" Rodney said, clear-eyed and hurt.

The voice grumbled in Czech. Probably vivid swear words.

"Okay, maybe it could use a little tidying up."

"I will not say it again," the voice said with infinite patience.

"I miss you," Rodney said miserably.

"If I will be honest, I do not miss you. I want you, yes, sometimes. And I like you, so much. But you are crazy-making!"

"I'm disgustingly overweight and I'm eating more," Rodney switched the phone to his other ear, shifting his hip to slump against the counter. "I just got rid of a hot, hot student I would gladly molest on or off the ice, and now my ex doesn't love me any more."

"Yes. I do. Or else I would not accept your phone call. It is just safer on a different continent."

"How's the committee thing going?" Rodney changed the subject brightly, his voice a little high and desperate.

"It has been six months since you last called: I am not on the Olympic committee any more. Go out," Radek Zelenka said, as relentless as ever. "Promise me you will go out, please?"

~*~*~

January, 1986

The sky was bright blue, a cold wind breaking over the bluff.

Radek Zelenka squinted at the sun reflecting off the snow as he adjusted his skis, digging edges deeper into the side of slope. He stuck his ski poles through the sharp icy surface and adjusted the cold wire frames of his glasses on his face. He couldn't regret missing an afternoon of high school for this. He looked around and breathed, waiting. He lifted the cheap plastic Instamatic camera to his cheek. The wind lifted a dusting of snow in a vortex before it settled.

Conditions were perfect.

Up at the top of the track a voice shouted. The skier launched down the ramp, tucked tight, his poles buried under his arms. There was a shudder and thump as he hit the top curve of the ramp, and then silence as he flew, arched forward over skis angled like the vee of geese flying north. A new technique but it worked.

Mouth open in awe, Radek snapped photos in a series dull clicks, turning to follow his arc.

"Oh...." he said, not aware that he'd made a sound. He held his breath until his brother Jiri landed, skis sliding, splayed wide to snowplow to a stop. His brother spun a ski pole in the air with a whoop, pulling the World War I goggles to the top of his head.

Radek measured the distance with his eyes. He knew this course better than his own bedroom, and ski jumping better than most subjects at school -- and he was a top student, engineering ski designs in his mind. Radek was small enough to be a ski jumper himself but he'd always been the fragile scholar among the Zelenka boys.

The jump was easily 173 meters, landed clean. Only eighteen meters short of Finland's current 1985 record. The skis the government had provided his brother had made a tremendous difference. He put his camera away in his pocket, zipping it inside his coat. One day he'd see his brother break that record.

Shushing down the slope expertly on skis that were older than both of them, Radek's father stopped just up-slope from Radek.

"Good," he shook his head, his breathing harsh. "Very good."

"He will make the Olympic team for sure." Radek grinned. They both knew the politics involved, that talent wasn't the only consideration. Technically, the Czechoslovakian team was supposed to be picked by their own Olympic committee but the Soviets often made "suggestions" as to who should not be included.

Face red and wind-chapped, his father smiled, his voice a purr of pride. "I have a job for you. If your brother goes—"

"Oh, he will—" Radek gushed.

His father held up a finger for silence. "If he goes, I have a family friend who knows someone who can get you a job on the Olympic team. I want you to keep an eye on him." He nodded very seriously towards Radek's little brother. He took a deep breath, and then said, "If there's a chance...."

Radek's eyes widened in fear. His father didn't mean for them to defect? No one said it aloud, but travel to such events offered unprecedented opportunities.

"...Don't let him go," his father finished. "His mother needs him at home. It would kill her to lose him."

Relieved and frightened, Radek nodded. He waved to his brother who was shouting for their attention, annoyed at being ignored after a great jump.

His father patted his shoulder with a heavy gloved hand. "And keep him away from those crazy western women, eh?" he added with laugh, making a cupping gesture like holding two breasts. He turned to ski to his youngest son.

"Now you ask the impossible," Radek called after him, snickering.

Outside the "iron curtain." Standing on the empty ski slope, looking up at the sky, Radek let it sink in. He was going to the Olympics. The possibility had never even entered his mind.

~*~*~

January, 1999

"At least if you were paying me I'd be getting something out of this!"

John collected all the scattered stuff from his gym bag -- which had been open, thanks -- skating from one item to another. He left Rodney's crap all over the ice. Let him clean up his own mess. He turned to apologize to the kid on Rodney's behalf but, unsurprisingly, the kid was long gone. John skated to the edge of the rink and dumped the empty water bottle in the trash.

It was just hockey. But McKay treated it like it was a cardinal sin.

John got dressed in the locker room, skipping the shower. He didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be. Outside in the bright morning -- it was probably about seven o'clock -- John unlocked his car and tossed his stuff into the back seat. He cranked the engine, then reached over to turn on the heat.

It gave an unresponsive click.

John banged the steering wheel with both fists.

Shifting gears hard, he slammed the car into reverse. At the stop sign he put on The Clash, just to match his mood. Because his next stop wasn't likely to improve his day.

~*~*~

Clean and freshly shaved, Rodney pulled on a pair of tight jeans that hadn't been quite so hard to button when he'd first bought them, but still did the trick. The nice thing about having an ex a continent or two away is that he couldn't gloat if and when you actually followed his advice.

Rodney leaned closer to the hall mirror, baring his teeth to make sure he didn't have any oregano stuck between them. Then he stepped back and examined the merchandise, turning one hip towards the mirror, then the other.

"Not bad, not bad," Rodney told his reflection with a smile, puffing out his chest as he sucked in his stomach. "Still very hot. There's definitely something to be said for skating."

He slapped his back pocket to check for his wallet and then picked his jacket off the floor -- he'd been a little melodramatic and thrown it when he'd come home. Though he was feeling much better now.

He recalled he hadn't thrown his gym bag here, largely because he'd already done so at the rink. He'd have to get it back from John later.

Rodney frowned, his good mood momentarily disrupted by his rebellious protégé. But he put all thoughts of John Sheppard… his long legs, that little self-mocking smile… out of his mind and took a deep calming breath. The spaghetti sauce, set to a slow burbling simmer, made the whole house smell good; there was something about the smell of food, he thought, that helped make a house a home.

Rodney sighed, checked his watch, and decided he wouldn't be too early if he left now. Not owning a (working) car was inconvenient at times, but he'd be taking cabs for the rest of the night anyway.

Unless he got a ride home, which -- Rodney checked himself out in the mirror again, blue eyes gleaming as he swept at his hair -- looked to be a distinct possibility.

~*~*~

John swung his legs where he sat on the table, shoulders hunched as he leaned on his hands. He waited somewhat less than patiently for the doctor to return. He looked up as the door opened.

"Well, laddie, the pain is simple tendonitis. I can give you something for that; you merely need to--"

"Yeah, yeah, alternate hot and cold on it, I know the drill," John cut him off and made ready to leave, reaching for his coat.

"What I am more concerned about is your older injury." The doctor flipped through pages in his file.

John wrinkled his nose and narrowed an eye at the doctor warily. It was never a good sign when they actually read his medical record.

"You had surgery on a torn anterior cruciate ligament which is fairly serious," the doctor bobbed his head, earnest, his forehead creased with concern. "Given the tendonitis I am not convinced you are giving it the proper time to heal."

"I'm an athlete. I know how to take care of my body. It's very important to me," John said agreeably with his most charming 'trust me' smile, reaching for the script. It was pulled out of reach.

"Begging your pardon, but in my experience athletes are the worst ones when it comes to taking care of themselves," the doctor said in a pleasant apologetic voice, brimming with sincerity. His smile was knowing and rather affectionate. "I am not asking you to stop doing whatever sport it is you do."

"I'm a skater."

The doctor nodded as if unsurprised. "I only ask that you strengthen the muscles around that knee." He made a cupping gesture with his hands, holding John's gaze. "That will help support and allow the ligaments to heal."

"I'm doing the exercises," John nodded. He had been. Religiously.

"And are you avoiding undue stress to the injured leg?" John opened his mouth, but the doctor shot him a quelling look, his eyebrows raised. "Don't lie to me now. Because this," he held up his prescription, "tells me that you are not."

"It's my take-off leg. For my jumps. I need it to practice my quads -- the quad flip in particular," John explained. "I'm going to land it in competition. It's going to happen." John's jaw was set.

"I have no idea what that is, but you can't be doing any of this jumping for a while."

"I'll be all right."

"It could snap like a twig!" the doctor said with sudden intense concern, causing John to look up in surprise. "The human body is not designed to take that kind of punishment. And certain parts of your body are particularly fragile."

John smiled at him doubtfully. "I'm sure back when we were being chased by sabre-toothed tigers we did all kinds of neat tricks."

"Aye. And the average human life span for most of our history was thirty-five years, but I trust you want to walk a wee bit longer than that. And skate longer too," the doctor added, obviously determined to make an impression.

John considered his words in disturbed silence, opening his folded hands as he stared at them.

"Skate," the doctor said gently, urging him, "do your exercises. Both will help you build strength. But you will do better if you take care of this now." He held out the prescription to John. "I expect to see you in two weeks. We will talk about the jumping then."

As John reached take it from his hand, he found the doctor had gripped it tighter, waiting for a response.

John nodded once. Only then did the doctor release it.

"I will expect you to keep your word," the doctor frowned, quite serious. Then he smiled and indicated John's chart. "Besides. I know where you live. And I have a very scary secretary," he joked with a sympathetic smile. "Don't make me send her after you."

As John left the doctor's office, he paused outside the door and sighed, his hands in his pockets, digging at the sidewalk with his shoe. The little bell on the door jangled as another patient stepped through.

He pulled out the bottle of pills he needed to refill and dug a fingernail under the label, lifting an edge: John Sheppard. Age 28.

He'd been competing for twelve years now and felt the pressure of time. An athlete's body could only cope for so long before his game started to slide. Though a lot of doctors would have told him not to skate at all.

John looked up at the sky, then tossed the pills in the air and caught them with a little clattering sound. With a determined nod he set a course for Rodney's.

Well. The drugstore and then Rodney's.

~*~*~

Rodney brushed a hand in front of his face, wafting away the cigarette smoke. It was one of the few things he wasn't allergic to but that made it no less deadly. The bar wasn't crowded; it was a little too early on a Thursday night.

He squirmed in his seat impatiently.

The place had bad "classic" rock music and mediocre beer with a décor that was part Irish Pub and part tacky sports bar. But Rodney liked it because it was the favorite haunt of the "nervous virgin" -- college students, or men who thought they were straight but had always wanted… something else. The masculine atmosphere let them pretend they were in an ordinary bar, one that just happened to have only men. There was nothing like showing someone the ropes and that type almost never wanted your phone number. Though occasionally they ran so fast they left their underwear behind.

Ducking his face behind his mug, Rodney cast a look around, careful not to catch just anyone's eyes. He needed to be selective.

There was the man with the graying mustache chatting up the bartender; nicely dressed, but a little older than he liked. Rodney marked him down as a possible back-up, and returned his gaze to his drink before leaning back in his chair, sweeping the room with another casual glance under lowered lashes.

The front door opened and a young man with wavy manicured hair in a crewneck stepped through, good looking, but not too out of reach… and of course every eye in the room was drawn to him like a magnet, eloquently casual.

Then he held the door for his laughing friend. Rodney probably wasn't the only one who sighed.

A cluster of men in their late twenties leaned over the pool table in thin cotton chinos. Rodney raised an eyebrow and stole a gratuitous glimpse, enjoying the curve of the landscape even though they were all busy flirting with each other. It never hurt to look. Rodney visualized the four of them together and possibly leered, though he didn't care -- which meant he'd probably had a little too much. Rodney wasn't known for his ability to hold his alcohol, he was on his second drink, and he still hadn't seen anyone interesting.

"Hi." The table under his elbow shook.

Rodney glanced up to find a young Asian guy in a tight retro shirt pulling the chair out across from him. Slim, attractive, shorter than Rodney…. "Quiet night," his Asian friend began with a calculating smile.

Rodney's eyes lit up and he smiled, making sure his guest knew he was welcome. Of course, sometimes experience was good, too.

~*~*~

John rolled to a stop outside Rodney's house, putting it in park. The garbage cans had been dragged to the curb and there was a stack of recycled newspapers on the front porch -- signs that maybe Rodney cleaned when he was mad. There'd never been any signs he cleaned otherwise. Aside from the porch light, the house was dark, though it was pretty early for someone to be asleep.

Unless they'd been up since three-thirty in the morning, which he and Rodney both had.

John rubbed his face, felt the five o'clock shadow and sat behind the wheel wondering what to do. Finally, noticing he was just putting it off, he steeled himself and then got out and knocked, bouncing a little, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he listened for any signs of life. "C'mon…" John complained under his breath, then hammered on the door again.

There was no answer. John peered in through the windows and could see that the clutter had definitely been stirred up a bit. But there was no Rodney in front of the TV, or sitting in the kitchen.

He went back to the car, chafing his hands as he weighed going back to his apartment with waiting for Rodney. Because Rodney seemed like the type who'd hold a grudge, especially if you gave him time to get used to it, like a comfortable pair of old jeans. On the other hand, it was cold in the car and he'd just taken some painkillers and so should probably go home.

Wavering, John decided he'd give Rodney twenty minutes. He popped in a CD, pushed back the seat, and settled his hands in his pockets to wait. "Bad Moon Rising" should probably have seemed a bit more ominous. John shut his eyes, meditative.

~*~*~

Rodney's new Asian friend was a wonderful conversationalist, which was no mean feat as he was from Korea and English was definitely a second language. Kim, his name was. He had small tidy hands and efficient gestures and Rodney was eager to discover how this would play out in the bedroom.

They had a few more drinks, and Rodney leaned over the table and did his level best to charm him, laughing at all his jokes, agreeing with every stupid thing he said. Rodney made sure to mention that he was an athlete and an Olympic skater, international superstar, that sort of thing. The surprise was always so insulting, and Kim didn't look at all like he believed him. But his quick assessing glance up and down Rodney's body was definitely an affirmative. Rodney ran the cool edge of his glass over his lips to signal that the answer was yes, so please let's get to where, because the when was definitely now.

Kim was giving him a steady almond-eyed gaze, which made Rodney's breath turn ragged, but they seemed to be having a cross-cultural communication problem.

Rodney decided to clarify his position. "It's getting a little crowded in here, don't you think?" In truth, only a few more people had arrived.

"You do not like crowds?" Kim asked, sitting up straight, suddenly defensive.

"Well," Rodney rubbed his fingertips together, "there are times for crowds and then there are times that require a little more privacy." He drummed his fingers on the table, then stretched and ran a hand through his hair, looking around the bar. "I could use more of the latter right about now. Couldn't you?"

"You want to be alone?" Kim-the-unutterably-stupid asked.

"With you," Rodney huffed, unable to keep it polite. He thanked his lucky stars that IQ and nationality didn't matter at the moment.

Kim traced a finger along the edge of his glass. "I have a friend…."

Rodney's lips parted. His face fell and eyes filled with disappointment, shoulders drooping. He visualized ax-wielding jealous boyfriends, possibly skilled with numchucks and belonging to the Yakusa. He'd start with cutting off Rodney's fingers for even touching his boyfriend -- had he touched Kim yet? Tragically, no.

"He would like to be, ah, 'private' with us," Kim offered in a nervous shaky voice, not looking up from the table.

Rodney's imagination stopped and lurched in a new direction. A threesome. He could do that. He'd never had before, at least not in a premeditated fashion, it had simply happened due to sharing quarters and the circumstances and -- and… and Rodney realized his mouth was still open and he hadn't answered.

"Yes, I -- that would be, um, doable," he said, with eyes as wide as saucers.

Kim made a little bow and said, "Good. He is in the car. He is very shy."

~*~*~

Outside Rodney's house, the full hour of the CD clicked off in John's car.

John's face was soft and relaxed, the zipper of his jacket denting his full lower lip. The fabric there was a little darker where he'd drooled, and his closed eyes twitched at the barely noticed change in his environment. He rolled and snuggled his face closer into the corner between the seat and the car door, shifting the dangling seatbelt, his arms folded tight across his chest. With a little sigh, he settled back to sleep.

~*~*~

They got up from the table and Rodney paid for their drinks. He could be gracious with the nice man who was about to give him ridiculous amounts of moderately kinky sex with two slim-hipped Koreans. He moved carefully, fully cognizant of his obvious hard-on, but since that was the natural state of most men here he didn't worry about it. He staggered, however, as he held the glass door open with an exaggerated sweeping gesture, and he had that underwater feeling of way too much to drink. As he trailed Kim through the door, Rodney hoped he hadn't had so much as to mute his "performance."

Outside, the brisk air brought him to his senses. It had to be about ten degrees Fahrenheit, and Rodney realized they hadn't negotiated the rest of their evening. "So where--?"

"He is in the car," Kim nodded, misunderstanding the question. Rodney wrinkled his nose, squinting as he tried to imagine sitting in a car in this weather for what had to have been hours.

They turned the corner. Kim reached into his pocket, making that magical jingle of car keys, the sound that meant you had scored for the evening and -- thank God -- hadn't managed to screw it up. Rodney was feeling very satisfied with himself, humming inwardly. The sedan, comfortable-looking, not overly fancy, had its parking lights on, and there was clearly someone in the front passenger seat.

A very large someone. As they approached the car door Rodney's steps slowed. "What's this?"

The window rolled down. A monstrous behemoth in a leather jacket -- one that had to have taken a whole cow -- looked Rodney up and down through narrow, squinty eyes, checking him out. He wore a studded leather collar around an enormous neck, and a tiny old-fashioned 1970s biker cap.

Kim spoke hurriedly in Korean to his boyfriend, urgent, cutting quick glances at Rodney, who felt like he was suddenly up for sale.

"Oh, I get it," Rodney said sarcastically. He stabbed a finger at Kim and they paused in their monkey-chatter. "You're just the bait. It's really Ghengis Khan here who wants some action." He put his hands on his hips. "You're hoping that by the time you get someone out here they'll be desperate enough to follow through -- oh my God," he interrupted himself, eyes widening, "you kept me talking so I wouldn't find anyone else!"

"No, I—" Kim began, and started speaking rapidly in Korean, but the huge guy put up a hand and he stopped.

"I can't believe I thought that was conversation and I'm not that desperate! Okay, maybe I was desperate enough -- if you'd been willing to tell me! -- but now I don't know what you've got in your trunk," he snapped. "A chainsaw fetish?!"

Gathering his dignity, Rodney spun around. And he only staggered a little on his way back to the bar.

Halfway there, he recalled the Yakuza and the possibility of a sedan running him over, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed nobody behind him. He returned to inwardly grumbling about wasted time and cursing Radek's bad ideas which were always classic disasters that ended with them stumbling drunk on a train in northern Germany -- and nowhere near Amsterdam -- when the competition was in Stuttgart. He also remembered, belatedly, why he hated bars.

One hand on the door handle, Rodney paused, eyes shifting as he considered his next move. He didn't want anyone to think he'd struck out but that's exactly what this would look like. His chances would be depressingly small after that.

He needed to find another bar.

Rodney hung his head and checked his watch. It was a little after eleven-thirty, and while he didn't have his four am appointment with John -- and, oh, it hurt to think of him right then -- he did have another later in the morning. Rodney rubbed his nose, then stepped into the bar to call a cab.

~*~*~

Rodney shrank into the car seat at the glimpse of the sedan in his driveway and he almost asked the cab driver to circle the block -- until it occurred to him that the Korean duo had no way of knowing where he lived. As he drew closer he frowned, finally recognizing the dusty burgundy of John's beat-up Chevy Caprice.

What the hell?

Rodney paid the taxi driver and gave him what was probably too large a tip; then he stalked over to John's car and rapped on the window like a cop who'd caught some teenager necking.

John jumped and scrabbled gratifyingly, arms flailing, one knuckle cracking against the glass. Rodney took pity on him and yanked open the door. John jerked back as he nearly spilled out.

"What are you doing here?" Bright stunned eyes stared at Rodney, who remembered that John's heater was broken, among other things, and he suddenly realized why John was here. "Oh my God, you lost your apartment."

"What?" John said, still open-mouthed and bleary.

"You've been thrown out, you don't have a job -- and you think my offer's still good after your performance this morning?" Rodney caught his breath as the full ramifications sank in with a shock. "It's ten degrees out."

"What? Was it ever good?" John puzzled at him, obviously not quite awake.

"I was almost out all night with a gay leather threesome, it's ten degrees out, and you could have frozen in my driveway waiting for me!" Rodney yelled.

"I wasn't waiting..." John began to explain with an irritated confused scowl.

"Get inside, now." Rodney opened John's door the rest of the way and pointed at his house. "You'd think you'd have the intelligence to at least call ahead and see if I was home!"

"Gay leather threesome?" John asked, still three steps behind. He stayed where he was. "Look, I just wanted to talk. I guess I fell asleep. It's those damned painkillers -- are you drunk?" he interrupted himself as he peered up at Rodney, eyes narrowing to slits. "You smell like a brewery."

Rodney leaned on John's not very stable car door. "I might be. We'll know once I try the steps."

"Hang on." John ratcheted his seat upright and there was a jingle of car keys as he pulled them out of the ignition, pocketing them. "Let's get you inside."

John held out his hand for Rodney's house-keys, which was demanding, but Rodney didn't argue. They'd have to get off on the right footing -- if he was going to take John in. He hadn't really decided yet.

The house still smelled like spaghetti sauce and dish-washing soap. Rodney handed John the blanket from the couch, shaking out some Cheetos that clung to it -- John stared at these with a bemused expression -- then, quelling John's attempts at conversation, he brought out platefuls of spaghetti for them both. Since the kitchen table was still covered in cooking paraphernalia they ate at the couch, shoving aside Rodney's unpaid bills, the headphones, receipts, an oven mitt and stack of CDs.

"This sauce tastes like ketchup," John said, leaning over his plate to scoop up another mouthful more eagerly than his words suggested.

"I'm an excellent cook," Rodney corrected, licking a finger. "But this can be among your duties if you like. Though I would eventually expect you to find a job and pay part of the rent. An equitable amount; I'm obviously the bread-winner here."

He'd pretty much decided on the "John question." It would be a simple a matter of cleaning out the den and John could use the hide-a-bed for now. Fifty dollars to do a criminal background check of course, just in case, though certainly John would be more affluent if he were living a secret life of crime; not to mention it would give him less time to skate.

John stared at him quizzically before a light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Oh." He finished his bite and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Look, about that." He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "It's not like I don't appreciate it or anything, but I haven't been thrown out of my apartment. I just wanted to talk. About skating."

"Ah. I see," Rodney said, relieved. He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment. This was more familiar ground. "Come to beg me on bended knee to take you back, eh?"

"Well, maybe not beg exactly…."

"I thought you might," Rodney said with a victorious flourish. He set down his plate with a firm thump, brushing his hands together. "The answer's no."

John was silent a long and very satisfying dumbfounded moment. Then he said, "You'd have me move in with you… but you won't coach me any more?"

"I'm sorry," Rodney explained to the poor, sad soul. "I'm not going to waste my time on someone who's pathologically incapable of listening."

"If it's about the money, I'll find a way—" John shook his head.

"Of course it's not about the money!" Rodney exploded. "If I cared about money I'd be, oh, a brilliant physicist or something, living off fat government contracts where I could charge whatever I wanted because no one understood my research. Then if I came up with anything deadly I'd bury it in the back yard and fill my notes with so much jargon they could never use it."

"That's pretty, uh, detailed." John blinked.

"I have a good imagination -- and I nearly won the science fair as a child. That was my back-up plan." Rodney went on. "But I'm an artiste. Figure skating at its best is… pure poetry. It's the perfect melding of movement and sound, clean and smoother than dance could ever imagine," Rodney breathed, his hands making a flat gliding motion. He sat up straighter. "I'm not going to throw away my legacy on people who don't appreciate me."

John's lips were parted. Then he swallowed. "I appreciate you."

"Yes. I could tell when I caught you playing hockey."

John leaned forward. "Look, Rodney." His mouth worked, then he sighed and put his foot up on the couch, knee bent. He let his hand drop to his lap, not looking at Rodney. "I dunno. I tried. It just felt weird… and then this kid showed up," John wrinkled his nose, "and I didn't want to do that in front of him. So, when he asked me to play hockey…." He gave an embarrassed shrug. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Someone showed up in the middle of your practice?" Rodney asked, surprised.

"Well, we were kinda over our skate-time," John pointed out.

"Huh," Rodney said, a tad mollified. Then his wide, straight lips made a hard line. "You're still doing the jumps. When I told you not to."

John didn't trouble to deny it. He reached into his pocket and tossed Rodney a phial of pills. Rodney caught them in mid-air.

"Mmmm… this is the good stuff," Rodney said with a raised eyebrow, reading the label and familiar prescription. "Tendonitis?"

"Laid on top of an old ACL injury," John admitted, glancing up with the cautious wince of someone taking a risk with that much honesty.

As indeed he was. There were people who would make him stay at home in bed for that, though Rodney wasn't one of them. Skaters were always injured. A skater who pulled out of competition because of an injury was simply saying they couldn't win with it, not that they couldn't skate. Although John wouldn't have any way of knowing Rodney's pragmatism on the subject.

"Is that the one that took you out of the Worlds two years ago?" Rodney tipped his head in distant clinical curiosity.

"I heard this pop and then I went down. Didn't hurt nearly as much as the tendonitis."

Rodney pursed his lips meditatively, studying the pills. "No, it doesn't. Tendonitis makes you want to saw off your knee."

"Yeah," John said. "I totally understand animals chewing off their limbs to get out of a trap."

"Would that it were that easy…." Rodney agreed. He handed them back to John. "So you won't be jumping either way."

"Nope."

"Though not because I said so." If Rodney were a cat his tail would have flicked.

"Does it matter why?"

"Yes, it matters!" Rodney huffed. He pressed his lips together. "But…" he said, much against his better judgment, "I'll think about it."

The truth was, John embodied everything he wanted to fix in the skating world, and John had come to him wanting to learn how to really skate. It was as if every soulless jumper who'd ever beaten Rodney had knocked on his door, begging forgiveness for their callous, unfair destruction of his artistry.

John heaved a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping back into the couch. "That's all I ask."

"I haven't said yes!" Rodney insisted, and silently cursed himself for being weak. He decided he wouldn't tell Radek. He knew exactly what he'd say.

John's earlier complaints about his cooking were disproved once again as John accepted an offer of seconds, eagerly finishing a last bite to hand over his plate. Rodney gathered up their silverware and dirty napkins, demurring John's offer of help. If John wasn't planning on moving in then he was a guest in Rodney's book.

"So. Gay leather threesome-?" John prompted as he held out the plate, eyeing Rodney over it with a strange look on his face.

Rodney froze and tried to remember when he'd told him that. He must have been more drunk than he'd realized.

"I'm not really into that kind of thing," John said, sounding perplexed.

Rodney sighed wistfully, "No, neither am I."

He explained from the kitchen, chuckling as he called out over the sound of running water while he washed a couple glasses, "I was caught a little off-guard as a matter of fact. But I've never been one to say no to an experiment… and sex, well," he gave a self-satisfied little smile, "it's the 'spice of life' as they say. One can see why they selected me, I mean obviously I'm quite limber…."

He returned from the kitchen with two full plates of spaghetti, steaming hot… only to find John with his head tipped back on the cushion, mouth open, his long legs sprawled out under the coffee table… fast asleep.

~*~*~

February, 1986

The German disco was dim, barely populated, with a few bored patrons and over-excited American Top Ten music playing "One Night In Bangkok" at full volume. The skinny kid in glasses had mouse-brown hair that tumbled onto his face; he breathed a stream of smoke and stubbed out a cheap Russian cigarette. Radek's bored manner was well-practiced even as his eyes took in the room, bright with interest.

The western pop music was bouncy and electronic, and normally he wouldn't like it, but this was 1986, the Olympics, and to Radek it was a breath of freedom. The music meant the west, and fast cars, and best of all, a chance to see Prague and then fly on an airplane to Germany. He was far enough away from the Olympic village for some peace and quiet, and maybe a look at the world outside the Soviet bloc once he'd slipped his guided (re: guarded) "tour group." Risky, but he would just say he got lost. Radek was good at seeming innocent.

The kid who stepped through the door had over-styled greasy brown hair and wide scared eyes. He took in the disco like he'd just entered a dangerous western slum, the sort they'd heard about in Czechoslovakia that 'would never occur under communism.' He sat gingerly, two empty seats away from Radek, his blue eyes darting. And then ordered a rum and coke. Radek burst out laughing.

"What?" the kid said, managing to sound both hurt and irritated at the same time.

Radek grinned. "Even you old enough to be coming here?" He tapped the counter.

The kid's face fell, eyes wide with shock and fear. "Yes," he said in an uncertain waver.

Radek leaned forward, elbows on the counter, glinting with amusement. "You Americans. They have no age rule!" He made a broad gesture at the room. "You say freedom this, freedom that, but then? You scare of disco!"

"Hello? It sounds as though you think you're speaking English. And by the way," the kid pointed to himself, thumb to his chest and said in a clearly American accent, "Not American."

Introductions were exchanged. Rodney was seventeen and surprisingly didn't smoke -- everybody smoked! -- though he was willing to try and he let Radek order him a real drink. He obviously didn't like it, but pretended well. He insisted loudly that he was Canadian, his presence filling the dispirited disco, and they ignored everyone else to launch into a cheerful debate over whether America and Canada were the same thing. Radek found himself defending the very Soviet system that he'd just escaped, simply because he found Rodney so insulting.

Stumbling through the doors hours later, Rodney's limp arm draped over his shoulder, Radek discovered that not only did Rodney not smoke, he also did not drink. Only two glasses and he practically had to carry him! They made it back before curfew, and rescuing the "degenerate American" worked out to be a perfect excuse.

It turned out he really was from Canada.

~*~*~

January, 1999

John lay with his eyes shut, the sun warming his face. The breeze was cool and his sunglasses dented the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up a little further and sighed, suffused with an unaccountable sense of well-being. Though he figured part of that was probably the drugs.

Strands of grass tickled the backs of his arms through the aluminum lawn chair. The apartment manager hadn't really cut it before winter hit (they were slack about stuff like that) and it had sprung back up with the first unseasonably warm day, thawed and smelling green, cold, and wet. John could hear the chittering of either some kind of bird or a squirrel in the bushes behind him, though he couldn't be bothered to check what it was.

He'd wakened at McKay's house that morning and found himself wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the too-short couch. His shoes were tucked neatly under the coffee table. He didn't remember doing that, so Rodney must've taken them off.

John had been a good guest. He'd folded his blanket, washed and put away the plates they'd left out. Then, after opening the medicine cabinet and digging through a few drawers in the bathroom, he'd found the Tylenol. He'd grabbed the whole bottle plus a big glass of water and elbowed open the door to Rodney's room.

Rodney had been out cold, a rounded bare shoulder peeking out from an excessive pile of blankets, with an electric blanket turned on full. He slept in an aggressive sprawl, arm curled over his head, stretched out over ninety percent of his king-size bed. A stuffed unicorn poked out between the pillows. John had set the pills and water on the table next to him, using the bottom of the glass to shift aside some balled up dirty tissues. John wrinkled his nose.

One of Rodney's pillows had been knocked to the floor, so he'd picked that up and, after a moment's hesitation, set it on a wicker chair.

Then he'd thought about breakfast; but one sniff of the milk made him pull back abruptly and put that idea out of his mind. He was better off eating at home. So, quietly putting on his shoes, John had scribbled a quick note and left it on the kitchen table.

John's eyes glinted with humor, thinking he probably shouldn't have done that. His thumb stroked the cordless phone in his lap. Still, one could only be good for so long.

~*~*~

An ungodly racket woke Rodney. He panicked for a moment that he'd slept through his four am with John, until he managed to blearily recollect the rest of the facts. With one hand he reached for the radio alarm clock and shut it off with a badly aimed slam of his fist, sinking face-first into his pillow in weak relief. His eyes felt stuck to his eyelids.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rolled to a sitting position and sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear, face buried in his hands for a long minute. With a miserable groan, he moved again with a minimalist's economy of movement, balancing his head as if it were made of china.

Squinting near-sightedly, Rodney spied a tall glass of water on his nightstand. A note in an unfamiliar handwriting read "Drink Me." Beside it was a giant bottle of Tylenol with a note that said, "Eat Me." Rodney dimly noted the double-entendre and Alice In Wonderland references with a cough and cursed anyone who could make him laugh this morning. Then he lumbered forward and, barely opening his eyes, followed the directions to the letter. He set the glass down with miserable sick grunt.

Head still held in his hands, Rodney scuffed to the shower. But the sound of the water hitting the walls was way too loud, so he shut it off, leaning against the cool tile.

He decided camomile tea would be a good idea. And toast.

Dry toast.

He licked his lips. Opening his eyes just enough to make out vague furniture-like shapes, he shambled through the living room to the kitchen. He slumped into a chair and put his head on the table, arms bracketed over his aching head.

Running his hand over stubble, Rodney pried himself up and forced himself to turn on the teakettle. He stood in his underwear, swaying gently, waiting for it to steam. Even imagining it whistle hurt his head. At last, tea in hand, he scraped back the chair, where he spotted a note in that same unfamiliar handwriting.

Hey, Rodney. Tylenol's on the table next to your bed if you didn't see it. Drink at least two glasses of water.

I figure you're probably in no shape to skate today, so tomorrow, four am, right? I'll just take the day off. I would've hung around but I don't think I want to know what you're like with a hangover.

By the way, your milk's gone bad. Sniff at your own risk.

Rodney shut his eyes and wished John hadn't mentioned that. He swallowed the rising bile, then continued reading.

Thanks for the spaghetti last night. It still tastes like ketch--

Rodney skimmed it quickly.

Since I'm not around, I thought…maybe a few words to soothe your tender stomach:

Cat litter
Raw sewage
Diahrea
Congealed grease
Gray, rotted maggot-ridden decaying hamburger--

Rodney lurched, planting a hand over his mouth, and barely made it to the sink in time.

~*~*~

The phone rang in John's lap. He answered it with a cheerful grin. "Hello!"

"You bastard!" Rodney's voice spluttered.

"Hey Rodney…" John tried to say in a smooth, innocent voice, but he was already laughing, curled forward around the phone.

"Oh, you're very funny. I'm going to save some of this for you as a topping!" Rodney's voice snarled. "And by the way, your spelling? Atrocious!" The phone clicked.

John stretched, still shuddering with the occasional snickers. Yep. It was definitely a good day. Besides, Rodney seemed the type you had to be careful not to spoil.

~*~*~

John felt the swat of a rolled up newspaper on the bottom of his shoes at the same moment he realized someone was standing in his light. He squinted irritably at the intruder, responding deliberately slow. Then smiled when he realized it was Rodney.

"You think you're cute, don't you?" Rodney announced. He was wearing sunglasses and it made him look sort of ridiculous, like John Belushi in the Blue Brothers.

"Hey…." John yawned, turning towards him as lazy as a cat in the sun. "Still alive?"

"Yes, barely, no thanks to your adolescent flirting. Can you believe I actually had to work today?" Rodney said, his hands on his hips. "Preteens. Very painfully shrill."

He looked up at the sky, gazing off into the distance as if he imagined he was the squinting embodiment of cowboy cool. John watched him with admiring amusement.

"Could have used my gym bag." Rodney said it to the air as if commenting on the weather.

John blinked, weighed this and considered his options very, very quickly. "Uh, yeah…" He stretched to buy himself some time. "I'm not exactly sure where that is," he sighed, deliberately casual.

"The rink called. They tell me they have it in the lost and found," Rodney said accusingly.

"Oh, hey. That's lucky." John sat up, thinking it was lucky on a lot of levels.

"Empty."

John winced. Although Rodney had thrown the stuff at him….

"So, all that money you owe me?" Rodney did a complicated snapping gesture into his palm, his tone cheerfully vengeful.

John had a feeling he knew where this was headed. He grimaced up at Rodney, wrinkling his nose. "Yeah?"

"I take American Express." Rodney gave him a thin smile. "Or, more specifically, the malls do."

John considered this with a slow half nod, pursing his lips. What the hell. He could rack up a little more debt.

"How 'bout Visa?" John offered dryly, rolling to his feet.

It had been getting a little cold out there anyway. He swung his arms, working a crick out of his back, and then happily loped behind Rodney. It was still a good day.

~*~*~

To John, the best thing about his mirrored sunglasses was he could lean back and just seem like he was chilling out, when in fact he was watching everyone around him. Or more specifically, Rodney. The wide gestures as he talked, the little bounce to his step when he'd hopped up into the Queen Street trolley -- or streetcar, rather. His friends in college had laughed at the Yank calling it a trolley. Parking in downtown Toronto was something John hadn't wanted to bother with.

Of course, it probably looked a little strange that John was wearing them in the mall, but anyhow. John folded his arms firmly across his chest and pretended to examine a row of socks as Rodney scrabbled into an over-sized sweater with the eager air of a hen feathering its nest.

Rodney caught the direction of his gaze and peered over the wall of little hangers thoughtfully. "Should I get the socks? They're not really my usual brand…." He apparently took John's silence for a yes, because several pairs of socks made an appearance on top of the pile of clothes on the counter.

Rodney was one of those people who did a lot of touching, which John was not used to. His family wasn't the touchy-feely sort. Rodney's body had felt... tightly packed... as he bumped John's hip. Sliding into a seat on the streetcar, his arm brushed John's shoulder as he held open the glass door to the mall, and now he stood way inside the store clerk's personal space as they chatted about fall colors or something -- to Rodney, clerks were a cross between servants and free personal fashion consultants. He had his hand on her back, guiding her to the sale items, still talking. Rodney didn't seem to notice, and it was done with such careless enthusiasm that no one seemed to mind. Or have a choice, really. John shook his head with snort, looking away.

They rang up Rodney's purchases and John turned his back to fumble in his pockets, fingering the hard edge of the CD -- he'd managed a little extra stop while Rodney was busy in the dressing room.

John smiled tightly as he pulled out his credit card and mentally added up the damage. There was no way Rodney had fit all that into one gym bag. On the other hand, it was far short of what John owed, so Rodney was probably letting him off easy.

As they left the store John pulled out the CD and handed it to him. The teenie red stick-on bow he'd bought at the last second was still attached, if a little smushed.

"Here." John stuffed his hands back in his pockets, looking around, embarrassed.

"What's this?"

They stopped in the middle of the crowded mall, a rock in the stream of people. Afternoon shoppers passed around them, busy and distracted. A fountain tinkled behind John. He simply shrugged, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You forgot something."

Rodney plucked off the bow and mutely turned it over. He read the cover of the CD and glanced up at John, obviously surprised.

"It was the Firebird Suite, wasn't it?" John asked, frowning in worry. He was pretty sure he'd gotten this right.

Rodney stared and then shook his head as if to clear it. "I never told you the title."

"Lucky guess then," John joked. When Rodney stared too long, he added with a small sarcastic smile, "I had the nice man at the record store help me out."

"What did you do? Hum it?"

John patiently slung the rattling paper bags over his shoulders. "You're welcome."

~*~*~

Rodney slated their next skating session for Sunday morning when the rink was closed.

The parking lot was empty, but Rodney held open a side door to the darkened rink and waved John inside. He wasn't supposed to have the keys, but then again, the grizzled, skinny custodian wasn't supposed to give him a bored nod as he kept mopping either. Rodney had a sneaking suspicion he'd just paid for the man's next fix, but that wasn't his problem.

He clicked on all the lights and John followed him slowly up a back stairway away from the ice, glancing behind them, his mystified frown deepening. What they found upstairs probably didn't answer any of John's questions either, or at least not from the weird look he gave Rodney.

"It's my fault, really," Rodney grunted as he carried his end of the long folding table down the steps. The door slammed shut behind them with an echoing clang. He looked over his shoulder, walking backward while John held his end up too high and kept trying to go faster.

They stopped mid-stair, and John gave Rodney a steady glare as Rodney tried to figure out how to maneuver around another landing. The coil of orange extension cord was slung over John's shoulder.

"You see, I'd assumed intelligence, creativity…" Rodney took a sharp breath and cringed as the table rang against the cinderblock wall, chipping the paint. "…and a capacity for imagination. Over the years I've discovered that that's far too great a leap for most people to make."

John rolled his eyes. They bumped through the double-doors to the rink, barking shins on table legs and wincing.

With a grunt, Rodney set his end of the table down on the ice. "There." He pulled the rest of it forward, sliding it along the glassy surface. "Now if you'll just help with the Leiko...." Rodney waved a hand in the general direction of the outlet without looking at John. "What one can't understand instinctively through talent one must approach intellectually."

"So... a table on the ice," John said doubtfully. He dropped the extension cord with a wet clatter and glanced around. "Are you sure you're allowed to do this?"

"Never question me." Rodney lifted and examined the bottom of the cylindrical stage light.

"I'll take that as a no," John said, scrabbling on his hands and knees under the benches. He'd apparently figured out where to plug in the cord. It skittered across the ice like an orange snake.

"Hmm... not a 'no' precisely." Rodney attached a last wire and dusted his hands off, standing away from his handiwork. The light blazed a white stripe across the ice. "Let's just say that it's difficult to keep up with creative genius. Most rules are created far too late to pose me any me inconvenience." He put his hands on his hips, then made a quick flicking gesture over his shoulder towards John. "Kill the other lights, will you?"

The rink went dark, except for the exit signs on the far corners and a tight brilliantly white beam across the middle of the rink. The sound of John's gym bag being unzipped seemed suddenly loud.

"Cool."

John's voice came from somewhere behind Rodney, his dark shape gliding onto the ice. The sharp whisk of his skates echoed as the he turned to do a shadowy spin, sweeping around to touch the ice with a hand.

Give John a spotlight and what does he do? Skate in the dark. Rodney watched him, bemused. Then he skidded to the edge in his sneakers and more slowly pulled on his own skates.

"So. Where'd you go the other night?" John asked him as he returned, shifting from the left to right edge in a bored serpentine glide. He slid to a stop.

"Mmm? Oh. Ah, Champions," Rodney admitted, stuffing his foot in a skate and settling his heel solidly in the back. He yanked the laces tight.

John snickered. "Dirty old man. You do know that the college kids don't really go there, right?"

"Well, there were plenty of kinky Koreans -- and I seem to recall that you have actual work to do?" Rodney laced up his other skate and stood, determined to ignore the teasing. "Okay. I want you as stand near the beam as possible without getting it in the eyes, with me between you and the light."

Rodney took several gliding steps toward the spotlight.

He stood in front of it and held up his arms. His giant shadow was projected over row upon row of seats. John slid comfortably over to the wall and settled an elbow on the edge of the boards, shading his eyes with his other hand.

"You're back-lit," John complained, "I can hardly see you."

"Good! That's what we want. Now, this part's a spectator sport. I want you to watch me and tell me what you see." Rodney skated out of the beam for a moment, thinking.

"Well, I have a feeling I'm going to see you, back-lit," John drawled.

Rodney turned in a slow circle behind the light, carefully stepping his skates over the extension cord. He sighed at John's willful ignorance. "It's sort of like charades. You guess what I'm trying to show you."

"Ah."

Rodney thought for a moment, a hand to his lip, head down. Then he stroked forward for a little speed, not too much. He tipped up into a leg extension, arms straight out and rigid, hands bent up sharply at the wrists. As he crossed the light he tipped his arms delicately, to the left then right. His shadow flickered across chairs and the rink. John laughed.

"That looked just like the American Airlines commercial."

"So, noun?" Rodney prompted, spinning his hand and snapping his fingers as he circled back on both skates. He let his arms fall and turned in John's direction, coming to a stop.

"Fly the friendly skies...." Not giving him the answer he wanted, but it was close enough.

"Airplane," Rodney said. "Right."

This time he needed a good head of steam. Rodney skated an entire circuit of the rink, arms pumping as he came around the turn and barreled towards the light, putting one knee down on the ice, the other edge out and sliding him into a spin. With one finger pointed in the air, Rodney came to a stop nearly dead center in the spotlight.

"John Travolta?" John guessed.

"Disco, but yes, good, good," Rodney said, getting enthusiastic now. He was still catching his breath so he just struck a pose for this next one, a hand on his hip, back arched, his head tipped back.

"Yeah, uh, I don't think you quite have the figure for that one," John commented.

"Nouns, please," Rodney reminded him, snappish.

"Fashion model? Sport Illustrated swimsuit issue?"

"Pin-up, but close enough." Rodney nodded once, curtly, and dropped the pose. He struck another pose in the light, this time bent over, chest parallel to the ice, one hand on his knee. John took a long moment before answering.

"You're in one of those sex slings…?" he said in a hesitant voice.

Rodney shut his eyes, and blinked once. "What?" He slumped as he stood back up, starting to laugh.

"Well, that's what it looked like," John said reluctantly.

Rodney skated away from him in two short steps, hands on his hips as looked up at the ceiling. He snorted, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What--they're comfortable!" John said defensively. "You just rock back and forth…."

"Moving right along…" Rodney said, his voice a tight squeak. "That was supposed to be a speed skater."

"That did not look like a speed skater," John argued. "You need to do that thing, you know, with your hand up."

"While skating," Rodney corrected him.

"Now see, that's the problem with charades. Everybody sees something different," John explained in an amiable tone.

"Aha!" Rodney skated closer. "But you didn't! You got most of these. Well. In the ballpark anyway." Rodney beamed. "That means I was doing something right."

John nodded, his eyes clearly uncomprehending. "Yeah. So what? I win?"

"No. I win," Rodney grinned at him. He held up two fingers as he skated back around the rink again, glancing over his shoulder at John, face alight with glee. "Two more!"

He didn't need as much speed for this one, but it was more impressive if you gave it some fire. Rodney nearly forgot about the extension cord so had to jump it at the last second, fumbling a step to catch himself. Then he came around the curve, legs straddled wide apart, hands clapped together over his head -- when he hit the light he caught a sudden edge and turned in a fast circle. His hands came down in a gun pointed directly at John.

"James Bond!" John announced, obviously pleased with himself.

Rodney spread his arms and bowed. "You got me." He held up a finger, eyes gleaming. "One more."

He skated through the beam from the left. Then he stopped suddenly, turned around, and skated through it from the right.

John squinted and stood away from the edge of the rink, his arms folded. Rodney coasted towards him.

"Hang on. I don't think I get that one." He nodded, pointing with his chin. "Do it again."

Rodney obliged, smirking. Left to right; then right to left.

John looked down and shook his head, digging the heel of his skate into the ice absently. "Nope. I gotta admit, it doesn't look like anything to me."

"That's you!" Rodney spun around and pointed at him. "Between the jumps and the elements, when you should be telling us something, you fall silent."

There was a long silence as this sank in. Then John stepped forward in a gliding step, hands on his hips with a thoughtful air. He took a hesitant breath, ducking his head. "Okay. Can I do 007?"

He tore off his track jacket, stripping down to a sleeveless t-shirt and the black fingerless gloves.

"Sure. Oh -- wait." Rodney skated hurriedly to the edge, stumbling off the ice. He fumbled in his bag. He'd brought the tape just in case John proved to be a little slow, though he needn't have worried. John was stubborn, yes, but stupid? No. "I have the perfect music for you."

With a smirk, Rodney clicked on the Theme from Get Smart. He turned to John, chin up with a beaming smirk, the cheesy trumpets blaring and interrupted by the sound effects of a squealing car crash and broken glass.

"Very funny," John said mildly, giving Rodney a wry look. His eyes glinted with mischief. "But I'm afraid I didn't bring my skate phone."

Rodney chuckled, picturing the skate in the face. "Ow. That sounds like something agent 86 would use."

"You know, I never figured out how he survived to the next episode?"

"A friend of mine said he's the most realistic CIA character but I suspect he was kidding." Rodney switched out the tapes and smirked. "Well, since you failed to come properly equipped, skate-phone-wise--" He pressed play.

Monty Norman's Theme from James Bond poured out of the boombox and John lit up with a boyish smile.

John glided low to the ice in a slow smooth circle, picking up speed, his movements silky and perfect for the song. He did have some musical sense after all. He visibly hesitated as he approached the electrical cord, tongue in the corner of his mouth, then swung his elbows and jumped it head on. Then popped up into the splits, landing with a stumble.

"Sorry, I forgot," he called out to Rodney.

Rodney shook his head at him and answered, "Give me poses, not jumps!"

John nodded but slowed now, his moves uncertain. He stood straight, legs straddled but too close together as he spun around once, hands together in a semi-gun, arms tucked in uncomfortably.

Rodney watched him. "Make it a real gun, John."

"This looked easier when you did it."

"You've got to believe it," Rodney explained.

"It’s silly," he said, letting his hands fall as he stopped.

Rodney sighed. "Don’t skate; just do the pose then. Here…."

John looked up at Rodney with trusting eyes as Rodney made him stand in front of the spotlight, watched as Rodney kicked his skates wider till they cooperated and were shoulder-width. "Don't look down!" Rodney scowled and John's eyes flicked back to his face.

He adjusted John's spine straight with a little push to his chest -- holding his hip so it was still, thank you -- then grabbed his shoulders and squared them. John was staring at him wide-eyed when Rodney clapped him on the shoulder, pushing off backward a few feet. "Now you're good to go."

John's gaze stayed on Rodney and followed him steadily, eyes intense.

"Gun, John." Rodney reminded him, throwing in his own spinning kick to the trumpets. "Though the smoldering is good. Very James Bond."

~*~*~

Rodney bought a steaming cup of coffee out of the machine, flicking a packet of sugar before dumping it in. Warming his hands on the styrofoam and sighing in the aroma, he swung by the front desk to locate his errant young student. Concrete block walls were hung with badly matted photos of hockey teams and oversized commercial pictures of speed skaters airbrushed in bold white and red.

The plump Mrs. Hurvitz, the rink owner's wife, was at the front desk today. She was already shaking her head when she saw Rodney coming. "Mrs. Weir called you; left a message when I came in. Something about a dead hamster-?"

"Preteen tragedies," Rodney snorted, amused as he took a too-hot sip. "Did they say they were going to be late or not coming at all?" He charged either way for last-minute cancellations.

She spread her hands helplessly.

Which left him waiting for the next hour. Rodney decided to give them twenty minutes and waved vaguely to Hurvitz, though she was already busy doing what looked to be some kind of scheduling or bookkeeping. And skimming a fashion magazine, which was incongruous for a woman whose hair was still lacquered in '80s Olivia Newton John curls.

"Oh, ah--" Rodney turned and quickly swallowed his next mouthful of coffee. He indicated the rink with the cup. "Do you mind if John takes--?"

"Time's paid," she said, still writing and not looking up. "We don't care who's in there, as long as the Weirs don't."

Rodney made his way up the back stairs and unlocked the carpeted press box, shutting the door behind him and bathing in the warmth of the heated room. There were substances that froze at room temperature and someday it might be cost effective to use them, but until then, ice rinks were cold. Only the press knew how to be comfortable, though he could do without the annoying Muzak (not that he'd ever minded the "Adagio For Strings" playing now -- Platoon was one of his favorite movies). Rodney sank into a padded leather chair and leaned his elbows on the sill, the glass window giving him a perfect view of the rink and the dark figure circling below. Students never thought to look up here.

John was practicing spins. Rodney had half expected to catch him doing jumps.

Or hockey.

He was in the midst of a sit-spin, not particularly fast. John raised his arm up mid-cycle, then stopped abruptly. He put his hands on his hips and his shoulders heaved with a heavy breath, head down, watching the ice. Then he skated a fast circuit and dipped into another sit-spin, tighter this time, standing up into it, knee angled out, shifting his balance, slowing as his arms spread….

Rodney's eyes narrowed, catching the telltale wobble of his take-off leg. The injury showed.

John stopped the spin, shaking his head. With a few strokes, he threw a quick single jump, his back leg extended, then picked up speed in a circuit again, dropping to a lower spin, much faster now, very nice, drilling into the ice. Men often had terrible spins, Rodney wasn't sure why -- higher center of gravity? -- but John looked like he could cut through the ice and hit water.

That had been the great thing about Hammill. She looked like she could drill all the way to China, though Rodney modeled his own looser style on John Curry.

John stood, arms spread, and held this spin much longer, head tipped back -- which was a new element. Rodney had never seen him do that before, nice detail. Rodney recognized it from one of his own programs. John let the spin carry him and slowed.

Then John stopped, squared his shoulders, and began again, throwing in some footwork first and a single jump again -- apparently John didn't count the single flips as "jumps" -- then dropped into the same spin. His skate skidded out from under him and down John went, smacking his hip, catching himself on his hand in a spray of ice.

Rodney shook his head. He could have told him he needed more recovery time from so many spins. But John practiced with the single-minded focus of a Marine.

John picked himself up, brushed at his thighs, then gathered speed for a much faster spin, skipping the jump this time. He wobbled, but the speed was there. Rodney had seen worse in competition. John brought up his knee, arms spread, and Rodney waited for the head-tip – but then John let it all fall apart, hands flopping loose as he dropped the spin altogether.

He gave a little half-wave and skated a warm-up circle, looking down at the ice with a sheepish smile. He coughed into his curled fist and then seemed to be talking to someone. That's when Rodney spotted the pint-sized little girl in a short powder blue skirt bounding onto the rink, and the dark-haired woman in a long trench coat standing rink-side.

Ah, yes. The Weirs.

He was going to give Mrs. Weir hell for being late. Just because he got a nice paid break out of it didn't mean he intended to encourage such behavior.

He opened the door in time to hear John's apologies, "Hey, I hope it's okay. No one was here so I just kinda kept going…."

Right. Rodney realized he probably should have told John he was good to skate.

"My, my, my," Rodney interrupted them, descending on the skaters. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"Rodney, I am so sorry…" Elizabeth Weir began.

"Oh no, it's not as though my time is as valuable as -- was it a hamster?"

~*~*~

The music started, 1940s and kicky. John bobbed his head in time with the beat of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," watching.

Rodney rocked his shoulders and glanced over at the little girl beside him, up on the front edge of her skates. He gave a sharp nod and they put their hands on their hips on the trumpet lead-in, then hands shoulder-high, shook them in the air with the reveille, wiggling their hips as they edged backwards into a broad circle. The boogie woogie piano kicked in, and they did a couple of easy half-turns as they picked up speed.

Beside John, the fashionably thin woman in the expensive looking coat and classy jewelry snickered. "She has a competition next week," she explained to John in proud purr. She was thin and nervous, with a sparkle in her eye and chin-length dark hair.

"Speed, keep up your speed!" Rodney clapped twice, circling out of the routine to watch. The little girl's dainty skirt ruffled in the breeze as her skates worked, forcing more energy into her routine. John remembered when he used to have to work at that, losing steam between elements. She popped up on "and now the company jumps!"

John smirked. "It's cute." He sat down and pulled off a skate.

"If you'd like to go longer…" the woman offered John with a gesture to the rink.

He demurred, sighing as his foot came free. "Nah, I've been at it for hours."

"Did I hear a benefactor? Offering skate time?" Rodney's sharp voice cut across the rink -- and how he’d heard, John had no idea. "He'd love to!"

"Slave driver." John snorted, weighing his skate in his hand with a smile. "If he could make me skate in my sleep he would."

"Who? Rodney?" The woman pursed her lips, blinking in surprise.

"Well, yeah," John spluttered.

"Huh." The woman gave a doubtful tilt of her head, watching the two skaters critically. The girl did a salute as she jumped into a spin, snapping it out in a sharp out-of-control gesture. "A lot of the parents think I should go with somebody tougher. But she really loves Rodney, and my husband and I feel the experience should be just as important as the competitions."

John didn't say anything.

"If you don't get more speed, I'll make you skate the Bette Midler version," Rodney called out, clapping the tempo for emphasis. "This isn't a dirge, Melanie!"

The Andrews Sisters sang "the boogie woogie bugle boy of company B!"

"So," Mrs. Weir turned towards John with polite curiosity. "What do you do, John Sheppard?"

"Skate." John grinned up at her impishly.

Her smile spread, amused. "I mean, besides skating of course."

They always asked. John pursed his lips and considered, making a show of giving it some thought. "Nope. Can't think of anything. Skating's pretty much it." At her expectant silence he finally gave in and shrugged. "I was in college for a while."

She brightened. "Oh, really? What were you studying?"

"Engineering." John left out the part about skipping all the classes and just taking the exams. It had worked -- and funded his training -- until the school figured it out. It should have been fine; you could either do the math or you couldn't, and John had never needed to study hard. She nodded, lips together with the usual impressed expression. "But now I just skate."

"Yes, we saw as we came in. You're pretty good. Are you in the Canadian Grand Prix or-?"

Now that was really polite of her. Only the top-ranked "Olympic-level" skaters were invited to the Grand Prix -- everyone else had to qualify at the lower echelon competitions. The top skaters mostly trained at the Schmidt Center anyway. Rodney was the only international class coach who chose this tiny rink, though John didn't know why.

"I'm American," he explained, deftly avoiding any question about his ranking.

"Well, then, the America Cup is coming up."

John grimaced and stared across the ice, thinking of his jumps. He licked his lips. "Yep." For him the season had already officially ended at the Nationals.

Mrs. Weir folded her arms on the guardrail and watched her daughter with a proprietary smug air. "I certainly hope Melanie will be as good as you are someday."

"It'll take a while," he smiled, with just an edge of competitiveness. She grinned at him.

"Freeskate!" Rodney announced. "We have some mystery music. I want you to skate whatever comes to you, all right?"

Mrs. Weir shook her head subtly, taking a breath and sounding frustrated. "Tsk. Now see, she can do that in her own time." She frowned, eyes narrowing as she folded her arms across her chest. "We're not paying him to baby sit for a play period."

"He's a good coach," John said defensively.

"Sheppard!" Rodney jerked his thumb towards the ice. "You can flirt with the ladies later!"

Slave. Driver. John mouthed to Mrs. Weir as he skated backward onto the ice, feeling achy and more than a little tired, and she laughed.

Rodney pointed to Mrs. Weir's daughter. "You think you can keep up with her?"

"Oh, I dunno…" John said, grinning at the beaming kid as he slowed his approach with a swing of one skate. A strand of long dark hair was plastered to her face but she glowed up at John, starry-eyed. John snorted, recognizing the instant little girl crush and shook his head as he glanced away.

"Good. Because I want you to copy everything that she does. Melanie, you're little Miss Choreographer today so make it hard."

~*~*~

In the dull gray light that filtered through the tiny stack of windows in John's bathroom, John stripped off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, running his hands tiredly over his face. He kicked off his underwear and winced, feeling every muscle in his body. He stooped to pick them up, then decided that, bending down too far-? Not a good thing.

He didn't bother to turn on the lights.

Sitting on the cold toilet seat he cringed and examined today's "collection." The big bruise on his knee was turning greenish-yellow, but it was overlaid with a smaller dark purple stab from the back of his blade. He tipped open his right thigh to follow the long scrape and dark indentation from a simple spin he'd done when he was too tired. Skate slid out and he went down while he was still in tuck.

It was the stupid ones that bugged him.

He twisted and examined the outside of his left thigh. The left leg always took less damage. There was nothing wrong with that knee.

The left elbow was another story. John turned it towards the light, feeling the almost-good-but-kinda-not soreness. No bruise, but there should be. He squinted at it and worried a second before he reached for the Arnica lotion his former coach had sworn by, slowly working it into the new tender areas that didn't show any damage, yet. John was never sure how or if homeopathy worked, but anything to avoid a trip to the doctor's.

He stood, slowly, his muscles stiff from sitting in the cold that long. With a limp he reached into the clawfoot tub. Cold then hot water spurted over his hand. He fiddled with the knobs but the old building never really got consistent temperatures.

As the water steamed, he groaned inwardly, letting his head tilt back, baring his neck as he remembered one other thing on the to-do list today with exasperation.

He left the water running and crossed the apartment to his closet -- and if anyone saw him naked it was their problem -- digging out an old suit with dusty shoulders. He brushed it off, then grabbed the laundry detergent and a pillowcase of clothes and tossed them into the bathroom. The suit he hung on the bathroom door. Steam should take care of most of the wrinkles.

Shampoo stung on cut knuckles he'd neglected, and John stood in the shower just letting the hot water run in rivulets down his back, an arm braced against the wall. He sighed as he felt tired muscles relax. Then he shut off the showerhead, and scrubbing a rough towel over his chest and arms, he tossed in the plug and let cooler water run. He emptied the pillowcase of clothes in the tub, letting it fill with splash of detergent. Saved hours at the Laundromat. The suit was still wrinkled but John didn't care all that much.

It was eleven o'clock, but he'd already been up for eight hours. An hour till lunch.

He sank into bed to take a nap.

~*~*~

The phone woke him forty-five minutes later. With a grimace, John, still flat on his back, reached for the receiver on the floor.

"'Lo…?" He listened quietly. "Job's filled?"

There was another long silence as John sat up, the blankets pooling in his lap. He sniffed, blinking, as he struggled to wake up. He rubbed his face, running his hands through rumpled hair, making it stand on end. "That's okay, yeah… thanks for letting me know."

He sighed with relief, dropped the phone, and then after a pause, swung out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. The first thing he did was cheerfully stuff the suit back into the closet.

The second phone call was completely expected and John picked it up halfway through the first ring.

"Hello? Hey, mom. Yep, she just called. Better luck next time." John wiped at his mouth, adjusting the phone on his shoulder, seeming to shrink in on himself as he stared up at the ceiling. "Well, I'll keep looking. Thanks for setting -- yeah, they're nice people."

He listened attentively, chewing his lower lip, nodding like a chastised child. "I liked the UPS gig. Okay, six years ago but … uh-huh." He chuckled. "The boxes were fine, good PT, the heavier the better … What? The knee?" John raised his eyebrows as he started to restlessly pace. The phone dragged across the floor behind him.

"That was last year. Ancient history," he assured her. "…Nope." He sucked in a breath through his teeth, leaning his back against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the bedroom. His head touched the wood with a light thump. "Haven't heard from Dad … No, I don't need any money, mom." John cringed. "I'm fine."

The room fell silent as John pushed away from the wall and hung up the phone. Then he squeaked open the mostly-empty kitchen cabinet and grabbed a can of Campbell's soup, dumping it into a pan.

He picked up his inline skates and set them on the table. They fell a little to the side but didn't roll off. Being a UPS driver had been great, nice people, but it had worked all the wrong muscle groups.

The phone rang again not half an hour later. With a wary glance John dropped his spoon and picked it up. "Hi, Dad."

"Dad?" Rodney's voice squawked in indignant confusion. John's shoulders relaxed. He could almost see the dismissive wave as Rodney ignored that. "I've a cancellation, and I figure since you're not paying me anyway you can afford to use your copious free-time to train."

"Yeah, let's get outta here." John put the inline skates back on the floor, leaned against a table leg. "But how 'bout we go to the Schmidt Center?" he suggested, thinking of Mrs. Weir's comments. "It's closer."

There was a pregnant pause. "Um. Okay."

~*~*~

December, 1981

Rodney was short for seventh grade, with wavy hair that fell past his ears, slim and smaller than the other kids, though at the beginning of the semester he'd picked up "Tiny" -- who weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds -- and spun him around on a dare. For once he'd stopped getting flicked on the back of the head by kids who didn't like him, and got flicked by people who liked him instead. His dad drove him to school every day after skating practice, which kept him a out of the social loop, but Rodney had made a few friends on the bus when he rode home in the afternoon.

Three of his friends waited on porch, hanging back, uncomfortable, having never been to Rodney's house before. "Jet" Bradley, his hands sticky and covered with dirt, hung onto the soccer ball, chewing gum as he leaned back against the wrought iron railing around the porch, while Dave and Andrea Phearson swung on the rail at the bottom step.

Rodney's house was nicer than theirs, but they were all good enough not to mention it.

Rodney dropped his book bag on the floor while his dad closed the heavy door, shutting his friends out of the conversation.

"—I'll be back in an hour, tops," Rodney urged his dad.

Rodney's father tipped his head at him, arms folded across his barrel of a chest. His wire frame glasses had slid halfway down his nose. "You have homework and a five a.m. skate time."

Rodney had expected this. He glanced over his shoulder at the door and licked his lips, hoping his friends were still there. "It won't take me but five minutes. I can do it when I get back from the park," he promised brightly.

"Do your homework first. You have to be in bed by eight o'clock."

"Dad! They're going now!"

"Four a.m. comes around faster than you think. No."

"But they're my friends!" Rodney's shoulders sank in desperation.

"Everyone has friends, Rodney. You have talent. And that means sacrifices, for all of us. Do you think I enjoy getting up this early in the morning? But I do this for you." His father stabbed a finger in his direction.

"But--!"

"No buts." His father sighed heavily, jaw squared and unrelenting. "Finish your homework first and then you can go."

Dispirited, Rodney slunk down the stairs to the sidewalk where his friends looked like they were ready to leave. They rolled their eyes as he promised to meet them later, not in the least bit surprised. "Jet" spun the soccer ball in his hands, lied and said they didn't mind. Rodney retreated back up the stairs, watching them through the lace curtains in the living room with a unhappy wave as they left, kicking the ball between them down the sidewalk and into street. They didn't notice his wave.

Rodney raced up the stairs, cursing his dad loud enough for him to hear. He slammed his door but he had his school books spread out on the little mahogany desk in seconds.

An hour later, the sound of heavy scuffing footsteps came up the wooden stairs. The door to Rodney's room creaked as his father pushed it open though it stopped halfway, caught by a pile of dirty clothes behind it.

Science equipment littered every dresser and tabletop, with more on the unused top bunk above Rodney's bed, while a telescope had fallen out of the closet onto the floor. Skating posters were tacked to every wall, with Rodney's favorites tacked to the wall by his bed -- all male figure skaters, with his very favorite hidden from view where it was taped to the bottom of the bunk overhead. Curled clippings about his own skating were taped to the closet mirror and the mirror in Rodney's bathroom where the light had been left on again.

Rodney's desk was set in front of the window, parting the curtains. Even though it was still daylight, Rodney was sprawled in his chair, face squashed against the textbook, fast asleep. There was a long blue pen mark along one cheek and his pen had rolled to the crack of the book.

His dad was careful not to wake him, footfalls silent on plush carpeting, murmuring in his ear. Rodney moved with his eyes mostly closed, almost sleep walking as his dad chivvied him out of his jeans and shoes, and into bed. Only the top of his brown head showed as he sighed and sniffed. He rolled over towards the wall, pulling the blankets with him.

Downstairs, his father stood in the kitchen and said, "Second time this week. With the Junior Worlds right around the corner. We need to move his supper earlier."

~*~*~

February, 1999

The gleaming black SUV purred in front of John's apartment building. Despite the cold, the tinted driver's side window rolled down, as smooth as black silk, while Rodney climbed out the side door.

"I wish you could come with us to Montreal…" the unfamiliar woman in red was saying, one gloved hand curled around the steering wheel. She was nearly invisible behind her dark glasses.

Rodney stood stiffly with his back to John, but his voice was clipped. "Well. You know my policy."

"C'mon, Rod-neeeeey…." A tiny little girl in a lilac snowsuit that almost hid her completely hopped down from the SUV. She was no higher than Rodney's hip as she tugged on his belt, leaning backward with her full weight. Rodney didn't budge a millimeter. "Pleeeeease?"

Rodney shook his head and tiredly pulled her upright. Steadying her hips, he knelt down on the sidewalk and held up a forefinger in front of her face. She raised her chin to see past the cinched hood of the snowsuit.

"Take some time before you skate, remember what I said," Rodney insisted with very adult intensity, waiting a moment to catch distracted eyes. "Don't compete the whole time!"

She nodded twice, decisive, chewing on the drawstring of her hood.

"Good. Now up--" Rodney lifted her easily under her arms, swinging her into the back seat of the SUV, then slid the door shut on well-oiled hinges. "And good luck," he said, perfunctory, with an insincere smile. He patted the door and waved to the woman as the window whirred back up. Rodney watched them as they pulled away.

"Policy-?" John prompted.

"I don't do competitions."

Rodney scowled after them as the vehicle reached the corner. The turn signal flashed. "That woman should get a dog and take it to shows."

"She looked like a pretty tough kid to me," John said just to mollify him. Actually what he really thought was that he didn't know skates even came that small.

"Tough?! Like hell!" Rodney squawked. "She's so fragile you could break her just by breathing wrong! I don't think she actually skates -- she just floats over the ice like a fruit fly!" His gestures flew. "Her mother wants her to 'get used to' the pressure of competing, as if that's possible. And of course -- of course! -- all her little friends are going, so she just has to follow like a little lemming. That way they can all have cartilage damage and arthritis in their thirties, chat about the good old days as they sit around in rocking chairs."

John stared at him quietly a moment. Then said, "Didn't you used to compete as a kid?"

Rodney didn't answer.

As they slid into the front seat of John's car, John chewed his lip and finally asked, with a pensive intake of breath, "You're going to my competitions, right?"

"Of course I am," Rodney said with an off-handed flutter of his fingers, then returned to chewing his thumbnail and staring out the side window. John nodded slowly as if this made sense, unwilling to push it as he put the car in gear.

~*~*~

A half-circle drive curved up to a series of broad shallow steps that led to a wall of glass doors. John backed into the parking lot, his arm slung around the back of Rodney's seat. His eyes flicked over to Rodney who didn't move once they came to a stop.

"You know, if this is a problem…." John began.

"No, no, it should be perfectly fine," Rodney said.

"If you don't think I'm ready for this level, just tell me," John said. "I can take it."

"Huh? No, it'll be fine." Rodney's hands tapped a rhythm on his knee before he nodded, and with a deep breath, got out.

It was a ridiculously long walk to the front entrance.

The picture was straight ahead right as visitors entered through the glass doors, framed over a display of local art: Mayor Schmidt holding a pair of oversized fake scissors, and next to him, a teenager with wide blue eyes and a familiar sardonic smile. The young Rodney had curly brown hair falling over his forehead and way too much mousse as he held up his half of the ribbon. Beside it was a plaque of dedication with the date: 1985.

Head down and not examining the picture, Rodney tugged on John's arm. "Come along, no distractions."

The lobby was white and echoed -- and they had plants. The receptionist was busy behind a modern angular counter and John gazed up at the skylights and all around, following Rodney, falling behind and then catching up as if he were pulled after him on a string.

Rodney guided them unerringly away from the main hall into what appeared to be a side route, cutting through a row of business offices with oak doors and brass name plates. The hallway was empty and hushed. Rodney rapped the button to a service elevator.

On the bottom floor, the elevator opened on a rink that was large, twice the size of Rodney's rink, brightly lit with a huge dome ceiling. Advertisements plastered every wall and all across the boards: Adidas, Campbell's Soup, a banner for Nestle hot cocoa. The section at the far end of the ice didn't have the flickering overhead light that John had grown used to, and the aisles circling the rink were comfortably wide. Benches for the audience were replaced with cushy fold-down padded seats. The concession stand was dark. Clusters of people in matching team jackets hovered rink-side, their murmurs and laughter echoing. On the far edge a trio of cameras were setting up to film a dark-haired woman in a sweater that almost covered her skirt.

John scanned the ice with sharp competitive eyes. Two or three skaters had staked out their corners. Not a nine-year-old in sight. One woman executed a really professional triple-toe loop with great speed and a solid landing, her skirt and brown ponytail flying. John gave a slow satisfied smile.

Rodney hurried them through a cluster of people, head down. "Okay, we'll, ah, go over there where it's quiet…." He edged gingerly towards a patch of empty stands.

A face glanced up at Rodney's voice, with a startled, "Is that--?"

She turned to her friend and whispered, and then two more bright, interested faces aimed their way. Rodney rubbed the back of his neck and moved a little faster.

"McKay?" asked a questioning female voice behind them, hoarse from cigarettes or a sex change, who knew. "You're Rodney McKay, aren't you?"

Rodney winced and turned around slowly with a forced smile.

"I saw you at Worlds -- Jesus, how long ago was that?" she swatted a darkly tanned woman in a pink sweater next to her. Her friend startled and then her face lit with recognition as she took in Rodney.

"Ten… twelve years?" she offered.

"1984. That's right," the first woman nodded.

A teenager next to them stopped sipping on her straw and chirped up, "Oh. Isn't he the same one in the picture--?"

"Shh! Don't be rude!" The woman with the gravelly voice cut her off. "Don't mind her. Skating's decayed so much since you left. Nothing but acrobatics now."

Rodney finally found his voice. "I… I saw it heading in that direction. Once they got rid of the compulsories…."

"Downhill from there," the woman nodded sagely.

"McKay?" A querying voice came from across the ice.

A man in warm-ups and artful blond highlights nodded to a younger skater and then turned their way, gliding to a stop. He eyed Rodney up and down, sharply appraising, his friendly, hearty tone not quite reaching his eyes. "I thought that was you. Careful, they've got the cameras out, doing establishing shots." He winked as if he and Rodney had some sort of inside joke. "Kyle Fletcher's practicing -- you know how it is."

"Yeah," Rodney said in a shaky voice. John had never seen Rodney so… shy.

There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence. "Hey, you've never met Paul, have you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Paul!" He waved to the young skater who couldn't have been more than seventeen. The kid waved back and quickly skated over. "I'm sure you recognize--"

"Rodney McKay," the kid said, reaching over the barricade to shake his hand. "They have your picture on the wall."

"Yes. I'm aware of that," Rodney said wryly.

"I saw your stuff back in '83," the kid continued, bright-eyed. "You were really good. It was either Nationals or the Worlds … that Korsakov piece."

"I did the same program at both." Rodney gave him a funny look. "How old were you in…?"

"Mom's got the tape. Says you're a real artist. Seen it a million times."

"Ah."

"Uh-oh," the blond man said remorselessly, glancing over his shoulder. A man in a dark suit was working his way around the rink, chin raised and eyes fixed on Rodney, flanked by two assistants with cameras and microphones that he all but ignored as they trailed in his wake.

"Sorry, looks like I've blown your cover." Rodney's friend seemed unrepentant. "Brett Jordan's gotten wind of this. I'm making a break for it. See you around, McKay?" There was a doubtful note to his question.

Rodney just nodded absently, eyes fixed on the man in the suit. As he drew closer, John could see a square jaw and perfectly lacquered hair, not a strand out of place -- or moving for that matter. He approached with a broad and utterly professional smile.

"Rodney McKay. It's been a very long time." The man smelled like expensive cologne and had a deep, ringing voice like a baseball announcer's. He held out his hand and clasped Rodney's in a hearty handshake. "Come to watch Kyle Fletcher skate? I understand he's looking for a coach."

"Oh, I have my hands full right now," Rodney said, bouncing nervously on his toes with a quick look back at John. Brett Jordan followed Rodney's glance with a flick of his too-steady eyes.

"I'm sorry, and you are--?" he said, disinterested, distracted and looking somewhat through John, though he spoke with impeccable politeness.

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney waved a hand nervously. "John Sheppard, this is Brett Jordan. Channel… nine?"

"We're syndicated now."

John gave him a disingenuous smile and a brief nod.

"Is this someone we should be keeping an eye on?" Brett asked with a eagle-eyed sparkle that wasn't quite humor, no longer looking at Rodney. John suddenly felt like he had a gun to his head.

"Yes, sir," John said.

"Do we get to see you skate today?" Brett asked, and muttered casually to an assistant over his shoulder, "Camera two's free, right? We could use it for the lead-in. He could do a spin or something. It'd be perfect." He made a frame with his hands. "'Old favorites and new hopefuls here to watch Kyle Fletcher.'"

"Kyle could show any time," the cameraman complained.

"Uh," John said, blank-faced.

"No, no, I was just in the neighborhood, seeing the old haunts." Rodney swung his arms. "Showing off a little, you know me!"

Jordan's laugh was rich and, for a change, completely unforced. "We sure do! Well, keep in touch, Rodney." He patted Rodney's shoulder and then held out his hand to John, his smile warmer this time. "John Sheppard, nice to meet you. We'll be keeping an eye out for you in competition. Never forget to watch for the dark horse I've learned." He glanced at Rodney with mock accusation, elbowing him. "Or else some fifteen-year-old will upset everything at Worlds."

Rodney laughed, unnaturally high-pitched. John shot him a funny look.

It took two little girls in sneakers seeking autographs (their mom beamed and had Rodney sign the back of their t-shirts), several more old friends, a hug from a complete stranger, until they finally escaped.

Rodney sagged back against the wall outside the darkened business offices. The service elevator doors glided shut with a small ding.

John leaned on the other side, still blinking and stunned. "Thanks for getting me out of there."

"Sorry." Rodney cringed. "I thought they might have forgotten me by now."

John peered at him irritably. "Not likely. Your picture's on the damned wall."

"I can't ever get anything done in this place…. Never, ever open a skating center." Rodney raised a cautioning finger. John couldn't imagine ever needing this bit of advice. "Not even if the mayor's office calls -- although my mother was so excited, it might have been worth it." He sighed. "Luckily, it's all died down quite a bit."

John gave him a curious glance.

"I used to have to carry signed eight-by-tens."

~*~*~

February, 1986

A sound boom dangled in midair over the cluster of bored-looking reporters in new parkas, dragging wires and a collection of cameramen and technicians as they paced between events. The Soviet Union had threatened to boycott the 1986 Olympics but that story had died an early death. It had never been likely for the winter games anyhow, which had some of the eastern bloc's best events. A helicopter rolled across the gray skies high overhead, its cameras sweeping the Olympic village like a dragnet. The cluster at the front gate talked in several languages, brimming with carefully generated excitement the moment the cameras started rolling, but then they kicked tires once they were no longer "live." They'd been stuck filling airtime with "local color" that no one cared about: snow had postponed the Giant Slalom.

Unfortunately, there was only one exit from the Olympic village. Rodney filled his lungs and prepared a bright smile, signaling to Radek with a lift of his chin. Radek filtered off to the side, a frown of confusion furrowing his brow as he glanced back at Rodney.

Ducking his head, Rodney stepped out into the gray light, breath misting about him. Reporters scurried and soundmen swore as they redirected the boom. "McKay!" -- "Hey, Rodney!"

"Rodney," a reporter called out with false intimacy, "do you have a minute?" They'd take a minute whether he had one or not.

"How's it going, McKay?" said another -- and oh, Rodney struggled to remember the name. He was Canadian, though, so one of the good guys.

"Good, great in fact!" Rodney smiled, making sure his Canadian arm-patch was aimed towards the cameras. Flashbulbs left yellow spots dancing in front of his eyes. He stood in the crunchy hardened slush and shot Radek a fierce look to move.

No longer chasing a moving target, the reporters clustered around, cutting off Rodney's escape route. Cameramen could move amazingly fast, despite how much equipment they carried.

"How do you feel about the upcoming freeskate?"

"Well, I have to get through the compulsories first, don't you think?" Rodney said, skewering the woman's ignorance. More knowledgeable sportscasters chuckled. Just because they didn't film the figure eights didn't mean they didn't exist. Radek had stopped staring and started to -- thank god -- slip past the reporters, his hands in his pockets and head down.

"So you're not ready for the freeskate yet?" the woman said, a trifle vengefully, Rodney thought.

"Ask my competitors that question," Rodney laughed. "Where're you from? France? You're in -- what? -- tenth place, if that?" He pointedly turned to the Canadian reporter. The Canadian press always favored him.

He filled them in on the goings on in the Olympic village, including a cheerful story about a food fight the other morning that had them all laughing. People let off steam in the craziest ways. It was an undignified moment for some of the champions involved but Rodney grinned, alive and in his element. There was even a little romance brewing between the East German skater, Natalia, and a West German skater that the American press would kill for -- nothing like a little iron curtain drama -- but he kept that in his back pocket for later, because Radek had finally cleared the compound. He gave the grateful reporters a jaunty wave.

"Where are you going now?" that French reporter called after him.

"For a drink!" Rodney sang out over his shoulder, instantly regretting it while trying not to cringe. He saw the notepads and scribbling as the reporters turned their backs on him to recap their sound-bites to the international audience. A dozen different versions of "...Outside the Olympic village, Canadian skating sensation Rodney McKay granted us an exclusive interview…."

He zipped his jacket with surreptitious backward glance as he caught up with Radek at the edge of their little village in the Schwaebisch Alps. The French reporter followed Rodney with intense eyes.

"Keep walking," Rodney said under his breath, "pretend you don't know me. I will have to meet you there. I might have a hornet on my tail."

"A what?" Radek paused and stared. Rodney made a frustrated noise and urged him forward.

"A pissed off reporter. Go, go!" Rodney spluttered and jogged into the village.

He pulled on the headphones to his Walkman and prepared to ignore being shadowed, trying to work out the Japanese in Styx's "Mr. Roboto."

~*~*~

It was well over two hours later when Rodney climbed a dumpster behind a drab little hotel with a quick hop. He knocked on a window on the second floor. It slid part-way open. Rodney grabbed the window jamb and hauled himself up with a complaining breathless curse. Scrabbling to get an elbow in, he banged his head on the frame, legs still kicking.

"Open it all the way, you idiot!"

"Sorry," Radek said, moving too late as Rodney managed to wriggle through anyway and fell to the floor. He pulled off his hat then flopped onto the bed with a sigh, while Radek barred the window behind him with a sharp metallic click, drawing thick drapes.

"I thought maybe you were not coming," Radek admitted.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I hit every boring monument in the city." Rodney rolled onto his back and gazed up at Radek through smiling, half-slitted eyes. "Did you realize they must have a dozen museums?" he said with a tired wave. He yawned, glancing over in amusement that Radek's idea of 'sexy' for a tryst was an old-fashioned nightshirt. He kicked off his shoes. "I ran into some fans who bought me ice cream though."

Radek rolled his eyes. "Reporters... this is crazy." He paced, running his hand through his hair.

"I told you I was a skater," Rodney said.

"I will be followed by KGB because of you."

"You're small and mousy. I'm sure no one noticed you." He rolled over on his stomach and stretched to pull out two cigarettes from Radek's pack on the table, lighting them both, their ends glowing red. He handed one off with a breath of smoke to Radek to calm him down. "Besides, aren't you communist athletes all rock stars in your country?" Rodney worked on holding his cigarette so he looked cool.

Radek frowned down at him and said in amazement, "You see me naked and you think I'm athlete?" He paced more then sank to the bed. "Look, my brother is a ski jumper," Radek explained. "And my father, he wanted me to see the world, go with, so," he shrugged, "he got me the job with the judging."

"I thought you guys weren't allowed to leave," Rodney mused, mildly interested.

"My family is poor, but we have friends," Radek said, pursing his lips cynically. He peered at the drawn curtains. "It is how communism really works."

"Ah, yes. Nepotism at its best." Rodney stretched out his arms on the bed with a satisfied sigh, letting his legs fall open, tired muscles stretching. He smiled at Radek. "I'm guessing this is not quite what he had in mind, eh?"

Radek's smirk was filthy and embarrassed. "Probably, no."

As Radek slid rustling under the covers, Rodney grinned at the illicitness of it all, starting to breathe hard. "What do you judge?" he asked, watching with wide eyes as Radek pulled the nightshirt over his head, his thick blondish-brown hair rumpled and wild, blunt bangs falling onto his forehead. The glasses came off and were set on the table.

The wry look Radek shot him said 'you're an idiot' but he answered with a flat, "Ski jumping."

Rodney hurriedly began tearing off his own jacket and shirt. "Tsk. That's boring. I'll teach you all about figure skating." Radek helped Rodney with the buttons, getting a little in the way so Rodney brushed him aside with an impatient gesture to finish it himself, baring his narrow muscular chest. "That's much more of a challenge."

It wasn't until he was naked on top of Radek, kissing pleasantly, when it dawned on him. He pushed himself up on his arms, astonishment crossing his face with a thousand flickering emotions. "Wait-a-minute. You're judging your brother's event?"

Radek snickered with a broadening smile, shaking his head slowly, his expression a mixture of sarcasm and relief. His hand trailed down Rodney's bicep and he tapped Rodney's chest with each word. "You are. Very. Innocent." He made it sound like a compliment.

~*~*~

February, 1999

John shut his apartment door behind him, not bothering to lock it, and cast a look around the darkened room. The sun was low on the horizon, staining the sky pink and gold. Dirty dishes were soaking in the sink, the bed unmade. The laundry was still in the tub, ready for the "rinse" cycle.

He hadn't gotten jack done this afternoon.

His inline skates leaned against the table leg, one of them flat on the floor, right where he'd left them. There was still time; the afternoon didn't have to be a total wash. John alternated weight training days so he couldn't do that, but he hadn't yet done his cardio.

John grabbed the edge of the doorjamb leading to the kitchen that, once-upon-a-century had had French doors, doing a quick chin-up. Then he swung into the kitchen with a grunt and settled into the chair, kicking off his sneakers and lacing up the inline skates with quick fingers. There were certain muscle groups he only seemed work out in just the right way while actually skating.

The hall carpet felt mushy under the rollerblades and the manager hated it when he skated inside the building, but this way he wasn't encumbered by his shoes. He liked to go flat-out with no distractions. John held the door for his elderly neighbor, the plump Mrs. Hermann, who smiled, "Good afternoon, John," taking in the familiar skates with an indulgent twinkle. She switched a bag of groceries to her other hand and lumbered up the stair to the second floor.

He grabbed the banister and jumped the three steps to the sidewalk, hitting the pavement with a pleasant jolt that reverberated distantly in the injured knee. He sheared off the corner of the sidewalk, rustling shrubbery, the rumble of concrete turning into the near-silent hiss of blacktop as he tucked one arm behind his back, leaned low, and risked the street with smooth, long strokes.

Cutting between parked cars, John evaded the slow bounce of oncoming headlights, swept past a kid on a bike, then maneuvered through a rough patch of sidewalk till he approached the busy street – and saw ahead that he'd missed the light. It flashed red at him, the flood of cars released into his path. He cursed inwardly with a grimace, turned right rather than slow down, dodging around blurry annoyed shoppers, more parked cars, then bent sharply left at the next light, yellow-turning-red, a hand nearly touching the ground as he crossed to his favorite neighborhood.

He'd only just begun. His whole body sang with heat but he wasn't really working yet.

The gated community was marked by an opening speedbump which he ramped up, used the landing to skip ahead, climb the steep incline. Halfway up, John finally started to feel it, the fight with gravity costing him speed, making him struggle to maintain speed. He put his back into it, teeth bared, pushing it with firm strokes now, before it got truly steep.

And hit another momentum-killing speedbump, flying. He took the landing with his left leg, pushing off with the right the instant he felt that balance again, efficient and smooth, jaw set in grim smiling determination. The universe narrowed to a stretch of blacktop as John reached for that peak performance, unfaltering. In another galaxy the injured knee flared hot, but he'd hit the stride that meant he'd make the top, easy.

He struck the last speedbump and raced into the deepening blue sky, the cold wind sudden and sharp as he flew across the crest of the hill. John kept every ounce of momentum, not pausing as he hit the top of his downhill course. Here the road snaked like a crazy river to slow traffic, a little garden island nestled in each curve.

John hit the turns like a downhill skier, the wind whipping through his hair as he realized he'd forgotten the helmet. Knee bent close to the ground, skimming it sharply, the road disappeared behind an island than reappeared, the trees flashing by; John took the course for sheer love of speed.

It was frustrating but he stuck to only the ground, eschewed any flying spins at the bottom, keeping both feet on blacktop. How could speed skaters stand it?

But no helmet, doctor's orders -- John held himself to speed alone with sheer gut-wrenching will, letting his momentum bottom out into the wide open drive, tucked tight to shoot along the straightaway. The neighborhood here had almost no trees and short identical driveways blinked by. Rough pavement rumbled under his feet, grounding him with sound and texture.

John passed the distant, tempting sound of a basketball and glided to a slow, gradual stop, slumping to lean his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He wiped the spit from the corner of his mouth, his chest heaving. Sweat stung his eyes and cooled on his back and neck. He could almost feel the world spin as he remained breathing alone in the empty street. The air streamed white around him as he straightened, almost satiated. For now.

The sky was nearly dark, lighter blue to the west. Towards home. His knee let its presence be known, though well-being still surged and overwhelmed its distracting, complaining throb. Pain was good though. It let him know when he'd gone too far.

With a sigh of contentment, panting, John made for home.

~*~*~

"This is ridiculous," Rodney huffed, squirming in the passenger seat. The heater was blowing lukewarm air but at least it was better than nothing.

"We'll get there," John said. His eyebrows drew together, the only indication of his own irritation at traffic.

The car inched forward a few more feet and paused, the windshield wipers beating slowly. The tailpipe of the car in front of them steamed, wisps disappearing into the flat concrete gray sky as they pulled alongside a family sedan with a rumbling loud engine. Vehicles were lined up along the three-lane highway like off-center boxcars. Rodney shifted around to face the sedan.

"You are Canadians!" he told a family of four through two layers of glass and a lane of cars. They didn't so much as glance in his direction. "You're supposed to be used to snow."

"Freezing rain," John corrected off-handedly.

"Whatever. These people don't know how to drive."

Rush hour traffic came to a standstill, the sleet pocking off the windshield and wet road. Hands sliding uselessly from the steering wheel, John sighed and put it in park, torn between annoyance at Rodney and relief he'd never had a nine-to-five job. Annoyance won.

"This seems like a long way to go for groceries…." he grumbled.

"You offered," Rodney said. John tipped his head and rolled his eyes. It had been his way of apologizing for one of their worst practices ever. John knew he'd been a jerk. "There's only one co-op in the city that has my brand. Most the rest of the world is trying to kill me with citric acid."

"With-?" John frowned.

"It's a preservative. I'm allergic to citrus. Anaphylactic shock; not a pretty sight."

"Ah."

The cars beside them started moving forward again, slowly, but more steadily than the last twenty minutes. Their own lane remained at a standstill, a frustrating gap widening in front of the black Saab ahead.

"He's on his cell phone!" Rodney declared, vastly offended. John managed to shift lanes, crawling around the Saab while Rodney leaned on his window, glaring at the man who was chatting animatedly as they passed. "Oh, yes, we're all very impressed with your vapid conversation -- have you ever noticed what people say on those things? Loudly?" He twisted around towards John. "'I'm at the grocery store!' Right. Like they needed a cell phone to tell the world that."

"If you had one you'd probably be on it all the time," John pointed out in all fairness, leaning forward over the steering wheel. He slid back into the center lane, cutting off the Saab as the driver finally woke up and tried to surge forward. Too late. John smiled vengefully to himself, glancing back in his rearview mirror.

"No, I-- okay, probably true," Rodney admitted, tucking in his chin a little. "But I would have important things to say, and I would never tell anyone I was at the grocery store because that's just idiotic."

John slammed on the breaks as a pick-up truck dodged into their lane.

"Hey, watch it!" Rodney yelled. He reached over and hit the horn, blaring at the truck.

"Knock it off!" John slapped Rodney's arm away. He turned to Rodney with a taut smile, saying in a sarcastic sing-song voice meant for bad children who didn't know any better, "When I'm driving, I'm in charge of the horn."

The black Saab rode their bumper as John edged forward, hurriedly catching up to close the gap in traffic, but a VW Bug slipped into the space he'd left open while distracted.

"You aren't using it!" Rodney fumed.

"I'm taking the moral high road," John explained. He frowned. "It won't get us there any faster."

"How can you be so--so impossibly mellow?"

John slouched against the seat as the traffic came to a standstill again. He spared Rodney a frustrated glance. "I'm not. I just have… techniques."

"Techniques."

"Yeah." John nodded and pointed a forefinger at the back of the VW Bug. "An M-79 would probably have enough force to punch a grenade through that back window. They'd be toast."

"An M-what?"

"Grenade launcher. That pick-up's got his little back window open." John squinted, vindictive and amused. "If you aimed just right…."

"I see," Rodney said. "That's awfully… knowledgeable of you, military-wise."

"Didn't you have army men as a kid, Rodney?"

"G.I. Joe. But my sister played with it more than I did." Rodney said this with a little distant smile, eyes sparkling with remembrance.

John guessed the source of that guilty gleam. "You took his clothes off."

The smile spread, turning sheepish and naughty. "Not anatomically correct I'm afraid."

"Yeah, it's disappointing," John agreed, edging the car forward a few more feet.

"So, ah, military--?" Rodney pressed the question, giving him a knowing sideways smirk.

With a shimmy, John adjusted his shoulders into the seat. "My brother's Air Force. My folks wanted me to join but…." He made a small gesture, fingers falling to the steering wheel in a patter.

"Didn't want to?"

"Well," John drawled. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck absently. "Once I started blowing guys in the school men's room I thought it would be a pretty stupid risk."

Rodney's eyes flickered in a fast blink at that. "So. Figure skating."

"Looks like." John didn't mention just who he'd been doing. In school he and his friends had laughingly called their skating club the "sex club" because of all the bed hopping. It wasn't all gay by any means, but his little corner was. It still brought a smile whenever he was introduced at competitions as John Sheppard of the Glen Ellyn Skating Club.

"Hey--!" Rodney startled, his head jerking in the direction of the sign for the off-ramp. "That's our turn off. You're never gonna make that in time!"

John scowled at him, clicking on the turn signal and ducking his head to scope for an opening. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

~*~*~

The shopping cart clattered and rang as John followed Rodney -- who kept up a pretty good clip, obviously familiar with the place -- wondering how his simple offer of a ride had turned into an expedition. The store was almost empty and smelled a little like hay bales and dusty burlap, like most co-ops. Rodney stopped them at the canned food aisle and began loading up the cart with huge cans of tomatoes.

Curious, John pursed his lips and tipped the square can already occupying the cart, reading the label. It looked like it could be turpentine but actually turned out to be olive oil. "More spaghetti?"

"Yep," Rodney grunted, his voice muffled where he was digging cans out from deep in the shelf, ass wriggling. He was cleaning them out of tomatoes, John noted with a snort. His stocky shoulders barely fit between the pinto beans and the oversized jars of garbanzos.

John raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that what you made a week ago?"

"I went through it faster than usual. You eat a lot, though you're so skinny I've no idea where you put it." Rodney scraped the last can into the cart with a heavy clang, then wiped his hands on his jeans. "Okay. Garlic. It's overpriced here but it'll save us a stop."

"Don't you know how to make anything besides spaghetti?"

"I'm an excellent cook," Rodney said, tipping his chin. "With a somewhat limited repertoire. The garlic's over there, by the way." He pointed.

But John had steered the cart towards the check out line. "Just a suggestion, but have you ever thought of eating something green?"

"Garlic-?" Rodney pointed back towards the produce section, his gesture surprised, sketching a vague, helpless circle in the air.

"I don't think so," John said, shaking his head, leaning in to push the cart. It was heavier now. "We're making another stop."

~*~*~

The waterfront was the last place you wanted to be in the winter especially as the sun set and the wind picked up over Lake Ontario. The Great Lakes didn't tend to freeze but they were cold any time of year, and fingers of icy wind clawed their way between the tall warehouses and down paved streets. Cheeks stinging, John turned his back to the sharp breeze as he pulled the car door handle, making sure it was locked. A woman held a little girl's hand as they crossed the street, hunched against a blast of cold air.

Shoppers emerged from the wide warehouse doors, plastic bags dangling from their mittens, hats pulled low as they braved the winter. Buckets of flowers cluttered the vestibule just inside the entryway, brought indoors for the season.

Rodney blew on his gloved hands, bouncing in place as John stuffed coins in the parking meter, his own gloves tucked between his knees as he mentally cursed the cold metal. They crossed to the brightly lit warehouse.

"It'll be a little picked over, it's better to come here in the mornings, but at least it won't be as busy," John said by way of explanation, though Rodney simply forged ahead, clearly more interested in getting where it was warm.

In the entryway they stepped on leaves and crushed muddy flower petals mashed onto the floor. John handed Rodney a basket as they dodged people and flower buckets. It was chilly inside, but not freezing, and filled with the sharp scent of green.

"I'm not on that, you know, 'whole foods' kick anymore," John said with a rueful tip of his head, leading Rodney out of the way. "But one thing I did learn is you can eat a lot—and cheap—from the farmers' markets."

"I thought farmers' markets were little wooden shacks by the side of the road." Rodney stood, gazing around, fascinated -- and still blocking the doorway.

"Not in Toronto." John grinned and took a chance, hooking a hand under his arm, drawing him forward.

Many of the stalls had shut down for the day but this market was more or less permanent with a coffee shop and bakery at either end working overtime during the winter, long lines trailing into the busy aisles. People in business suits wandered between tables in the open warehouse, several of which were empty at this late hour. Other shops had makeshift wooden walls on three sides and canvas displays, baskets of scented soaps and other local items spilling out into the aisles. The result was something of a maze as John threaded through lines of people and the entryway disappeared behind them.

They passed the warm scent of cinnamon rolls and John glanced back. He'd already lost Rodney. Four steps back and around a stack of baskets he found Rodney had hovered, lingering outside the bakery, before he caught sight of John with bright look and a nod, catching up. John made straight for one of the few remaining vegetable stands, ducking around a pretty busy crowd for a Friday night.

Sure enough, certain things were never popular. John scooped some beets into Rodney's basket, then fingered through bunches of greens. The spinach was wilted, though there were a few good batches he grabbed and.…

"What's that?"

"Arugula. It's good for you, trust me." John stuffed some into each of their baskets, ducking a hanging flower pot. It swung overhead as Rodney gazed up at it warily. Then John noticed the orange blooms and realized what it was. "Oh, hey, nasturtiums. Right on." He picked a small one in its little plastic pot and tucked it into Rodney's basket.

"Flowers?" Rodney gave him a doubtful look.

"Dinner." John grinned, waiting for the reaction.

"You eat flowers?" John popped an orange blossom into his mouth and chewed, watching Rodney's jaw drop. "They're good. Here." He handed one to Rodney, who glared at it suspiciously, then with a baleful glance at John, bit it in half.

"Okay." Rodney held up a finger as he squinted, looking for all the world like a dog eating peanut butter, his head tipped to the side with a strange expression. "The table decorations are not supposed to taste like that." He blinked rapidly. "It's… spicy. I need something to clear the taste out of my mouth."

"Don't like it?" John said, a bit disappointed. He reached for the plant to put it back.

"No, no, no, it's good," Rodney assured him, waving a hand. He gave an embarrassed lop-sided smile. "Just… I expected it to be sweet somehow."

"Because it's a flower," John nodded, understanding.

They made for the fruit stands across the aisle and John bought him some grapes, eating a handful with his head tipped back while he handed Rodney a bunch.

"So where'd you learn about all this… stuff?" Rodney asked, munching his grapes as they walked side by side, a half-full basket swinging in John's hand.

"I told you. I grew up on a farm," John drawled. "We cook. Or, well, my mom did, but it's not like I didn't learn anything."

The woman on the other side of a table pulled off empty plastic trays leaking water, stacking them with a brittle clatter. This vegetable stand looked it was closing soon, and they didn't have much competition, so John snagged some asparagus and few more items. Rodney paid for their purchases. Several stands past a tourist shop they found more fruit, and John loaded up on bunch after bunch of bananas, grabbing a second basket.

"There're only so many of those I can eat," Rodney stared, his expression halfway between amusement and a frown.

"Hey, you're not the only one shopping here today." He held up a bunch and shook it. "Protein shakes. Not mention potassium's pretty good for muscle cramps."

"Right." Rodney grabbed another bunch for himself. "Though your main problem's dehydration, you know."

They ducked around a more permanent flower shop with a glass countertop, the offerings nearest the aisle wilted and battered at this hour. Then cut between tables in what wasn't strictly a walkway, wet wood scraping along their jeans. The boxes on the next table had bright green labels announcing California Grown.

"Avocados?" John suggested, squeezing to see if they were ripe. They were a little on the high side.

"Are you kidding? Look at the prices on those things!"

"They're organic." John shrugged apologetically.

"I'm not paying for avocados like they're steak!"

John set them down with a little regret but he couldn't justify the expense either. If Rodney were buying on the other hand…. "Oh." John spotted a tiny low box, picked it up and sniffed the bottom. Sure enough… raspberries. Fresh. No fuzz, not squished. Perfect, in fact.

"What's that?" Rodney glanced at it with bright-eyed interest.

"Oh, no, nothing." He set it down, a hand lingering, trailing off the box. He gave a little shrug and a rueful smile. "They're out of season."

Rodney rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh and picked them up, putting the little box in his basket.

They stopped for hot coffee, braving the lines and taking off their gloves to warm their hands. Then Rodney peered over at the cheese shop.

"Go on," John suggested with a smile, pointing with his chin.

"Uh, no," Rodney shook his head vigorously. He spread his hands in a gesture of denial. "There are some things I just can't have."

"C'mon. Why not?" John said.

He noticed they were going in, even as Rodney declared that, "Cheese is nothing but fat and dairy — and oh, that's brie." Rodney came to a dead stop, staring.

John grinned at him, setting down the basket and leaning both forearms on the glass countertop.

"Canadian triple cream," Rodney informed him.

"So you know your cheeses, huh?" John shared a gleaming conspiratorial smile with the woman behind the counter.

"Better than French brie--okay, almost as good. Not as expensive, but a lighter, more delicate flavor," Rodney explained.

"Well," John said, "It's a pity you can't have any." Rodney wavered visibly, and John's grin was almost fiendish.

"One quarter wheel of the triple cream," John finally told the clerk.

"Oh, no. I couldn't," Rodney spluttered, but his protest was half-hearted and giving way.

"A little bit's fine," John said, looking Rodney up and down.

"No. Such. Thing." He puffed his cheeks at John, demonstrating the results.

"You'll work it off. C'mon, we'll share. I'll make sure you don't pig out," John assured him. "In fact," he said smoothly, with a hint of a smirk, "I might even be persuaded to take the rest off your hands."

Rodney's mouth shut with a snap. "One eighth of a wheel," he corrected the clerk with a sharp glance at John, "and we'll share," he added.

As the clerk sliced and wrapped the cheese in heavy brown paper, tying it with string, John hovered around Rodney, as cheerful as a puppy. He relieved him of a few of the plastic bags as the smiling clerk handed the package over. "Bet it's great with the raspberries."

Retracing their steps through the emptying market, Rodney gave him a considering look. "You really do cook, don't you?"

John shrugged, gazing off across the wide ceilings. A final gleam from the evening sun filtered through the high dusty windows and was caught in the rafters. "Not for myself, no, not really."

Bundled up against the cold, it was dusk and the street lamps flickered by the time John fumbled with his keys. The meter had long since run out; they'd been in there a lot later than he'd planned, but they'd gotten away with it. Glancing at the bags of cans in the back seat, he swore. "You're gonna make me carry all this shit in, aren't you?"

"Oh, I'll help," Rodney offered as he climbed into the passenger seat with a sigh. He kicked off his shoes and started massaging the balls of his feet.

John snorted and shook his head as he slid into the driver's seat. "Gee. Thanks."

As the engine turned over with a loud rumble, Rodney said, sounding half-hopeful, "You're cooking, right?"

And John burst out laughing, leaning his head on the steering wheel.

~*~*~

Rodney hadn't left the porch light on, so they were swearing at each other in the dark and at the overly springy storm door that kept closing on them as Rodney fumbled through his keys. John struggled with the large box of tomato cans in his arms, regretting his decision to get the heavy stuff in first. Finally, John hefted it to his shoulder and onto his head, balancing it with one hand. Rodney popped open the door with a flourish, and John dipped under the doorjamb.

John crossed to the kitchen with a hip swing and a devilish look back at Rodney, eyes glittering.

"There!" Rodney pointed, the bags still tangled on his wrists swinging wildly. "That! That's what I meant today — why can't you do that on the ice?"

"I don't screw in public either, Rodney," John drawled. He dumped the box on the floor.

Rodney gave him a slow head tilt and a dirty smile. "Do you want me to go with the obvious innuendo or try for something more subtle?"

"You do subtle?"

~*~*~

The sultry music was apparently from a pairs routine Rodney performed when he was a little kid. It also reminded John of just why pairs skating under the age of fifteen had always seemed totally inappropriate.

"You skated to this with your little sister?" John said, appalled, both eyebrows raised.

"Shut up, she was twelve. It was cute."

Hand over hand, they changed positions. Rodney twirled his arm over John's head until they were facing each other, John gliding backwards.

"Good. You got the basics." Rodney bobbed his head in approval. "Now give me a little more hip. Make it hot."

Rodney demonstrated with his arms over his head, swinging his hip to the right, flowing into a quarter turn as his skates followed.

"No!" John's head dipped, and yes, okay, that was definitely a blush.

With an exasperated eye roll, Rodney reached for John's hips. "Look, I'll show you...."

And John backed away abruptly with a quick push out of reach. "Forget it, Rodney."

~*~*~

John bumped his ass on the storm door, bouncing it open as he brought in the fourth box. Rodney 'supervised.' "If you could just put that...." Without comment John dumped it on top of the other boxes on the floor, giving Rodney an intent look that dared him to say otherwise. "...or, alternatively, the floor will do," Rodney said with an air of utmost graciousness.

With a smirk, John checked over his shoulder then raised one arm and pirouetted clumsily, falling a little to one side and knocking into the doorjamb. Rodney's eyes went wide again.

"Yes, that's —" John kicked open the front door, the chill rushing in. "— no actually, that kind of sucked, but," Rodney called after him, raising his voice, "you're getting the idea!"

At the car, John bent over to get the last of the cans. Rodney wondered if his jeans were tighter than usual, admiring the curves.

John carried two boxes this time, one in each arm. The show off.

~*~*~

John held onto the edge of the boards, scowling with obvious annoyance as Rodney ran through the choreography.

"Now. Arch your arm, curved over your head like a delicate ballet." Rodney raised his arm and demonstrated.

John copied him, sketching the gesture half-hearted and sloppy. "I'm almost sure I've never seen this move." He let his hand drop.

"Technically, you are skating my little sister's part – John! John, get back here!" he shouted because John had rolled his head, turned and left without a millisecond's hesitation, gliding on long strokes towards the door. "Oh, come on, you can't expect me to skate her role! I don't know it the way I know my own, it's all backwards." He huffed. "Fine! But if I mess up and you get a skate in the face, it will be entirely your fault and I don't want to hear from you, your lawyer, or your reconstructive surgeon."

"How would I get a skate in the face?" John snowplowed to a stop and actually looked interested now, head turned to him quizzically. Leave it to John. If it was dangerous he invariably wanted to try it.

"From this—" And Rodney did a roundhouse tilted spin, head dipped almost to the ice as one leg carved the air.

"Cool!"

Rodney got them both back into position, an arm span apart and a hand on John's wrist. "Now. I pull you in, and roll you out with that little rumba hip shimmy...."

"This is pairs skating, not ice dancing. Right?" John eyed him up and down, lips pressed together sourly.

~*~*~

With a loud thump, John deposited the last of the cans on the floor. "I thought you'd be putting this stuff away or something."

"Away?"

"Yeah. Like in the cupboards?" John reached for the nearest cabinet handle.

"Wait, wait, I don't have room—" A dozen CDs tumbled out onto John, bounced off and clattered into the sink, scattering all over the counters and floor.

"Ah. Yes. I ran out of space in the living room." Rodney crouched down and started gathering them up in his arms like a guilty kid.

"No one can own that many CDs," John said, opening another door and then another, to gaze up in awe at row after row of CDs. Above those, a long line of old vinyl albums. And tapes. He even had a stack of old 8-tracks on the top shelf.

"Yes," said Rodney clutching the CDs to his chest with grateful desperation. "Thank god for mp3s."

~*~*~

It always felt good to be on the ice, even with recalcitrant students. Rodney brought his skates to a 'T,' smiling and shaking his head at John's idea of 'moving' his hips.

"My God, outside of the jumps, you're Al Gore on skates."

That earned him John's nastiest slant-eyed scowl, the one that said, "yes, in fact, I do have a weapon and would be happy to blow your head off." Rodney ignored it. Okay, his heart fluttered with fear and something a little more steamy, but outwardly he ignored it.

"It looks gay," John grumbled.

Rodney couldn't help the little laugh that escaped. And there was that hot glare again. "How did you end up figure skating in the first place?"

To his credit, John blushed. He said with a frustrated gesture, "Look. My first coach said I wouldn't have to do the whole frilly...." He circled a hand to fill in the blanks. "...routine."

"How old were you?" Rodney asked in a skeptical tone.

"I dunno. Fourteen, something like that." He shrugged.

"Congratulations, John," Rodney said. "That, at the tender of age of fourteen, was your first line."

John gave him a blank look.

"He lied. He wanted you."

There was a disbelieving silence. Then John shook the off idea. "Nah. There are things about skating that are more important. Athleticism, pushing your limits...." He emphasized each point with a brief slicing gesture. Rodney could almost hear the quote marks.

"Let me guess." Rodney folded his arms and tipped his head to the side in sarcastic humor. "He had a couple little artists and not one on his teenage 'dream team' who could land the jumps consistently."

"Carl could do the big jumps." John frowned. "Most of the time. Sometimes." His eyebrows drew down in a disgruntled expression as the facts slotted neatly, and very visibly, into place.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking."

Snickering, Rodney glided forward. "You really should have figured this out years ago. You were kind of a trusting kid, weren't you?"

"Shut up, Rodney."

"Okay. But can you give me some hip action now that all your delusions have been shattered?"

~*~*~

Steam rose from the bubbling water as John flipped a spatula end-over-end in one hand. He rocked his shoulders down, one, two, three, four, on the heavy descending bass line, bouncing and bobbing his head as he came back up.

Beside him, Rodney, with cautious attention, carefully sliced vegetables, having been informed he was to cut them smaller. Twice. He glanced over at John with amusement as John lip-synched the old punk song, his eyes nearly closed:

"I'm the Crusher!
King of the ring!"

He bit his lip as he bobbed his head, and then bent to lower the heat. He caught Rodney's gaze and smiled at him.

Rodney leaned closer and had to shout over the music, "Somehow, I don't believe you learned to cook Thai food down home on the farm!"

John's grin spread. He said loudly in Rodney's ear, "I'm a multi-faceted man."

~*~*~

The epiphany had not improved Sheppard's performance one iota.

"Congratulations," Rodney announced to a very surly looking Sheppard. "This marks our most unsuccessful lesson ever," he said, matching John's complete disgust and frustration. "And make no mistake, it's entirely your fault — or rather the fault of the closeted, homophobic, narrow-minded, mid-western American mindset of Ohio, or Peoria, or whatever two-bit backwater you hailed from."

"Illinois. And I hear Chicago's a pretty big town."

"That is so not the point!"

"I'm just not a dancer, Rodney."

~*~*~

Following dinner John made them wash the dishes right away. Then they kicked back in the warm light of the kitchen which after just twenty minutes of John had turned into the cleanest room in the house, boxes of cans notwithstanding.

With a contented sigh, Rodney nibbled a thin slice of brie, tipping his head back against his chair. John's fingers and lips were stained dark pink with raspberry juice, his elbows and forearms resting comfortably on the table. He'd scattered the berries artfully around the brie then proceeded to ignore the cheese as he hovered and pecked through them with the air of a pleased predator.

Rodney dangled a slice of brie, almost dripping from his fingers. "Please eat this, or else I'll never be able to do a jump tougher than a Wally."

"And crack the ice in the process," John agreed all too readily, sucking berry juice from his thumb with a smack of his lips. He dipped his head and accepted it as it practically oozed from Rodney's fingers, dipping his head underneath. He made a pleased grunt and said, wagging a raised forefinger, "Oh. Now that is good with the raspberries. Try it."

Rodney finished sucking the brie from his own thumb and indulged him, then cut himself another slice. He promised his conscience extra sit-ups tomorrow.

"So, what kind of music do you like, other than the Ramones and god-awful country?"

"Still teaching?" John regarded him with a bright eye and a smirk.

"Mmmm. Personal interest," Rodney hummed. "Humor me."

John wiped his hands on his jeans and stood. He opened the kitchen cabinet above the sink. "Well, I think I saw... yeah." He hid the CD behind his back with a playful look as he edged towards the door, and Rodney heard him stumble over something in the living room, cursing. Then came the satisfying click of the stereo.

Black Sabbath poured out as John returned to lean against the doorjamb with an evil victorious grin. His fists counted out the slow, heavy beat.

"I. Am. Ir-on. Man!"

"There's no dancing to that!" Rodney complained.

"Exactly!" John said, dropping to the chair. "That's what I mean. That's what I've been trying to tell you." He sat up and dragged over a box of canned tomatoes to use as a footstool, then leaned back and put his feet up with a sigh, hands folded behind his head.

Rodney mulled it over with a frown of suspicion, pulling up his own 'footstool.' He shook his head. "Everyone can dance," he decided.

That started a laugh out of John. He glanced over. "They can," he repeated, a world of doubt in his voice.

"Of course. All music is sexual in nature. Since sex is something anyone can do, based on the neanderthals you always see popping out babies, therefore, ergo, and tu whit--" Rodney swept a finger through the air to emphasize his point. "--everyone can dance."

John snorted doubtfully. "I think you're projecting."

Rodney continued, ignoring him. "This particular piece is less mutual, and more masturbatory."

John coughed, raspberry paused halfway to his mouth.

"Come on. You played air guitar to it. Everyone did. What do you think air guitar is?" He demonstrated, fingers flying. "What's that about?"

John pointed out, "Everything's sexual to you." He shook his head and leaned forward earnestly. "See, music's really about the lyrics. This song... is about disillusionment with the whole self-centered human race."

"No, lyrics are poetry. Pay attention to just the music."

They leaned back, listening meditatively.

"The music sounds angry to me," John said to the air.

"No, listen to the notes. That is so masturbation, bringing it right up to the cusp and not quite getting there."

John snorted and shook his head in disbelief.

After a long moment, Rodney him gave a confused frown. He turned to John. "Do you really think the entire human race is self-centered?"

"Huh?" John startled out of his contemplation of the song. "What? No. That's just the song."

"Well, you said I project so...."

John was a quiet for a second. "Okay. So some people won't give you the time of day. I mean, they might think you're good-looking and all, but you're still just a piece of meat in a UPS uniform. Unless you've done something special or different."

"People say I'm self-centered," Rodney said in a worried tone.

"No, you're not," John said with an off-handed wave.

"Huh." Rodney blinked a moment. "Okay."

They listened several minutes longer.

"Now that -- the electric guitar solo there...."

"All right, I can see that. But I think you're corrupting me is what's going on." He shut his eyes, leaning back as he folded his arms again. "It's more like oral sex, actually."

~*~*~

The song clicked off. John had forgotten it was that long. He stretched with a slow sigh, feeling well-fed and completely relaxed. Rodney stirred a moment later. It was late and John's knee was starting its dull throb that would get a lot worse if he ignored it.

Rodney demurred with a fluttery exaggerated wave when John offered to help with the last plates, insisting he'd clean up later. John didn't actually believe him.

Finally, they hovered at the door, the night cold and clear behind John. The city lights washed out the stars and stained the one a.m. sky a deep blue. John rocked the storm door back and forth between his hands, still standing in the doorway as Rodney braved the night air, arms wrapped around himself.

"I gotta go," John offered like an apology. "My meds are all back at my place." He thumbed over his shoulder but let his hand fall helplessly as he stayed on Rodney's porch, hip canted against the doorjamb.

"Oh. Does the knee hurt?" Rodney asked.

John rolled his eyes and laughed. Of course it did.

"Never mind. Stupid question." Rodney took a breath. "So, uh." He sniffed. "See you tomorrow? Four a.m., bright and early." He swung his arms.

"Well, it's Saturday, though I can probably swing it...."

"Oh, right, right, Saturday – I meant Monday, of course."

"Oh. Okay. Monday, then." John nodded, leaning his weight of his shoulder against the flimsy storm door.

"Four a.m. sharp," Rodney added.

John smiled, bright and white. "See you then."

He turned with a coy bob of his head, trundled down the steps, then turned around to walk backwards along the sidewalk, giving Rodney a dorky little wave. He jogged to his car, and cast a look back when he reached the door. Rodney fluttered his fingers at him. As the engine started, Rodney seemed to realize it was cold out, though he waited a moment longer watching John's taillights as he drove away.

~*~*~

John's apartment was dark and quiet, feeling very empty as his keys clinked on the counter. The streetlights through the kitchen window were enough to see by so he didn't bother turn on the overhead. John wasn't in the habit of staying out late, or even going out at all. It occurred to him that he didn't have much of a social life. Though he hadn't wanted one in quite a while. Most people got attached, then got in the way, expecting John to give more of himself than he'd planned.

He itched and ached, and made straight for the little pill bottle on the windowsill in the kitchen. He rattled out the dosage into his palm, downing the meds with water he drank straight from the tap, bent over, drops running down his cheek as he straightened. And then breathed.

One-fifteen a.m., man. He didn't know what to do with himself, wired past sleepiness. He knew he'd be awake at four a.m. from habit, like it or not.

He paced the kitchen, then wandered to the free weights in the other room and stopped, having to convince himself that even as restless as he felt, exercising at this hour was still a bad idea. He dismissed the thought of the inline skates. It was pretty cold out, and he knew from experience that it got ten degrees colder at dawn.

Not for the first time he wished he was a millionaire with a private skating rink where he just could work out all this energy anytime he wanted. Everything about that fantasy was hazy except for the open air rink itself, him strapping on his skates, arms stretched to the starred sky, legs straddled as he whisked along the curve of the ice. Trying out some of the footwork sequences Rodney suggested. He always added new moves to his imaginary rink.

His folks had always thought that he skated way too much, but they didn't realize that John skated twice as much in his mind.

By the time he hit the ice for real John knew the feel of every jump, just how his toe pick would launch himself into the air, how he'd pull his arms in tight, that suspended airborne moment, the feel of his hair flying in a circle, how he'd kick out his back leg as he landed, arms flung out for balance and stretch. Sometimes he'd know a new jump so well, it would surprise him when it didn't go perfectly on the first try.

John stretched in the empty circle of his bedroom, and tapped out a frustrated rhythm on his thighs. Then made for the TV he'd inherited from a former roommate two years ago. There was nothing on, and John told himself that, no, he was not calling Rodney at one-nineteen a.m. just because he was bored. Rodney probably had things to do tomorrow, important things that people with houses did, like, mow the lawn or clean the gutters or something.

He couldn't picture Rodney mowing the lawn for the life of him.

Clicking on the light, John pulled a cardboard box from under the bed and pawed through his videos, a collection that would make his parents roll their eyes, so he usually hid his tapes before they visited; they were mostly figure skating. He'd recently added several ice shows he'd found. Poor quality VHS recordings, although Viktor Petrenko, Toller Cranston, and Robin Cousins were always great. But what had caught his eye was the name Rodney McKay. He'd apparently done one summer tour after he retired. John had picked up some of Rodney's old Worlds programs of course, but this one he liked best because it was only eight years ago, in 1990, so Rodney had already started filling out, looking less like some teenage kid and more like he did now. Like Rodney. Except with a little more hair.

The camera started rolling with Rodney at the side of the rink, talking to a little guy with fuzzy, messy hair who wore an incongruent bow tie. Rodney leaned close, either to say something in his ear or to kiss him on the cheek, it was hard to say, then glanced up, startled as the announcer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to ... Rodney McKay!"

Rodney skated to the center rink with a few quick strokes, leaning forward as his arms pumped. He bounced into a light circle, arms raised. He wore a ridiculous costume of white 18th century ruffles and obscenely tight, clingy aqua satin pants.

Which, when he turned around, was a pretty nice view, ugly color or not. The teenage Rodney didn't look like that. And in the front, the light color left nothing to the imagination. John made a mental note to never wear a white costume, ever. Jesus.

Smirking at the crowd Rodney tugged playfully on the ruffles on his sleeves, first the left then the right, nose high in mock snobbery. Then he struck a George Washington-crossing-the-Delaware pose, his chin up. It was funny.

John dipped a hand under his waistband, figuring Rodney would kill him if he knew he did this. And that his choice of performances was a little weird. The screen flashed Rodney's name and the name of the music: Dvorak's "Humoresque," 1894.

Hands still holding his lapels, Rodney began with dainty footwork in little mocking turns, his free leg swinging, ending with a bow to an imaginary partner. He repeated the whole thing, turning in little Wally jumps, then pushing himself into a gliding swan pose. The audience giggled. Then Rodney pushed off into a triple, smoothly landing it as if it were nothing, turning backward in a complicated transition. He gathered speed from nowhere, swinging his leg around in a sharp 360, then switching, his arms spread as the crowd clapped, suddenly taking him seriously.

He paused, feet coming together in a stop, his expression smug and amused at having tricked them. Then with a mincing gesture, he held his lapels again, and walked on his skates as if out for a Sunday stroll.

In the romantic surge of music, his arms embraced the audience, energy increasing with his speed. His motion solid, so fast and strong, edges dug into the ice clean like he was on solid ground. Then as he hit the end of the rink, he pulled a gorgeous, effortless double axel, gliding into a not-very-fast spin with perfect form on the high violin, touching his skate, catching the blade overhead. He sidled out of that, one hand tracing the air, then raised his free leg on the long legato, holding it high for the whole serpentine chain. A girly move that was an inside joke with skaters, and the audience sort of got it from Rodney's self mocking turn of his wrists, chuckling again.

Then Rodney stopped. With a grin he played an imaginary violin tucked under his chin, circling in very complicated footwork now. He ended on his toes, ankles crossed in a ballerina pose, hands up in a shrug. The crowd cheered and he dropped his head to bow.

John put it on pause as Rodney came back up, face glowing with praise. John tipped his head back on his pillow with a little smile and drifted off to sleep, all the lights still on, still dressed, with one hand still tucked in his pants.

~*~*~

John blinked blearily, fumbling for the clock on the floor, blinking at the glow of the digital numbers. He sniffed. Bright winter light poured from the kitchen window in the main room, which left him confused and wondering what day it was. The faint buzz from the TV told him he'd left it on all night. He sat up and tugged off his jeans, swearing at himself for staying up so late. He'd missed his morning work-out and now his routine was completely screwed up.

Annoyed at himself, he clicked the TV off, then changed his mind and switched it from VCR to television. He had illegally hijacked someone's ESPN -- it was for a good cause -- and the cable guy still hadn't figured it out. The sports scores rang out as he scuffed into the kitchen in his underwear, digging at the elastic band that was embedded into his skin. He returned with a bowl of cereal and ate it standing, one bare shoulder leaned against the cool wood of the kitchen doorjamb.

Football season was over. He missed that every year. Cruel of them to have the Superbowl the same day as Nationals. But basketball was still going strong. The spoon clinked against the bowl.

"Welcome back to sports center! Keith, the Pistons are looking good this season...."

"They suck," John told them with his mouth full. He swiped away a little dribble of milk at the corner of his mouth.

"Absolutely, Darron. The real question is: Can they keep it up?"

"Not a chance," John said.

"Now for the current standings in the run up to Nascar...."

"Who cares about Nascar?" John griped as he settled cross-legged on the bed, watching anyway, mesmerized by the buzz and roar of cars as they interviewed someone he'd never heard of.

"Back to you, Jessica."

"Thanks, Darron. Now everyone's heard the latest on the upcoming World Figure Skating Championships. Will Yvonne Shaeffer hang in there....?"

John sighed. As usual, ESPN treated figure skating as if it were a women's sport. He'd be lucky if the men were even mentioned.

"The two-time silver medalist has elected to not to compete at America Cup in Aspen, in order to focus on the World Championship...."

Letting out a breath, John shook his head. Now that everyone and their brother had an ex-Russian skating coach, they were picking up the Soviet habit of "saving yourself" like a virgin for the big competitions. Keeping your edge.

Ha. If it were him, he'd skate in every single one he possibly could, including the cheese-fests sponsored by Alpo or whatever corporation wanted to rain money on figure skating this year. But his season was over, coming in ninth at Nationals. Way over.

"She's not the only one. Just last night Kyle Fletcher withdrew from the America Cup as well, also to focus on the Worlds next month."

"It's highly competitive this year, Jessica. There's new pressure from the Japanese skating team-- let's have a look."

That was a perfect example of ESPN's crap coverage. Yvonne had just held onto the silver by her fingernails at last year's Worlds and barely stood a chance at the podium this year. Kyle on the other hand had the America Cup sewn up. John set down his empty cereal bowl in amazement. His gold was in the bag and he'd walked away. Granted, the America Cup had all the prestige of a go-cart race, but still.

That left an open playing field. And second place Mike Estey was down with a pulled groin muscle -- it was iffy he'd even make Worlds. Third place Jeff Kulka was going, last John heard. Fourth place William Haas retired after Nationals, wanting to go out on top. It was about time for him to pack it in.

John counted off on his fingers, snickering. Who was even left to compete?

David Bellamy had married Cherise Grant, an ice dancer, and they were probably on their honeymoon by now. Was it Todd Kaganoff or Christian Yong Suk in sixth? John couldn't recall. One was sixth, the other seventh.

Todd was definitely out of the game. He'd retired quietly, though he might come back for something like this. A shot at the gold? Yeah. That would tempt him. Christian was out with injuries John had read somewhere, though exactly what he didn't know.

He definitely knew who had taken eighth, of course, one up from his spot: Mark Svick.

So they had third place Kulka, good old Todd if he came out of retirement, eighth place Mark Svick and....

Holy shit. Ninth place... John sat up, jolted.

Was him.

Holy... But no one had contacted him.

John stood and circled his bedroom and paused, rubbing the back of his neck. Haas could come out of retirement, too. Hell, Belamy might cut short his honeymoon if gold were on the line. An ice dancer would understand. And maybe Christian's injuries weren't all that serious. There were a million things that could happen.

He shouldn't get his hopes up. There was no point in getting excited, John told himself. He continued to pace.

~*~*~

The doctor cocked an eyebrow at John, the expression crinkling his forehead with suspicious amusement. John leaned back on his arms and kicked his feet before forcing himself to sit still. Then the doctor returned his gaze to the clipboard in his hands and was quiet an awfully long time. John chewed his lip impatiently and tried to peer over at the clipboard even if there was no way he could read it, biting back the words.

The doctor took a deep breath and turned pages, making John even more antsy.

"Well," the doctor sighed at last. "There has been a marked improvement—" He shot John a quelling look. "—mind you, these take time to heal entirely…."

"Oh, I'm sure of that," John said, sitting up, eager to appear cooperative.

The suspicious glance returned, eyeing John up and down. "I admit, I did not expect you to return, laddie."

"Hey, I want to get better." John added his smoothest, most charming smile. The doctor warmed to him and almost laughed as he shook his head with a bemused snort.

"All right," he gave in, letting the pages fall. "You can do your jumping -- but!" He raised a finger, stopping John as he happily pulled his jacket over his shoulders. A smile lit John's face. "Take it slowly at first. If you feel any strain at all -- even a teeny twinge! -- you call us, do you understand me?" He leaned forward in a fatherly manner.

"You bet," John said.

John practically bounced off the table, ready to prove that his knee was fine, just fine, really. He turned on his toes at the door and paused, balancing neatly as he almost fell backward in his eagerness to leave. He gave a broad smirk. "Thanks, doc, um -- Doctor Beckett," he added with a nodding bow, remembering the name, testing the sound of it.

As Dr. Carson Beckett took notes on this visit, he heard the faint jingle of the bell on the front door, and the hiss as it shut behind John. He tipped his head and almost smiled.

Nurse Biro had watched him go, shaking her head. She peeked her head around the corner, looking over her glasses, disapproving. "Am I going to be taking X-rays of that knee next week?"

The doctor didn't even look up. "Most probably," he said lightly.

She shoved her horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I'd've lied to him. Made him wait it out another week, just to be on the safe side."

"It's better that he trust us." The doctor handed her Sheppard's file. "That way, the next time? He doesn't wait so long."

~*~*~

The nice thing about a little rink was that it wasn't hard to get skate time at short notice. Especially when the front desk was being manned by a cute co-ed from the University of Toronto, blond, wearing thick black mascara, who was always full of smiles for John whenever he came in. He'd fit in a quick phone call to his answering machine. There was still no news yet.

John all but draped over the counter, the edge pressed against his chest. "No kidding? I went to U of T myself."

"Oh?" she bubbled. "What were you studying?"

"Engineering, but," and here he tipped his head bashfully, lowering his voice, "skating's really my passion."

Her eyes brightened, sparkling as she said, "I skated for years off and on but I never really got the hang of the jumps. And the competitions are so high pressure."

"Yeah, well, maybe I can show you a few moves sometime," John suggested, waggling his eyebrows. She chuckled and blushed as she glanced away, shaking her head. Her little dangly silver heart earrings sparkled and bobbed.

"So, um," John breathed, leaning closer to peer at her schedule. It was the old fashioned paper type with little X's, penciled in names and pink smeared erasures. He saw Rodney's name all over it, along with his own regular 5 a.m. slot. "I don't suppose there are any free skate times this afternoon? Or this evening's okay, too," he added hurriedly, with a forestalling hand. "I'm not picky."

"Oh," she said. "Sorry. We're all booked up." By this time he had smoothed his way around the counter.

"Yeah, hmm." John's sharp eyes scoped out the schedule like a hawk spotting prey. "What about that blank space right there? That's now, isn't it?" He was behind her, hand brushing the fluff of blond hair on her shoulder as he pointed at that nice white spot on the calendar. He hadn't seen anyone on the ice either.

"There's only forty minutes left, it's not a full slot. And the zamboni has to resurface the ice before hockey practice." She looked up at him with smiling regret.

"Forty minutes, huh?" It wasn't much. "Well that sounds like just what the doctor ordered," John said.

She cringed, wrinkling her nose as she breathed in through her teeth with a hiss. "I'm only supposed to charge by the hour."

He dipped his hand into his back pocket for his wallet, looking down. He hated to be charged double for what was really a half hour slot but he told himself it was worth it. "You have to do what you have to do."

"No, I mean that I can't. I'll get in trouble if the schedule doesn't match the register."

He looked up and gave her an expressively blank look.

"Just go on in." She waved him onward. "It's not being used anyhow. But get out of the way when the zamboni comes or they'll run you over."

"Gee. Thanks," he said, his face lighting with a sincere smile, and she brightened even more.

John used the run down the stairs as part of his warm up, pounding the double doors open wide with his forearms to the almost empty ice. Times like these were the reason he'd learned to gear up lightning fast as he yanked off his sneakers and whipped the skates out of his bag. His fingers fumbled as he disentangled the strings and pulled them tight. John balled up his jacket, tossing it towards the bench, then stepped out onto the ice.

It felt as though he hadn't been here in a long time even though his last practice was just hours ago. But this was different. This was the real thing.

He picked up speed, carving a fast arc around the back of the rink. He stretched his arms out in a cutting gesture as he glanced back over his shoulder, and then flung himself into the air, knee bent gazelle-like, spinning in a double. It landed wobbly and uncertain.

That toe-loop was usually his easiest jump, too, sheer momentum and big air.

John scowled. Then gunned ahead, arms working as he leapt, his right foot stepping forward once and launching himself into a triple axel, his free leg a powerful pendulum swing as he pulled in tight for the extra half turn that made it skating's toughest jump. He straddled the landing, two-footing it, but forced himself into a second double. His head dipped as he felt the shock through his knee and he stepped out of it, pinwheeling and falling on his ass with a bounce.

Pushing himself up from the ice, John groaned out loud, grinding his teeth. He shelved his nascent plans to run through his whole short program.

Starting over, he went through his jumps, one by one, feeling them settle into his bones, become familiar again. He drew his foot back for the Lutz, his toe-pick catching the ice and launching him into a triple, landing clean in reverse, leg out. Perfect. But the dizzying salchow had never been his best. He hopped into it too early and found himself finishing it on the ground.

The groan and chug of the zamboni across the rink warned him that his time was almost up. He had one last question for himself. Gathering speed until he was skating backward, a slight ripple to his shirt, John swung his leg high behind him and nicked the ice, flinging himself into a tight spin, arms wrapped, one, two, three, four turns – and he landed, hard, as his skate wanted to slide out.

But he landed it.

John slid to a diagonal stop after the quad. Breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, he looked across the ice. A slow satisfied smirk spread across his face.

~*~*~

Sweat soaking his T-shirt and dripping into his eyes, John had to shoulder his way through a dozen teenage boys in padded hockey uniforms to find where his jacket and gym bag had been shoved out of the way. He found the jacket trampled on the floor and picked it up, shaking it. He grabbed an open bench in the back. He wondered if he'd ever been as young as these kids. They laughed and argued with each other as they geared up, shouting over the echoes of the rink. Sticks flailed in the air. John was fairly that sure that when he'd played, he'd never been allowed to use them for sword-fighting.

"Hey! Knock it off!"

Their coach, a balding man with fierce assessing eyes, hawk-like eyebrows and a strong chin appeared, yanking a stick out of one boy's hand. He wore an old satin baseball jacket and a whistle dangling around his neck. He glowered at the two boys, one of whom shrank away.

"Yes, sir," said the other, standing his ground with an insolent smirk, thick eyelashes flickering, hand out to accept his stick back.

John snickered down at his skates, earning a cynical glance from the coach.

"Okay, all of you, listen up! Your buddies here just earned everyone twenty-five penalty laps. This is a team. Which means when you screw up, everyone pays." He clapped several times and shouted, "Go, go now!" ignoring the explosion of foul language as his hockey team hit the ice, swearing and shoving each other in the hiss of skates, the clatter of hockey sticks on the ice.

"Maybe that'll get some of their energy out," the coach muttered to himself, his tone somewhere between amusement, irritation, and tired patience.

"I'd have made it thirty," John commented, coming up to the row of seats behind him.

The coach turned around, elbows on the boards, unwisely turning his back on his boys. "Was that you out on the ice earlier?" he asked, his tone wondering.

"Sorry if I made you wait," John said, smiling and not particularly apologetic.

The coach's eyebrows raised. "Pretty impressive. Figure skating seems to be turning into an actual sport."

"It's been an Olympic event longer than hockey," John said with just a little edge, bracing himself. He was too used to this argument. He'd had it with his dad and his brother every Christmas and Thanksgiving. Especially Thanksgiving when the Lion's game was on. He pursed his lips and mock shrugged. "About twenty years earlier, but then again, who's counting?"

"No, no, don't take it that way, it's a compliment." He made a brushing gesture and nodded to John. "The athleticism's improved. How many revolutions was that last one? It went too fast, I didn't catch it."

John beamed at him and his tight smile was smug. "That was a quad and, no, no one ever does. Except the judges, I hope."

The coach smiled and shook his head in amazement. Then held out his hand. "Stephen Caldwell. I'm the coach of the Cardinals here. We're having a winning season, though you certainly can't tell today." His other hand thumbed over his shoulder towards his team.

"John Sheppard." John shook his hand. "And, ah, just so you know, the jumps are only part of it," he said, a little defensive still. "Artistic merit counts for half the points. Without that you're pretty well screwed."

"Yeah, well, the Olympics aren't a dance competition," Caldwell snorted, giving John a cynical half-smile.

John frowned at him and said with a growl, "No offense, but the style's what makes the difference between a skater who's just good and one who's great."

"If you say so," Caldwell said, a world of doubt in his tone. "You're pretty decent on the ice. If you ever want to try hockey, you know, a real sport...." He smiled to take the sting out of it, though John could tell he meant it, too.

John threw his head back and laughed. Then said, making a face with a little squirming shrug, "Hockey's all about the puck. Figure skating, now, that's about the skating."

~*~*~

Rodney had only stepped away from the ice to place a phone call. Mrs. Hurwitz shot him a dirty look as he hogged the main line. He tapped his foot and rolled his eyes with a sigh as he sat on hold for what seemed like an hour.

He waved his cup of coffee, which was in all likelihood cold by now. "Look--Well, when will Sonja back from Brazil?" Mrs. Hurwitz's eyes widened at the mention of Brazil, probably picturing long distance charges, but Rodney ignored her. "No, that's not soon enough."

Rodney hung up without saying goodbye, grumbling to himself about incompetent assistants and inconvenient travel schedules. Before ice shows became so popular everyone he'd wanted had always been on tap and desperate for work in the off season. Now? Every top skater had a summer job at some cheesy ice circus.

Trampling down the stairs, Rodney resisted the urge to kick the doors to the rink open, but that was only because he happened to like the music playing. Someone had put on Tchaikovsky's "Arabian Dance." He sighed, leaned on the edge of the boards and decided to give himself a second to finish his coffee. It was lukewarm and only moderately horrible. To his surprise there was only one person on the rink.

Pausing, Rodney lowered his cup slowly as he watched.

John was looking down, then swung his leg to carry himself in a circle, arms trailing. Quietly carving the ice.

He began backward into a slow circle. Used his edge to push off. Then followed the direction of the free foot, turning in subtle serpentine steps. He shifted his weight to the back skate and then circled his foot up, letting his shoulder lean deep into the turn, arm towards the ice as if anchoring himself.

He lowered his head with the sweep of his other arm, then did a quarter-turn into a backward glide. Looking over his shoulder as the wind rippled his loose T-shirt. He did only a small hop where the jump was meant to be.

Then John picked up speed and stretched into a leg extension at shoulder-height and held the tension of the song, maintaining position, arm smoothed along his side. With the oboe phrase he shifted, let the leg fall, cutting into the ice behind him as he turned, his back to the audience, head down in concentration on the last pensive note.

He blinked up, caught sight of Rodney and shook himself out of it. He let it glide to a stop, eyes glazed and starry-eyed in that way skaters had when they were really into the music. "Hey, Rodney," he breathed. "Didn't know you were there."

"Tchaikovsky," Rodney said, victorious, snapping his fingers and pointing at John. "Works every time."

John frowned at him. "It's the fish song."

"What?" Rodney squinted, puzzled.

"You know, from that movie? I saw it when I was a little kid."

Rodney shut his eyes as he understood and snorted. "Oh. Fantasia."

"Yeah, they had these fish...."

"That's the Nutcracker, John," Rodney said in disgust, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Whatever."

John licked his lips, glancing over his shoulder like they were being watched. He'd been edgy all through their lesson, though Rodney couldn't fault his concentration. He'd rarely seen John so focused. John cracked his knuckles, then rapped his fist into his palm.

"So, uh. We done here for today?" He seemed to be holding his breath, watching Rodney with hopeful clear eyes.

"What? Well, I've got a few extra minutes before my next lesson, we can fit in a little more. I'd like to start to reworking your short program for next season -- you know it's a thing of horror, right? You and Brahms? Just say no." Rodney smirked with smug amusement. "Besides, Jessica's always late and a complete waste of my time -- so typical that the ones who can afford my services are the very ones who need a surgical talent implant."

John winced, sucking air through his teeth. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and finally stuck them in his pockets. He dug at the ice with his toe pick. "Yeah, I, uh, you see -- I kinda got an appointment." He shrugged in apology.

"What could be more important than skating?" Rodney asked him, blank-faced.

"I gotta be there at three," John explained, just shy of whining as he glanced towards the door again. "And I'm gonna be late as it is."

"Okay," Rodney said, drawing the word out, mystified. But John was already edging off the ice, plucking his jacket from where it was draped over the side of the rink.

"But I'll see you in the morning, right?" John said, turning to Rodney with sudden intensity, determined and leaning close.

Rodney blinked rapidly, then frowned, mouth tipping down. "Yes, of course. I've never missed a lesson."

"Good, good," John said, as if to himself, as he bent to pull off his skates.

~*~*~

John took the wide steps to the Schmidt center two at a time, one skate bouncing against his back. He had made himself even later by stopping at a payphone to check his answering machine -- still no word on the competition though it was probably too soon. He pushed through the glass doors to the front desk.

"I have a three o'clock skate time but I'm a little...."

She waved him off a sharp impatient gesture, pointing. "Take the elevator on the right."

That didn't quite answer his question, but okay. He avoided the eyes on the photo of Rodney, ducking underneath it. Then he gazed up at the numbers as the elevator descended, dinging as they passed each floor.

Moments later he was staring across acres of ice, his heart in his throat. Places like this looked like competitions to John. There were logos instead of hockey goal lines beneath him on the ice, which rumbled and hissed smoothly under his skates. The rink was a little busier than he was used to but it wasn't like there wasn't plenty of room.

Rodney's ideas—to be honest, experiments—were all well and good for the long term, but he needed his usual training regime to prepare himself for a competition. Working his arms, John rocketed around the rink, then slowed a little, concentrating to set up himself up for the single jumps.

The easy stuff first, working in Rodney's transitional moves between jumps because those had helped.

With the singles landed comfortably, he moved up to double-single combinations, then triple-double combinations, increasing the level of difficulty exponentially between each set. This worked for John, keeping him on a trajectory toward the quad.

The world narrowed to just the jumps, tension in every line of his body gathered -- and then released like a coiled spring. With a grunt he threw himself into a quad toe-loop. The landing leg was still a little wobbly, but he held it.

For the sake of efficiency, John broke his long program down into sections to get them down technically. He did the flying leap into a sit spin, finding his center to stand up into the fast spin, arms pulled in tight. A predictable combination but it looked good. He worked on getting the form exactly right on his camel spin, back leg extended perpendicular to the ground, and cursed himself as it traveled, wobbling off-center six inches across the ice.

John stopped himself and breathed. It felt almost... weird... to do his normal workout. He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different. It went really fast, for one thing. He put the strangeness out of his mind to concentrate on skating. Gathering speed he bent to the side and caught his back skate behind him, spinning like a top. Not quite the speed he needed, so he did it again, this time skating hot into it. It was fast enough to feel like the top of his head was going to pull off – which was more like it.

A half hour into his practice John took a breather, sliding to the boards to get some water. He slung a towel around his neck feeling oddly alone, like he'd just stepped off a plane into a foreign city. Everyone else here seemed to have two or three people with them, their coach, a choreographer, and some had a whole collection of people doing god knew what. John wiped his hair off his forehead – sweaty and wet, it tended to stick up even more – shoulders hunched as he gazed around, taking in the strange scenery.

A black and gray blur hissed by on the opposite side of the skating rink, as fast as a short track skater. He cleared the edge of the rink and whizzed by John, who vaguely remembered a gray distraction earlier while he'd been focused on his practice. At the far end the skater hit an impossibly high triple axel. And came out of it with the same blinding speed. Definitely an elite level athlete.

Eyes blinking, John tipped back his water to cover his confusion. He only knew one guy who hit the ice that hard after a jump.

On the next circuit John caught a glimpse of black hair and Asian features, the sixth ranked American skater. Yong Suk.

"What the hell is he doing here?" John wondered aloud.

One thing was for sure. He didn't look all that injured.

~*~*~

It was a surprise to find John at his little skating rink at six o'clock in the evening hovering over the payphone, the receiver to his ear as he slumped against the white concrete wall. Rodney studied him with amusement, balancing the too-thin paper plate draped over his palm, his pizza pocket steaming. He had his millionth cup of coffee in the other hand, not that it would do him much good after a long day like today.

John turned to face the phone, growled and hammered the receiver down. Twice. He leaned on both hands against the wall over the phone, fingers spread, and hung his head. John had developed an intimate relationship with the payphone over the last several days, making a beeline for it before and after every practice.

"Hmm. Last I noticed, you only needed to hang it up once to be effective," Rodney commented, quirking his head at John. "Although I suppose there's nothing wrong with being thorough."

John jolted, pulling away from the wall as he shrank in on himself. "Oh. Hey, Rodney. What are you doing here?"

Rodney held up exhibit A: his vending machine dinner. "The joys of coaching during the school year. They're available either at miserable o'clock in the morning, or from three to eight in the evening, and nothing in between." He hummed a musical little sigh. "I can never seem to nap satisfactorily in the afternoon either, I've never known why." He yawned, stretching and barely catching the pizza pocket before it slid off his plate.

He took a bite of his pizza and then recalled that John wasn't normally around at this hour: he was a five a.m. appointment. He added with his mouth full, "What about you?"

"Um. Trying to score some extra skate time. Not that it matters now." John sighed, folding his arms across his chest as he melted against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

Rodney took a huge bite, holding the last bit as he waved the greasy plate. "Well, I can just as easily eat rink-side. They won't mind you on the ice if I'm around."

On their way down the hollow concrete stairs, John cleared his throat and said in a tight, rather high, strained voice, "I hear Christian Yong Suk's in town." He watched the ground as he said it.

Rodney leaned his back against the long door handle. After a fourteen hour day the rink doors weighed a ton. "Yes, yes." Rodney flapped a hand. "He's going to that Orville Redenbacher 'Reach for the Stars' challenge, or whatever it's called, in Buffalo. His coach wants to surprise everyone -- they've tweaked his short program yet again in their endless attempts to gild a dandelion."

"Yeah, well, I was pretty surprised," John said, straightening a little. He met Rodney's eyes. "Just a cheese-fest, huh?"

"Yep. Then it's off to the America Cup. They're using it as a warm-up."

"Oh," John said in a quiet, disappointed voice. He'd stopped mid-stair.

"Or at least that's his excuse. Of course the money never has anything to do with it." Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Well, I wouldn't sneeze at twenty grand either," John said, shaking his head as he continued down the steps.

"Thirty, actually," Rodney said.

"Jesus."

"Not that he stands a chance at first prize. Fletcher is going."

"Wait." John stopped cold on the bottom step, his mouth open in disbelief. "Fletcher's blowing off the America Cup, a real competition, for a cheese-fest?"

"At least they're humiliating the sport for sizeable sums, eh?" Rodney snorted. "Though to be fair, the America Cup has all the prestige of a go-cart race."

"I wouldn't say no to it," John mumbled.

~*~*~

Rodney snapped his fingers impatiently into his hand, rocking back on his heels next to the concierge. The gentle plunking of Japanese koto music mixed with the sound of fountains under the loud chatter and clatter of silverware on china. The place had trendy black marble floors which ruined the acoustics in Rodney's opinion, but the Asiatic was the hottest new restaurant in Toronto. It had been ridiculously difficult to get a reservation.

That would make Sonja happy.

Typically, she was late, but he hoped it was just the twenty-minute "I'm curious but I don't want to seem too interested" wait, rather than the hour-long "You never call, you never write, and I'm mad at you" version, in which case she'd turn up with a transparent excuse and not a trace of remorse. He was a veteran of the Argentinean skater's many moods.

"Rodney!" Sonja's delighted squeal carried from the doorway, her arms outstretched.

She had the leathery tan of too many years in the sun with sharp smile lines and bottle blond hair, gathering him in a bracing hug and then held his shoulders at arm's length. She pushed him back as she spread her hands to look him up and down. "Look at you! You are so plump, I could pinch you."

Blinking rapidly, Rodney gave her an awkward, "Hi. You look...." He quickly edited out words like 'older' and 'haggard' and tried, "...mature." Then cringed.

She swatted him. "Ah. You are cruel." She kept walking right past the hostess -- who did a confused double-take -- tossing her coat into Rodney's arms without a backward glance to see if he'd caught it.

"You still have nice legs," he assured her as he followed in her wake. The discomfited young hostess hurried to catch up and show them to their table.

The meal they ordered was breathtakingly expensive – Sonja was never less than mercenary, as every woman who skated against her quickly learned – and Rodney silently chanted to himself that it would all be worth it, or else a complete and utter waste of time, but at least this avenue would be explored. Not for the first time he wondered if she was the right choice for John, though the fact remained that she was the only choice. He splurged a little himself and ordered the deep fried kushikatsu. He had to keep her company after all.

"Tsk, tsk. So fattening, Rodney," she chided him, smiling over the straw she'd insisted on for her bubble tea.

"I'm not competing," Rodney said defensively.

"You should be," she pounced.

Rodney rolled his eyes, his expression wan.

"Okay, yes, yes, right now your body is more like a boxer than a skater. You'd land the jumps like an elephant. But I can slim you down. Work on a style that suits you as a grown man, not a little boy." She had that merciless gleam. "I'll get you back on the ice in no time, one year, two years tops. Though if you eat that," she pointed at the menu with a gold nail, "make it three."

"No." Just no. Rodney sighed. "I haven't competed since I was nineteen. Anyway, that's not why I wanted you."

"Mmm, my, my, Rodney." One eyebrow flicked up and she gave him an arch look. "I thought you liked boys."

"That's men, and you're not my type even if I didn't. No offense, but I like keep my balls attached," Rodney said with sheer earnestness.

"I like you. I promise, I would give them back." She laughed, slapping his knee under the table. She flipped her hair off her shoulder, leaning her elbow on the back of her chair, weighing him with her eyes. "So then. It's this John Sheppard."

Rodney took a breath and held it, squinting before he let it out in a rush. "You heard."

She tilted her head in a guilty shrug. "David told me. He heard it from his coach, who got it from her husband, who heard from the sportscaster, what-is-he, Brett Johnson --"

"—Brett Jordan. That gossip. I should never have gone to the Schmidt center... ever notice how the figure skating community is completely incestuous?" he complained, his voice turning plaintive.

"Yes. So? Everyone wants to know: Are you sleeping with him?"

"What? No!" Rodney spluttered. "And beat around the bush, will you?" he added with wide, shocked blue eyes.

"Pfft." She made a brusque brushing gesture. "No one will just ask. Life would be much simpler that way. Not so much pssst-psst-pssst." She made a talking mouth with her hands.

"God, you people are nosy. I just wanted to see if you'd choreograph him, that's it!" Rodney threw down his napkin. There. He'd said it. He babbled, "I mean, I can do my own programs and certainly I can choreograph a kid's, even a Junior worlds, but as brilliant as I am, this is an elite level and I can't be all things to all people -- though certainly people expect me to pull off miracles and... please, can you do this? You're not half bad. Besides, I can't ask anyone else to work for free," he laughed nervously. "You're pretty much my only shot."

"For money? I will teach a donkey to skate. Or if he's a top talent, sure." She shrugged, then traced the rim of her glass and grew serious for a moment, giving Rodney a piercing look. "He is a beautiful boy. Do you think he has a real chance or do you just want him?"

Rodney opened his mouth as if to be insulted, then leaned back in his chair, deflated. "Between you and me? I ask myself that question every day."

"Mmm. Do not encourage his false hopes," she sighed, shaking her head. "Don't break his heart but – I looked him up and I printed it at the library." Her eyes sparkled at her technological 'wizardry' as she dug into her purse, found and slapped a sheet of paper on the table between them. Then she turned it around as it was upside down.

John's standings. Rodney groaned inwardly as her nail traced the familiar numbers and tapped them.

"His personal best was two years ago. Since then he was 13th, this year 9th...."

Rodney cut her off with a tired flicking gesture. "He's in a holding pattern, yes, yes, I know. There was that injury--"

"No. If he were twenty-four maybe it would be just a setback. But he is twenty-eight years old. Next he will be 15th, then 20th... You men don't know when to quit. It's all about the winning for you," said the woman who'd aggressively chased gold for ten years. Rodney pressed his lips together and forced himself to say nothing. "He's good-looking. He should try acting -- or if he's stupid, then modeling. Or else get married and have some children, have a nice life." She stabbed a finger at Rodney, brows drawn together. "Now you, you could come back. You have a gold medal, a gold medal, a silver medal. Him? He has never won anything."

"He really wants it," Rodney said.

John had never mentioned anything but he could tell.

"He can have the heart of a champion, but if the body can't do? It can't do." She shrugged, as cold as they came.

The check arrived and Rodney unsuccessfully tried not to wince as he signed on the bottom line. Quick and painless, like pulling off a band aid. At least he'd tried. Maybe little Melanie Weir could choreograph John.

He tapped his fingers on the table as the waitress disappeared, staring blindly at the cloth napkin tossed carelessly on his plate. "Sometimes... I see something in him."

Sonja's chuckle at that was warm and suggestive as her lips closed around her straw again. "Mmm-hmm. I bet you do."

"Oh, be serious." Rodney bristled. "Okay, half the time I think he's an utter waste of effort and I want to wring his neck besides, but then, then he'll do something. It'll last for just a moment, but he has it. Maybe he is too old or maybe he's never worked with anyone as great as me but – " Rodney cut off. "I'm telling you, I think he's got something."

Sonja gave him a speculative look, uncharacteristically thoughtful as she lifted her cup. Then she said, after a pause, "I have a flight to San Diego tomorrow morning."

Rodney glanced up. "Wait." He blinked. "Does this mean you'll do it?"

~*~*~

John skated in a listless circle, his gestures careless, head down as he watched the ice rather than where he was going. A teenage girl in black warm-ups and a short bob practiced an inelegant spiral -- back leg extended, her arms out like a swan, or more like a duck in her case -- right into his path. She paused, dropped out of position and glared daggers at John, then circled around him with a continuous dark look when he didn't notice her. John's turns were too small and slightly behind the run of piano music that fell like a soft waterfall.

Sucking his teeth as he watched John, Rodney tried to think of where to even begin on the long list of what was wrong with this picture. Start with a bucket of cold water, perhaps?

He clapped his hands a few times until John shook himself and looked up. "Good morning! Did we not have our Wheaties today?"

John shrugged but skated over, head down, which Rodney chose to take as John hanging on his every word, no matter how unlikely this was.

"Pay attention to what you're doing. Music like this you have to live every note. At the very least finish your gestures, if you please." He grabbed John's loose right arm and pulled it in towards John's chest. "Start from the heart -- here -- then carry it through --" He extended John's arm in an upward sweep. "-- to here -- like you're painting the music in the air."

Seeing a blank look on John's face, Rodney heaved a melodramatic sigh.

"Watch me."

Rodney worked up some speed, calling out to John, "Long strokes to match the smooth glide of the music... arch your back...." He curved around the outer edge of the rink, then did the three step turns. "Now bend your head around..." Rodney demonstrated. "...then turn." He let the momentum of his head gesture carry him into a half turn.

"Now reach out with both hands and pull, grab the sky and pull it in to you. Tension, I want tension! Use your whole body, this music is lyrical."

With the build of the music he gathered more speed and stretched his arms up as he faced the stands, legs and arms in an X, skates pointed in opposite directions to carve a sharp edge. "Now open your body up. This circuit is as light as air and twice as open. Skate this as though you were a piece of thistle down caught in the wind."

He let his arms level out and then he carried the momentum into a spin, slow and easy, both arms wide as he circled down, wrapping around him as he stopped. "Down, now hold." Rodney held the position. "Don't hurry, two, three... now unwind like a spring, following your arm like it's leading you out." And he did so. "The goal is to enthrall the audience. Therefore every note counts."

John nodded once then followed suit, both arms wide -- if too stiff -- as he turned in a broad circle, his edges clean, though the line of his body was too aggressive and about light as a cannonball. Then he spun down to one knee, arms wrapping around himself. He held it this time, and spun back out -- leading with his shoulder instead of his arm.

Rodney sighed and went limp, dispirited. "The whole thing's boring. Your choreography's wonderful but it fits you like a pig on skates. I couldn't picture worse music for you if I tried."

"They let me pick the music."

"You picked Mendelssohn?" Rodney's eyebrows raised, astounded. "What are you, some kind of closet romantic?"

"It's nice," John said with a blink. "This is my long program from last year."

"That's the problem. You're listening to it instead of skating. The music's not for you to enjoy. It's for you to perform."

"Yeah, I had my worst finish ever with this -- placed thirteenth. Dumped the program fast after that."

They moved to center ice, John following with slow strokes, still moping.

Rodney finally turned in exasperation. "What is wrong with you today?"

John just tipped his head, noncommittal, barely even a shrug.

"You've been on fire for much of the week, then suddenly you have all the enthusiasm of a plate of wet lasagna. You made a modicum of progress and now we're back at square one. You're moving like a machine again: skate-skate spin, skate-skate turn. And your focus is completely blown."

"Progress?" John said, obviously listening selectively. "You never mentioned anything about any progress." He narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, well, I didn't want to jinx it, and that turns out to have been the right decision because clearly it was an aberration."

"I'm skating fine," John said, frowning at him.

"He's skating 'fine,'" Rodney said with little air quotes. "Eight months from now, when you're in the middle of the ice with all eyes upon you, who will be handing out the scores? People like you, who'll say you're skating 'just fine' -- give that guy a cookie ? Or people like me who are going to compare you to the top figure skaters in the country?"

John didn't answer.

Rodney snapped his fingers in quick succession. "What have you changed?"

"What?"

"Come on. Have you switched your diet? Stopped eating meat or carbs or something stupid like that?"

"No! What's that got to do with anything?"

"Had a bad break-up maybe? I saw you hammering on that phone the other night. It looked personal." John gave a disdainful roll of his head. "Anything can effect your performance, no matter how ridiculous; this is art, not science."

"I've done everything you've told me to, Rodney," John said, measuring his words out carefully. He took a breath, dipped his chin and added, "And then some."

"I'll be the judge of your going the extra mile," Rodney said with a snort. "Okay. You've an extra practice session this evening. I'll sit in."

John froze and looked up sharply, eyes fixed on Rodney, wary.

"I saw you on the schedule, don't look at me like that, I do in fact, read. I approve of the extra hours, by the way, we'll just have to use them more wisely."

John licked his lips and shifted, wincing. "I may have to cancel that session." He looked away. "Things aren't exactly turning out the way I'd hoped. It's been a rough week."

"Yes, and I'm tired of dragging you around the rink today," Rodney agreed, sagging. "Go home, get your head together. Call your boyfriend and fix whatever's going on. Tell him you either need him to get lost or to stay with you forever for the sake of your training."

"I don't have—" John glanced around, then leaned closer and said in an undertone, "I'm not with anybody, Rodney."

"Oh. Too bad. It would have been an easier solution than something being actually wrong with your training." Rodney let out a breath, shaking his head. "You need consistency. Eight months may seem like next year to you, but it's really not much time to work the near-miraculous changes you need. Learn to practice as if your next competition were only a month away."

John had bent his head. He seemed to be listening for a change. "A month? What about a week?" He looked up, interested.

"No, no. Everyone practices shitty the week before a competition. You either over train or work on all the wrong aspects."

~*~*~

At eight p.m. the lights in most of the rink's winding white halls were dimmed. The girl at the front desk wasn't anyone Rodney recognized. She only glanced up once, before she returned to a spread of open college textbooks, the equations easy first year physics from what Rodney could tell upside down. In the remaining lit hallway a woman with a heavy Russian face and green janitor's uniform emptied the trash, dragging a wheeled white cart behind her. The air smelled sharply of disinfectant and flat paper-soaked Pepsi.

The music from the ice downstairs was cranked loud enough to be heard as a faint hum in the parking lot. Louder inside, it wasn't exactly the Hurwitzes' usual combination of Frank Sinatra and Broadway show tunes, but the college student and the janitor ignored it, their shoulders hunched the heavy rhythm.

Scuffing down the steps to the rink, the thumping slow drumbeat and whine of electric guitar resolved and became more familiar to Rodney. He leaned folded elbows on the edge of the boards, calling out, "It figures you're a Hendrix fan."

John turned, shifting edges to a stop, one foot in midair as he skid. He grinned. "They've been playing Phantom of the Opera all afternoon. If I hear 'All I Ask Of You' one more time...."

"That's not so bad."

"'Let me be your shelter, let me be your light'?" John quoted.

"Well...."

"Barbra Streisand." John gave him a flat stare.

Rodney reached for the boom box and turned Hendrix up another notch without hesitation. "We'll have our revenge."

While Rodney put his skates on, John sprawled with a sigh on the bench next to him, his black T-shirt dark with sweat under his arms and in a vee down his chest, letting the electric squeal of Jimi Hendrix wash over them. It clicked over into his softer "Little Wing."

"Ready to go?" Rodney said, energized, pulling the last lace tight. He was by nature a night person.

"No hurry." John shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. He observed, one finger trailing over the seat back. "You know, my other coaches hardly set foot on the ice. Mostly they just directed me from the sidelines."

"Cowards." Rodney banged his heel into place with a pleased victorious smile over at John, chin up. "They just don't want to be shown up as washed up old has-beens, which I certainly am not."

"Oh?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"I could compete still if I chose to, or so I've been very recently informed." Rodney beamed.

"You think you could take me?" John stood, his eyes gleaming and sharp, a competitive edge to his smile.

"If I wanted to," Rodney hedged, shoulders squirming. "I'd have to get back into form."

"And lose about twenty pounds," John said, stepping over the edge onto the rink.

Rodney shot him a resentful, hurt look.

"We skating pairs today?" John spun around, an arm in the air like he'd circled a lasso.

"Sure, if you want."

"Good. I have an idea."

He caught Rodney's hand and dragged him out onto the ice, startling him. John's CD clicked over to the guitar licks of Hendrix's "Voodoo Child."

They circled the rink in a basic hold, Rodney's right arm curved around the small of John's back, hands clasped in front. They let go as the drum kit and bass line kicked in, separating around the corner with a little spinning hop, John slightly behind Rodney's beat. Rodney didn't waste time for more than a quick smirk, knee drawn up in a stance that looked like a four, arm high as he counted off their fast side-by-side twizzle steps, "One – two – three – four! You're off!"

Then he cut a diagonal line across the rink, varying his footwork and making it up as he went, forcing John to watch carefully. Getting it right wasn't the point anyway, though John fumbled through half of it.

He gave John a bit of straight line skating to catch his breath. John glided in smooth steps alongside him.

"You know that was impossible without a Vulcan mind meld, right?" John said, hands on his hips.

"Vulcan mind meld? You just blew about ten thousand cool points with that," Rodney answered.

"I have plenty to spare," John said, then followed Rodney as he prepped and tipped into their usual side by side camel spins.

As Rodney counted out loud on each turn, he had to admit that John was on the beat and he was the one going too fast.

"Okay, you've got that. Now some basic gestures."

He rolled his arms in a circle like a train as he stroked for some speed, watching John follow this easy one, then snapped his fingers, rocked his shoulders and turned to face the other way with a wally jump, John right behind him. Then Rodney drew his elbow back like he was drawing a bow, the other arm forward in a slicing gesture. He extended his skate like a karate kick and John followed. John straightened his leg a little more and cocked his elbow back further with a flickering glance at Rodney to check his position. They held it for a quarter of the rink.

Rodney let him drop the extension. "Now for something hard." Rodney snickered, because that last one hadn't exactly been simple.

John nodded. He knew this one. They separated and skated in opposite directions, completing two sides of a wide figure eight. As they met in the middle, John was grinning. They grabbed each other's hands and jerked into a spin as they squatted down, their outside skates angled up off the ice. This was faster than they usually did that maneuver. Gritting his teeth, John pulled in closer -- too close. There was a click as his skate nicked Rodney's and they collided. "Shit!" Rodney let go and sprawled out, skidding on his shoulder.

John laughed up at the ceiling as he lay flat on his back on the ice. "That one's hard on the knees," he explained as he rolled up, reaching over to help Rodney to his feet.

Rodney stayed where he was. "Ow. Never mind, I retire." Then he sat up. "And don't you have drugs for that?"

"I don't take them before I skate." In several quick pushes John skated to the edge of the rink. He tipped back the water bottle and wiped his mouth.

Rodney blinked at him. "You're insane," he concluded. He got up, dusting his ass off. "So. What was your idea?"

John swallowed quickly and beamed. "Teach me how to do a death spiral."

"I rest my case," Rodney said, circling over to him. "Start with the easy stuff, why don't you?"

"Too hard for you?" John said with an insufferable smirk, hands on his hips.

"I've done them," Rodney said, his jaw jutting out.

"Show me then."

"It's not that simple. A death spiral is really a controlled crash -- oh, look at you light up." Rodney rolled his eyes. "You don't need drugs, you're an adrenaline junkie," he spluttered, but John just continued to look interested. "Anyhow, my theory is the death spiral was discovered by accident when someone slid in a pairs spin and their partner just held on for dear life."

"Yeah?"

Rodney heaved a sigh and acquiesced against his better judgement. "Okay. But try to hang on this time."

He gripped John's forearm, just above the wrist. "Come straight at me and grip my wrist in the same—yeah, that's it." He pulled to test the lock of their grip.

He paused, a hand to his mouth, considering. "I don't suppose you have a bike helmet, because your head's going to be very close to the—" John glared at him. "—okay, I learned it before helmets existed and, fortunately, my sister isn't dead or paraplegic, so I can probably manage...."

"Rodney...." John growled.

"All right, fine, fine." He made a brushing gesture.

On the first pass, John yanked Rodney forward, off-balance.

"Well. That was a quarter turn at least."

On the second try, John's skates slid out, turning and slamming him to his knees. Mouth open and blinking, John said in a tight, pained voice, "Maybe knee pads wouldn't be a bad idea."

"You have to trust me and stretch your legs out."

The next try they made it three quarters of a circle, when Rodney suddenly let go, sending John sliding on his butt.

"Sorry, sorry," Rodney said, shaking his wrist. "I thought my arm was going to come out of its socket."

"Let's do it again," John said, determined.

"This really doesn't help your training much...." Rodney began, but caved at another annoyed look from John.

Their fourth pass, John pulled Rodney off his center. But they went two full revolutions, Rodney wobbling behind him before they slid to a stop.

"It's no use," Rodney said. "Your mass is too close to mine."

"No, keep trying. We'll get it right."

"It's not a matter of 'getting it right' -- it's a sheer impossibility."

"You mean you don't have the upper body strength," John sneered.

"Considering the angle of declination, the circumference of your swing resulting from the fact that you're taller than me, not to mention the added Gs from centrifugal forces, no, as a matter of fact, I do not," Rodney said. He snowplowed to a stop, making two fists with his hands. "Look. We can circle each other like two stars in a binary system but you can't circle me as a central point, not unless, well," he sniggered, "you lose an awful lot of weight."

"How much weight?"

"Thirty, forty pounds, give or take," Rodney offered brightly, head tipped in a cheerful smirk.

John rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, anorexia's not really my thing."

They took a break, leaning on the boards. Rodney handed John's water bottle back to him.

"You seem to be getting into this pairs skating."

John smiled, shifting his hips and squirming a little as he shook his head. "It's easier when no one else is around."

He dug around in his backpack, pulling out a bottle of juice. He tossed it and caught in one hand, then drew out a sleeve of plastic cups. He quirked a questioning eyebrow at Rodney, who smiled and shrugged his answer.

As he poured, Rodney gave him an ironic smirk then clinked the edge of John's cup in a mock toast. He chuckled. "It's like a party."

"I like parties," John said.

"I highly doubt that." Rodney snorted.

"What?"

"Well, you're not the most sociable person I've ever met."

"I'm very friendly and sociable. I got all A's in fourth grade civics class. Besides--" He tapped Rodney's plastic cup with his own and gave him an ironic smile. "--your kind of party's sort of low key."

John tossed his back in one long swallow. He breathed and jumped to chuck his cup at a trash can by the back row. It tipped the edge then went in. "What about lifts? You think you can do one?"

Rodney snorted. "I used to be a pairs skater, of course I can do lots of -- oh." Rodney paused as he got it, long eye lashes fluttering in surprise. Then he scowled. "Do I look like I enjoy lifts? Why do I always have to do everything? Why can't you lift me?"

The look John gave him was doubtful.

"Okay, fine," Rodney snapped. "What do you weigh anyhow? 180... 190 pounds?"

"Um. 168." John blushed, looking down at his skates.

"No chance do you weigh—"

"Are you going to argue with my bathroom scale?"

"Really?" Rodney marveled. "You've got a head start on that anorexia -- you're a twig." He tossed his own cup at the garbage can and pretended to ignore it as it bounced off the edge and hit the floor, rolling in a little circle. "Hmm. I think I can do that. My sister weighed 130."

"130 pounds?" John's eyebrows raised.

"The other reason I gave up pairs."

Rodney pushed off from the wall.

"I need you to bounce in place, make yourself weightless."

"Like in the jumps." John nodded.

Of course John understood. "Exactly like that."

Rodney's hands clamped on his hips, narrow and solid, his eyes half-lidded with a pleased little smile. John licked his lips unconsciously. He wiped the sweat off his palms on his thighs.

John then leapt up, one leg ending up wrapped around Rodney's waist as he clung, his chest hard and warm, chin over his shoulder, clutching the back of Rodney's shirt. Rodney wobbled backward.

"I feel like you're gonna fall."

"I won't fall. Trust me," Rodney said with supreme confidence. "Just bounce straight up, like a jump."

John slid down Rodney's chest, his belt catching on Rodney's buttons.

"Need a little more height," John commented.

He skated back two steps this time. He jumped up into Rodney's hands, light for a moment. Then he was suddenly too heavy, too low, pulling Rodney forward. "Oh my god, you're heavy!" He slid off while Rodney caught himself with a wild corrective sweep of his arm.

"Again," Rodney said, tapping his chest to indicate where John needed to jump. "I need you up here for me to hold you -- any lower and we're going down."

John grunted and jumped, higher this time, his thighs and balls pressed against Rodney's chest, right in the sternum—and Rodney had him. Grinning, his teeth bared, arms bracketed under his round ass. They curved in a slight spin from the centrifugal force. Rodney held him as long as he could. John held his back straight without overbalancing, perfect, his eyes darkening as he looked down at Rodney's face with an unreadable expression.

Rodney looked up at him, breath short, not entirely from the effort, then he let John slide down his body, his gaze steady and still on Rodney. John gave him a slow smile, eyes sharp and glittering.

John did three spiraling steps away, marking out the rink, fast and alive. He popped up into a flying kick, taking it down to a fierce spin, before he came back around, carving the ice left in a fast glide.

Rodney just watched him, wondering if he was letting his own feelings color his judgement, or if he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing in the sudden intensity of John's skating. There was a sharpness to the edges, and fire to his movements, like a weapon that had just been drawn – quick, clean, and dangerous. He was different than anything Rodney had seen. He reminded Rodney not of a dancer, but of a kung-fu fighter.

John returned, cutting an edge at frightening speed, stopping so close Rodney had to force himself not to flinch.

Rodney said softly, his eyes speculative, "Do that again."

"Do what again?"

"What you just did."

John's face went blank. "I don't know what I just did."

Rodney rattled off the list of moves he could remember, counting them on his fingers. "Three twizzle steps, crossovers, a butterfly into a death drop, then complete the circuit."

John's forehead crinkled into a frown. "Okay...." he said, drawing the word out in confusion. He repeated the moves one by one.

But it was gone. Whatever that intangible quality was, it had vanished. Rodney tapped his lips, thinking.

~*~*~

It was daylight when Rodney yawned and stretched, then flung the tangle of blankets to the foot of the bed. He kicked aside the jeans he'd dropped on the floor last night into a pile of laundry he needed to do at some point, then clicked off the electric blanket. He grabbed his favorite bathrobe hanging on the doorknob. Stepping over boxes, clothes, a skate sharpener, and a pile of magazines that had been knocked over in a sprawl across the floor, Rodney made his way to the window to peer through the curtains.

Frost rimmed the grass, but in the dirt beneath his window the green buds of crocuses had begun to appear. That had always meant just one thing. The World Championships were soon. Rodney rubbed his hands together.

Since he and John had practiced so late, they'd decided to cancel his morning session. Rodney could sleep in for a change. He wondered that he of all people would choose a profession with six-day weeks, where "seven a.m." equaled "sleeping in." But it was still, hmm, pleasant, having a morning to himself.

Slipping on a loose magazine, he cleared the mess and stepped over to the clear path from the bed to the doorway, then to the bathroom. He decided on a bath instead of a shower.

Once he had the water running (he tipped a little scented cube into the tub), Rodney crossed through the living room to the kitchen, the TV flickering blue with the sound off from the night before. He'd sat up late, cracking peanut shells, worrying about the "Sheppard problem" and how to bring that performance back. He was no closer to a solution, though he'd finished the peanuts, the flakes of shell scattered across the coffee table.

Teapot on the burner, he tied his bathrobe and went to get the newspaper. The morning was colder than it looked. The mist of Rodney's breath caught in the breeze.

On the front doorstep, on top of the newspaper, was a round quart of cider. With a little paper party hat perched on top. It took Rodney a moment to get the reference to John's "low key party," and then he smiled, wondering when John had dropped it off.

Snickering, Rodney brought it inside. He turned off the teapot, carrying the cider and mug to the bathtub, putting the little hat on his forehead as he snuggled into the steaming water with a happy little hum.

~*~*~

Rodney waggled his fingers at his crew of four teenagers as they finished their lesson, the three girls chattering with each other as they pulled winter coats over their skating dresses. Girls looked so delicate on the ice and then the moment they touched dry land, they moved like jocks. The one lone guy had his hand on his girlfriend's shoulder, following her off the ice. Rodney had yet to figure out if he was just doing this for his girlfriend or using her as an excuse to figure skate. He was unexpectedly good.

His wiry black curly hair was visible over the edge of the boards as he left with the girls, head balanced and straight, posture perfect. Either figure skating or past dance lessons, Rodney decided. He'd know when he finally met the kid's mom. Figure skating moms were a breed apart and could not to be confused with the dance divas. With a name like "Aiden," Rodney's money was on the ex-dancer mom.

With strong smooth strokes, Rodney carved a circle through the center of the empty rink. This was one place he'd always felt secure, sure of himself. The girls all told him he looked beautiful out here. His sister envied him. Rodney smiled in satisfaction, threw his fists out in a dramatic gesture, and tossed in some footwork.

It was the quiet part of the afternoon. Too late for the lunchtime skaters with boring day jobs, too early for the younger kids, whose schools let out hours after the high schools. Rodney's blades hissed along the ice at a break in the music.

The "Music of the Night" came on, and Rodney shook his head. John had a point about them overdoing the Phantom of the Opera this week. At least it wasn't Streisand. She had a wonderful voice, but her singing was all about her -- Rodney tipped into an extension, letting his leg circle down -- and she was always just ever-so-slightly behind the beat. You couldn't grandstand when you were being upstaged by your own music. That's why it was a mistake to skate to the Star-spangled Banner.

Rodney took a quick glance around. No one was there, so he put a little more energy into his skate. He swung his leg around in a pendulum turn, building speed three-hundred and sixty degrees, head high, then stomped the ice, using the momentum to land a double salchow with a grunt, his leg swept out behind him.

Bent with both hands on his knees, Rodney caught his breath.

"You know," said a familiar voice, "if you'd spend a little less energy on your form and more on just getting into the air...."

John sat perched on the edge of the boards, swinging his skates and munching from a bag of popcorn.

"I didn't see you." Rodney blinked.

"I know that."

"I, ah, don't have any lessons right now." Rodney pointed vaguely in the direction of the doors. "Cancellation."

"I know that, too."

"How long have you been there?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" John hopped down onto the ice and slid over. "Though I think that black kid's full of shit. He's definitely taken figure skating before." He held out the popcorn.

"You're not supposed to eat on the ice," Rodney told him half-heartedly, taking a handful.

"Yeah. Popcorn's the worst, too," John agreed, digging into the bag. "One kernel can flatten you. Let's scatter it before the hockey team gets here."

"No practice scheduled today," Rodney was forced to point out.

"Foiled again." John smirked. He shook the bag. "Waste of good popcorn anyway."

"We can do a lot of toe-pick assisted jumps," Rodney suggested. "Same effect. Less wasteful of valuable resources." He scooped up another handful of popcorn.

"Now you're talking." John bobbed his head in satisfaction. "I can see why they call you a genius. Though I'd have to add 'evil' to that."

Rodney snickered into the back of his hand. "There are a few stories about me."

"All lies and exaggerations no doubt," John said.

"They can't prove a thing." Rodney beamed. "So, what are you doing here? Other than plotting the demise of hockey players, that is."

"I thought we covered that."

Rodney frowned in confusion, mentally rewinding their conversation and finding no clues. "No...."

"I wanted to hear the Phantom of the Opera again," John non-explained, with a slow smile. He skated back towards the boards, sliding side to side like a skier.

"Do you want more training time?" Rodney asked, mystified.

"I've been crowding into your schedule a lot lately."

"I can ask upstairs if they'll let you step on," Rodney suggested.

"Nah. I think I'll wait to wear out their welcome when an actual competition's on the line." John folded his arms behind his head. Then added with a wave like an afterthought, "As you were."

"Skating?"

"That's what it looked like. Thought I'd catch the live show." He held up the nearly empty bag and shook it. "I even brought the popcorn."

Rodney warmed to the idea, chest out and preening. "Any requests?"

John leaned forward with a smile, an elbow on his knee. "Well, I'm rather partial to that Worlds program...."

"The Rimsky-Korsakov?"

John sat back with a rich sigh. "Yeah. That's the one."

~*~*~

February, 1986

Rodney's hair was sweat-soaked, longish dark brown curls falling in his face as he stepped away from the Kiss-and-Cry. He raised a victorious hand to his fans, raising a shriek from the stands. Even at the Olympics only the really dedicated ones came to the compulsories. His coach lumbered behind him, a protective hand on Rodney's shoulder.

The predictable gantlet of reporters and cameras lay in wait for him on the way to the showers, the flashbulbs flickering as microphones extended in his direction. Rodney was still out of breath as the press peppered him with questions, bright lights shining in his face.

"Great work, Rodney," said a Canadian reporter with a Quebec accent. "All of Canada is cheering for you."

Rodney heaved a sigh, trying to catch his wind, beaming. "Thank you. I noticed." He waved again, raising another cheer, and grinned.

"Rodney," asked the tall gray-haired reporter from the British newspapers. "To what do you attribute your successful performance today?"

"A happy sex life," Rodney joked, and the reporters all chuckled. "No, no, just kidding -- discipline is the essence of the compulsories, though there was never any question that I'd do well here. They're more or less just a warm-up for me. But a lot of these new skaters don't have the basics down, and then come crying that we should get rid of the compulsories just because they don't know how to skate." He threw up his hands. "It's pathetic."

A gruff voice from the back with a heavy Germanic accent said, "What do you think of the East German threat?"

"Who? 'Hans and Franz,' the steroid twins?" Rodney snorted. The American reporter sniggered at the Saturday Night Live reference. "Oh, I'll admit they have some pretty impressive jumps, but that's not what skating is all about. In fact, it would be a tragedy for figure skating if they won. The real measure of a figure skater is: Artistic. Skill," Rodney said, emphasizing each word with a little bird-like okay sign. He smirked.

"What about the Russian team? They're known for their artistic presentation marks," said another, Rodney couldn't tell who, blinking at the lights.

"Well, they're very... traditional, aren't they? You can see the same moves in their ballet, and let's be honest: was Barishnikov any good before he defected? Not even." Rodney made a little brushing motion. "The soviet system crushes free will, and, in the process, any shadow of creativity."

Rodney's coach cut in, earning a glare from Rodney. "Rodney's always been a very confident skater." His grizzled head leaned down towards the microphones. "A confidence that shows on the ice with his World Championship record." He held up a hand. "No, no further questions today. Thank you." They edged between the cables and press of people and passed security, which held back the public.

As he dragged Rodney away from the cameras and down the long hallway towards the showers, his coach hissed, "Steroid twins?"

"What?" Rodney tittered. "Have you seen those two?"

"Do we need to have another talk about sportsmanship?" said his coach, his voice stern and belabored.

"Oh, please, if they can't take a little friendly competition they shouldn't be competing at this level. Though it's good you cut in when you did--"

"Yes."

"--I mean, I was having trouble ignoring the questions from the French reporter. That article she ran about me? Was positively catty." Rodney sniffed. "I am not 'pampered,' though if I were, I'd deserve it." He made a sweeping gesture back towards the ice. "I work hard out there!"

~*~*~

February, 1999

It was nearly nightfall when John pulled up to the curb by Rodney's place, the old Chevy rumbling. With a happy breath, Rodney stepped out, holding the passenger side door open with his hip. He swung his gym bag over one shoulder, moving with a cheerful bounce as he looked up at the sky.

"End of the line," Rodney beamed.

John dipped his head, leaning on one arm over the passenger seat, the other hand still on the steering wheel. "See you in the morning?"

"Four-thirty a.m." Rodney sighed in disappointment, adjusting his jacket with a tug. "It was nice sleeping in...."

John tilted his head in a sideways nod, lips pursed. "I can do tomorrow afternoon if you like."

"Oh!" Rodney snapped his fingers. "Then you can drive me home tomorrow too, perfect."

John gave him a funny look. He didn't recall volunteering his entire day. But Rodney had already shut the door so it was too late to complain.

A skip in his step, Rodney hopped up the short stair to his porch and looked back once he had the door open, chin tipped up with a smile. He gave a little wave. Those jeans were tight, and John wondered just when he'd switched from the sloppy pants he used to wear. John squinted and ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, thinking back. Their trip to the mall. And no more practices with dirty hair any more, either.

John reached over to turn on the heat. It gave a useless click, and he punched the dash. Forgot again.

The long rectangular windows to either side of Rodney's front door had lit up, and John could see the indistinct shadow shape of Rodney moving around in his living room. Then the overhead went on in the kitchen, lighting up the two big picture windows.

The kitchen was even more of a disaster zone than John remembered, every inch of counter space filled with dishes and boxes. He snorted to himself.

Rodney went to the sink and washed his hands, his back to John, then turned to stretch for the paper towels. His elbow clipped a bowl, knocking it off.

There was a pause as Rodney looked at it. Then, still wiping his hands on a paper towel, he crossed in front of the windows to the far right and opened a door -- ah. That's where the pantry was, okay. John made a mental note. He liked to get the lay of the land. Rodney returned with a broom and dustpan. This would be a good chance to sweep the entire... nope, Rodney just cleaned up the bowl and put the broom away. John shook his head. No wonder his place was a wreck.

The open refrigerator door now blocked the view of all but Rodney's ass, not that that was a bad thing, and then he hefted out... of course. The vat of spaghetti sauce.

Rodney rolled up his sleeves, revealing nice arms, something John never got a chance to see. He tugged at the base of a pile of dishes. The dishes slumped and collapsed deeper in the sink, but Rodney appeared to be pretty good at the tricky maneuver (John approved) as he unearthed a large pot, which he rinsed, filled with water, and put on to boil.

He dusted off his hands in satisfaction, wiping them on his thighs.

All of the sudden John felt like some kind of creepy stalker guy, and put the car in gear. This was going a bit beyond just watching Rodney in a video. As he left, he caught a glimpse of Rodney leaning to peer out the window with a bemused expression.

He drove away fast enough that he didn't see Rodney come to the porch to wave him in.

~*~*~

The sky was a darkening gray when John parked about a block from the beach, locking up in front of someone's house. He tucked his hands in his jacket pockets, head down against the breeze, the sound of water in his ears already; softer than the ocean, louder than a normal lake.

As he broke from under the tree cover the full force of the wind from across Lake Ontario hit him, rippling his dark blue coat, the clouds low and scalloped, some darker, oozing across the sky faster than the ones above them. Seagulls dipped in and out of waters too active and too deep to freeze.

John blinked against the wind, his nose red, eyes watery. The tips of his ears were pink and his messy hair was blown about chaotically.

It was cold but the wind helped to clear his head.

John dislodged a smooth flat stone from the dirt and tossed it into the soft wash of waves tearing away at the sand. The beach was frozen hard as concrete, littered with twigs and the flotsam of plastic bottles. They'd clean it up in the summer. The combination of snow and sand crunched underfoot.

Lake Ontario reminded John of Lake Michigan back home, only rougher and colder, more forbidding. More unfair.

To keep warm, John skipped into a jog down the dry hardpack. He picked up the pace, breaking into a run, a dark figure scattering a cloud of white and gray seagulls.

He hit the end of this section of beach at the lee of a rock pile, gasping, his lungs aching from the cold air. He took a moment to bask in the relative warmth out of the wind. Then he climbed the rocks and concrete block that reached out and down into the water. He edged towards low waves licking up onto the rocks, stepping over pockets of ice. He got as close to the water as he could, right up to where the rock surface started to become slippery and damp.

A cement block rocked under him, pitching him forward. John's arms swung. He stepped and caught himself, braced between two rocks.

"Way to go, John," John growled at himself, pissed off. "Just fall in and freeze to death, why don't you?"

He climbed back up. At the top, the wind buffeted him. John surveyed the beach, chewing his lower lip. Finally able to think.

He always got messed up when he got too close to friends. Granted, that covered pretty much all of his relationships, and the main problem was usually his skating -- but Rodney was still a bad idea. John picked up a handful of loose pebbles, and chucked one at the water. It skipped once into the waves.

And he wasn't a scary stalker guy, no matter what an ex said. He'd just wanted to see the guy without having to deal with his bullshit, and so parked outside the restaurant where he worked to watch him through the window, chin leaned on the steering wheel, trying to decide what to say. Miss you...? Sorry it didn't work out...? He didn't think he'd been there an hour.

Rodney was just a harmless fantasy. It simply needed to... not go beyond that.

So. Okay. Rodney was fun, reasonably attractive, and had a really nice ass (though almost every skater did). John tossed another rock, this one too light to skip.

And Rodney got to him with that wide quirky smile. He tried John's patience but he was as brilliant as he said he was. But he was still an unmannered child, like no one had ever bothered to tell Rodney no -- and hell if it wasn't cute.

John's breath deepened and shook. He scattered the rest of the rocks. He was screwed if what was supposed to switch him off turned him on instead.

He needed to cool it.

It had just... been a long time. This was partially Rodney's fault, too. He very obviously checked John out, flirted with him all the time, and John wasn't made of stone. Those lifts had been a bad idea. A really bad idea.

John nodded to himself. Yes. He needed to have it out with Rodney. Unless Rodney could produce a legitimate reason for the pairs skating -- and John was willing to bet that he couldn't -- it had to stop.

~*~*~

Rodney stood at center ice, hands on his hips, wondering what on earth was keeping John. Usually he couldn't wait to get on the ice but this time he'd dithered over his gym bag, head ducked down, delaying with his skates, plucking at the laces and retying them.

Rodney checked his watch with an audible – and loud – huff. He tipped his head, the wide line of his mouth dropping in a frown as he folded his arms, glaring across the ice to where John was apparently killing time.

John had mentioned over the phone that he had something to discuss. But when they'd met at the front reception desk after Rodney's last lesson, John had brushed him off saying, "It's cool."

John's eventual step onto the ice was slow, gradual, one leg swinging as he approached. He skated forward, hands on his hips, as he looked towards the ceiling. He took a deep breath.

"Um. Look, Rodney...." He swiped at his mouth nervously, scratching at the corner of his lip.

"Mmm?" Rodney blinked up.

The sound of the group of children reminded Rodney of the zoo, or a flock of birds in a tree. The double doors to the rink swung open with a clank, banging off the wall, and the noise swelled in decibel level, the giggling, chattering, shouting of little kids. Two of them ran ahead down the stair with peals of delighted laughter. "You're mean!" one small voice shrieked.

Rodney and John pivoted to watch the row of colorful yarn pom-poms on various winter hats bounce as a handful of children raced around, chasing each other, while others hung back, holding their teachers' hands as they walked down the too-high steps. They were herded into putting on their skates, the slowest rocking on the seats while the more aggressive tumbled onto the ice, skates on in no time, small legs working.

Wonderful. The grammar schools had let out.

Rodney made a wry face and wished for earplugs. This was the problem with his afternoon sessions. He was going to get nothing serious done today.

"You were saying?" Rodney prompted.

"Never mind," John mumbled, watching the kids.

So they kept to basics, running through aspects of choreography in John's programs from last year that John had never felt comfortable with. He was awkward and more wooden than usual, not meeting Rodney's eyes, though he played along. They were both on edge, standing close, voices rising to be heard over bright shrill laughter.

"That whole thing where I push my hips forward just seems too...."

"Blatant?" Rodney supplied, adding a helpful, "Lewd, perhaps?"

"Yeah...."

"Ah. That is what's known in the wild as 'terribulus choreographus,'" Rodney said sagely. "The move's been dead since the 70s -- which I suspect was the likely age of your choreographer."

They worked out an alternate rendition where John swung his hip to the left, punching his fist down as he did so. Which was anachronous and had been out of style since the 50s but at least it had a kitsch Fonzie appeal. Then Rodney set John to work on spins, which would keep him in form for his jumps while those were still off limits.

Fortunately, after only half an hour – there was some benefit to short attention spans – the munchkin herd was gathered towards the side of the rink again and rustled out of their skates, high voices complaining. One kid skated all around the rink, and the teacher shouted after him. The kid pretended not to hear.

The silence once they left almost rang. John finished a picture perfect scratch spin, skating over to Rodney, breathing hard, and offered, "Let's take a break. We need to talk." He winced as he said it.

Oh. Those were never good words, even without the wince. Rodney's eyelashes fluttered as his bright eyes darted about, glancing at the ice, the walls, at John. This wasn't something that he could discuss at the front desk?

His mind started spinning through possibilities. A relative had died and John was going to miss precious days of training? Was he going to push to do the jumps again? Question Rodney's authority?

The skating skills class wasn't slated to begin until two-thirty, but two girls arrived early, stepping onto the ice with an earnestness that came from an impending test. Rodney glanced over, automatically studying them as they began to repeat step sequences and basic crossovers -- their edges were weak, though the darker girl in warm ups had good power to her stroking. Waste of a test fee. Neither would be ready by Friday, Rodney deemed, though it was lucky for them he wasn't slated to judge it.

John and Rodney finished their break in silence. John capped his water bottle.

The rest of the class arrived, murmuring amongst themselves. Rodney saw why the two thought they were ready to test: they were significantly better than the rest of their group.

John circled back onto the ice, shifty-eyed and impatient.

They'd gone almost the entire session without hearing his mysterious pronouncement, and curiosity was starting to eat Rodney alive.

He couldn't afford Rodney any more? No, absurd; Rodney had deferred a lot of his fees.

Oh. Worse -- he'd found a job and would have to cut back on his skate time. He risked losing himself in a "career." Rodney had seen it a thousand times. The "career" always started small but then it "needed" his skaters, until figure skating became the hobby and this "career" their lives.

Or else he was giving up competing? He'd decided to turn pro and was taking all Rodney's clients based on looks alone? That would explain the guilty cringe.

Or maybe he'd had an MRI and the damage to his knee was irreparable. No, no, couldn't be, or John wouldn't be skating now.

Or. It hit him.

He was going to be fired.

A dismal look crossed Rodney's face as he realized it. He hated getting fired. But they hadn't made much progress; it was true. Rodney knew that. He'd had to experiment, feel his way. Teaching John to skate artistically was hardly scientific, required more than just tossing John into a dance class. It was a process of discovery, of unveiling something as unique to John as his personality. John knew how to skate already. He just didn't know who he was as a skater.

Now all that time and dedication was doomed to go down the drain, his efforts soon to be spoiled by some incompetent who'd placed 20th at Nationals -- once -- and thought she'd been treated "unfairly" by the judges, poor baby. He'd put more into John than any other student.

"Rodney...."

The rink was empty.

John had a serious expression on his face, his mouth in a tight straight line.

"Oh, no, no, you can't fire me!" Rodney said, cutting him off at the pass. "And if you do, trust me, I'll charge you for every millisecond of my wasted time." He swept his arm in a circle. "Both on and off the ice -- with interest!"

"Rodney--"

"Compounded retroactively!"

"Rodney, look...." John put out a conciliatory hand.

"You think I can't do that, but I can, because it's in the contract you probably never read, since the type of moron who hires a coach that they can't possibly afford never, ever reads the contract!"

John grabbed him by the lapels. "Rodney, shut up for a second."

Rodney staggered forward, weight lifted off his skates, his shirt sliding up his neck.

His heart fluttered. A skater had never been violent with him before. John was deranged. Rodney could see the headlines now: "Skating Legend Dies On Ice." He should have asked Sonja to write his eulogy; Radek would be too honest.

For a moment he hung there, panicked. And then John pulled him in and he felt John's lips on him, warm and devouring, tugging at his lower lip until Rodney unfroze, realized what was happening. Rodney stopped blinking and let his eyes close, tipped his head sideways, and held on to John's shoulders for dear life, soft and warm through his fleece, as the two of them turned lightly from centrifugal force.

With a shuddering breath, John let go. They pulled apart.

"That," John said, as if it were an explanation. Which it sort of was.

"So... not fired," Rodney said, his mind blank. He took John in, from his skates to the defensive set of his shoulders to the wary flicker in his eyes. How long had this been going on?

"Not today," John answered, his voice rough.

"Oh. Good."

They stared at each other, breathing hard. John had an intense look on his face, almost glaring, his lips parted.

John moved first, raising his arm to slowly wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Rodney's heart thumped as he followed the gesture, melting forward. Then without explanation, John turned and broke for the edge of the rink, Rodney hard on his heels, hoping John wasn't going to run -- because he was his ride home tonight, for one thing. They unlaced their skates in silence, side by side, Rodney just barely able to keep up, glancing over furtively at John, who kept his eyes firmly on the far wall when he wasn't looking down at his skates. Then, slinging his gym bag on one shoulder, John took the steps out of the rink two at a time, Rodney close behind him.

They'd both neglected to put their coats on before they stepped outside despite the fact that it was below freezing, an addled moment that gave Rodney a surge of nervous hope. They blew on their hands as John unlocked his car door and cast a sharp look around the empty parking lot like he was doing recon. Rodney recognized his intent then with wide eyes. Sure enough, he reached for Rodney as they climbed in and they tumbled into the back seat.

John's hands slid up the inside of Rodney's shirt, kissing again, wet and sloppy, John tipping Rodney down against vinyl that was cold on his lower back, rolling them over. Rodney wanted to get as many of John's clothes off as possible before he came to his senses, frustrated as he dug under a fleece top and found yet another layer. John's thigh slid between Rodney's knees as they squirmed for a better position and Rodney tugged at John's belt buckle, trying to undo it. John braced himself up on one arm just next to Rodney's shoulder to give him room – Rodney lost precious seconds, captured by the sensual line of John's lower lip – and John's palm caught a fold of his shirt, pinning him uncomfortably. Then John tried to stretch out his long legs, his heel bumping the window as Rodney struggled to sit up, elbow scraping the headrest – and suddenly the back seat was very small, he was squished, and it was too hot with John's breath panting between them.

They paused, staring at each other and around at the back seat. There were bottle caps and a newspaper on the floor. The window above Rodney was already steamed over.

"My place is closer," Rodney suggested, chest rising and falling, blinking.

John lifted up on both arms now, looking down at Rodney. "My place is cleaner." Rodney slumped and gave the idiot an amazed look. "Right. Low priority."

John climbed between the two front seats, his belt still undone and jangling as he started the car. Rodney took a moment to yank his shirt back down and pull up his zipper, then scrabbled into the front seat. He braced himself on the dash and narrowly missed committing seppuku via stick shift as they lurched forward.

Rolling into Rodney's driveway, they left John's car unlocked. Rodney seized John's hand and tugged him into the house, drawing him into a kiss just inside the foyer. With a little moan, he mapped the warm press of John's chest and mentally revised every single last one of his fantasies as inaccurate. John kissed soft and eager, not at all rough. And he hadn't considered body heat, the humid pant of John kissing down the back of his neck, or the way John was a little taller and how his cock fit in the hollow of Rodney's hip. The glass storm door hissed to a close behind them, and Rodney's last doubt evaporated at that dainty click. Swinging the front door and hoping that maybe it had shut all the way, Rodney led John through the mess of the living room, John's hand on his waist, the heat of him just over Rodney's shoulder.

"This way," Rodney whispered.

"I know where it is," John murmured, leaning in close. "Getting there on the other hand...."

John's hand slid along his back once they reached the bedroom, turning Rodney. Kissing him again soft, with wet sounds, a huff of a sigh in his ear. John rubbed his cheek against Rodney's, the sweet scratch of five o'clock shadow, and he pulled Rodney's shirt up and off, looking down his chest avidly. John grabbed the collar of his own shirt, struggling out of it. His tee-shirt quickly followed, flung to the floor. Rodney whimpered, looking down more chest hair than expected to a dark teasing trail that led into his belt line. John gave him a raunchy grin.

The bed wasn't made, which made it easy for Rodney to kick the covers halfway off when they fell onto it with a gasp, John over him, cupped between his knees, and while there was much to be said for John's stretch fleece, the softness and the way it outlined his hard cock, with a little huff and squirm Rodney pulled it over the curve of John's ass.

John rocked forward, arms scooped under Rodney's shoulders as he lifted and slid him further up onto the bed which squeaked under them. "There you go," he said as he nuzzled into Rodney's ear. Rodney's hands met wide smooth elastic at John's waist and stroked down his bare ass.

"Have I ever told you how much I love dance belts?" Rodney hummed, peeling the elastic down. On his knees, John stepped over it, jostling the bed, then sat back on his heels and gave a sharp tug on Rodney's pants, jerking them once to his thighs and then off easily.

"Going commando, Rodney?" John's smile was sly, looking him over. Rodney felt suddenly vulnerable, naked, heels off the bed, with his dick hard and red against his stomach.

"I need to do laundry."

John leaned over him on his arms and bent down to kiss him again, settling between Rodney's thighs, his mouth open wide, exploring now. Rodney stretched up to meet him. His cock pressed rhythmically on Rodney's balls, silk-sleek, while Rodney greedily stroked all over his body, down his arms, across his back, then up again to hold John's head as he kissed, arching to press their cocks together with a gasp as he reached down to grip a handful of John's round ass.

With a sudden shaky breath of reaction, John deepened their kiss, and his tongue took up the rhythm of their motion as they rocked together. John tipped them sideways, a hand gliding down Rodney's hip. He paused meaningfully, asking. His thumb stroked a little circle on Rodney's hipbone.

Rodney's heart sped.

Seeming to read the "yes" in his silence, John bit Rodney's shoulder, a sharp pleasant sting as Rodney allowed himself be rolled onto his stomach in the soft sift of sheets, John's hand sliding down the crack of his ass. Pinned under John's weight, Rodney made a hum and helplessly pawed towards the end table drawer. John got the message, sliding over to dig around for the lube.

"It's over--" Rodney murmured.

"Got it, got it," John insisted. "Just a sec."

And he kept digging, shifting papers and clutter loudly, with a growing frown and what looked suspiciously like a pout. With a complaining huff of a sigh – wondering, did he have to do everything? – Rodney got up to help, found it easily, and handed him the lube and condoms with a graceful gesture and a sarcastic smirk.

"Better?"

Squirming his shoulders, John said, squinting and discomfited, "Thanks."

Rodney pillowed his chin on his arms and edged his hips into the sheets with a happy little sound, feeling the soft-slick trickle of oil. He sighed as John began to work his fingers in. Then John let go and rose up to slide his cock along the wet trail, teasing him. Rodney's hands fisted the pillow, John's hot gasp raising the short hairs on the back of his neck. John kneeled over Rodney, his warm body bracketing him. His palm dented the pillow next to Rodney's chin as he brushed his cheek through Rodney's hair and his fingers stroked in and out slowly. Rodney exhaled, letting him in.

Then Rodney blinked, startled. "This won't undermine my authority, will it?"

John's puff of laughter blew a strand of Rodney's hair.

"Yes, Rodney." He pressed his cock against Rodney's hip and leaned down to growl in his ear, "I fully intend to think of this moment every time you're an asshole."

Rodney's long lashes fluttered as he thought this over. "Okay," he sighed musically. "Just so we have clear..." He moaned as John's fingers drove in deeper. "...boundaries."

"Yeah, right. Boundaries," John echoed, his cock slick and sliding warm across his thigh as he moved behind Rodney. He bent down and nibbled both cheeks of Rodney's ass before he lined himself up. He had the head snubbed up against him, dipping just a little inside. "Ready?"

"For over a month now," Rodney confessed into his arms.

John's answer was a sultry, inarticulate moan as he sank in on a long, slow push. His chest hair was damp against Rodney's back. He slid back out an inch and grit his teeth on a breath just over Rodney's shoulder. Rodney arched his hips back against him as he squeezed back in.

John's groan was louder this time, more enthusiastic.

Rodney smiled. John was used to lazy, passive bottoms, was he? Rodney smirked and licked his lips devilishly. He lifted up on his elbows for more leverage as John started to give it to him hard, his strong arm gripped around Rodney's chest. Someone was going to learn a thing or two.

~*~*~

The light through Rodney's curtains had shifted from the bright stare of mid-afternoon to angle from somewhere behind the house, soft and indistinct. John had taken up residence on Rodney's spare pillow, still awake, breathing quietly as his hand explored down Rodney's bicep, sliding to find and trace the square of his palm. He trailed his hand down Rodney's side over the slight bump of love handles that made Rodney twitch.

Rodney wasn't sure if he could touch, a hesitation he couldn't explain, though he watched John, his whole body humming. John had a habit of folding his lower lip over his teeth and licking along the inside which he was doing now, eyes half-lidded. His hand slipped lower, reaching around to cup one of Rodney's better assets, and squeezed his ass with an appreciative sigh.

He sat up, kneeling, drawing Rodney up with him, the sheets whispering as he nudged Rodney on top and Rodney found himself straddling John's thighs, John's lips against his in small, teasing kisses.

Rodney whispered between kisses, in a voice like a confession, "I want you to keep doing what you're doing." They kissed again, Rodney's forearm sliding over John's back. "Really, hey, don't let me stop you." He leaned down for more kissing, John's tongue a gentle sweep inside before pulling back. "But let me be the first to admit that this is, um--" Rodney ducked his head, running his hand down John's arm. "--nothing less than foolhardy. Not to mention, ah--" his eyelashes fluttered as John took this opportunity to kiss and nibble down his neck. Rodney really, really liked that. "--staggeringly unprofessional on my part."

"Oh, I think you're a pro," John murmured, the laugh rumbling in his throat.

"Cute." Rodney gave him a sour look. "I'm sure someone is holding up the 'Applause' sign as we speak. And, yes, all right, your bedroom charms have more than measured up to my fantasies but that's not the subject at hand."

"Bedroom charms?" He could feel John's smile against the curve of his shoulder.

Rodney rolled his eyes in frustration. "You have the attention span of a gnat."

John took a deep luxurious breath. "Can we not talk about this now? I'm kind of busy." His hands stroked up Rodney's chest gliding delicately over his nipples.

"I find it impossible to concentrate when you do that."

John quirked an eyebrow at him and his smile was unsurprised. "Oh, really?" There was a smirk to his voice.

"When this ends in disaster I at least want credit for having predicted it."

"Let me handle that," John promised him, dipping Rodney back down to the pillow.

~*~*~

They'd talked about food, but it was a really long walk to the kitchen, and Rodney had made the pleasant discovery that he'd left half a box of saltines in his bedroom. They weren't too stale, so they nibbled those instead, getting crumbs on John's chest and all over the bed. John tried to sweep them off with quick whisking strokes, lifting himself up on his legs and one arm, looking for all the world like a pale, hairy, very male spider, but it was a lost cause.

Lazy as a cat, Rodney rolled onto his side, head tipped to one shoulder. He admired John's long waist, his rough hand draped across a flat stomach and one thigh raised, resting. He was sprawled out bonelessly, propped up on a pillow against the headboard. His already narrow eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, face greasy, and his hair looked like he'd been in a wind storm. Rodney stretched and sighed, probably in no better state.

John plucked a stuffed dingy white unicorn from between the pillows, turning it over in his hands. He prodded its pointy yellow vinyl horn experimentally and said, "This thing nearly took my eye out."

Rodney snatched it away, explaining, "That's valuable."

John dipped his chin and answered him with a raised eyebrow. "Collector's item?" There was a bit of a nervous waver in his voice.

Rodney's shoulder sagged as he rolled his eyes and gave a sarcastic snort. "Yes. I collect dolls and rainbows, and I hide the frightening 'Hello Kitty' collection in the attic like so many tribbles – no, of course not." He licked his lips and cringed, examining the toy. "It was my sister's. She loved this stupid thing."

Reluctantly, he continued with a sigh, waving a hand as if this weren't important. "It's from the Stuttgart Olympics. My family had missed the compulsories, but everyone was there for the final free skate. I mean everyone. Grandma, aunts and uncles, people who'd never watched me skate." He dropped his face to his hands and rubbed his eyes. "You know how well that went."

John winced appreciatively, wrinkling his nose. "I heard."

"Well, my dad even made my sister go, and she'd never forgiven me for being far better without her." He looked up and added hastily on a shaky laugh, blinking earnestly, "I mean, once I cut her loose, I went from 15th place mediocrity in Junior Pairs to stellar performances in Junior Men's, sweeping one title after another. We'd always known who the talented one was," he said with no little smugness.

"Anyhow, at the end of the free skate in Stuttgart everyone clapped and threw flowers and stuffed toys and whatnot, but I knew the truth." He held out the unicorn. "And when I started for the Kiss-and-Cry, feeling, oh, about as miserable as a human being can -- this was out there on the ice. I couldn't find her in the crowd but I recognized it right away.

"I probably looked ridiculous clutching a toy while I waited for them to announce my scores, and certainly I didn't want to talk to anyone afterward, but I was really glad it was there."

John was thoughtful a moment. He shifted, squinting his eyes. "It takes them a long time to read the scores."

"An eon."

~*~*~

February, 1986

The town just outside the Olympic village was small and overbooked, but Radek refused to stay in the same hotel twice, a habit Rodney called "ludicrous and paranoid" while Radek insisted it was simply "a wise precaution."

The Grand Marnier sloshed golden in the bottle as Rodney's enthusiastic smile broadened. He stood on the bed like a veritable Statue of Liberty, except he was Canadian. And in his underwear.

"You have to see Amsterdam while you're here! Other than it being a chance of a lifetime, it's – a what? A tradition. A rite of passage. C'mon," Rodney pounded Radek's shoulder where he sat cross-legged, still dressed, jostling him. "When are we ever going to be here again? Especially you."

Radek brightened cautiously, smiling up at Rodney. He settled his glasses back on his nose with an uneasy twitchy motion and rescued the bottle from Rodney's loose grasp. "I don't know, Rodney."

"Men's skating doesn't even start for another four days, the ski jump qualification's done, there's plenty of time." Rodney licked his lips and bounced down to the bed next to him, eyes bright. "It'll make your life."

~*~*~

The Stuttgart train schedules weren't humanly possible: 10:11 a.m., 10:17 a.m. Rodney shook his head in bemused amazement as one and then the next pulled to a stop at exactly the moment the second hand hit twelve on his watch. 10:11 on the dot. There was definitely something wrong with the Germans.

There were only two more morning express trains to Amsterdam left. Anything later would hit every stop between Stuttgart and Cologne. Lots of castles, yes, but not quite what Rodney had in mind. He huffed and rubbed his hands together in the chilly train station, feeling a sense of rising panic. Radek was just late, that was all. It was tough for him to sneak out.

He stuffed his hands under his armpits and leaned against the ugly concrete wall, bouncing a little. He switched and folded his arms across his chest and felt unaccountably lost. If very 'sophisticated' and 'European' in his trench coat.

The last train, unfortunately but of course, arrived exactly on time. Rodney hung back as he was ignored by commuters with folded newspapers and a young woman with a backpack clutching a pair of knitting needles. She slumped to a seat by the window and set to knitting right away.

Finally, Rodney stood just inside the train doors when they shut and he climbed the steps uncomfortably to look around the nearly empty seats. Too many options. The train lurched into motion.

He had no idea how Radek was going to catch up.

~*~*~

Radek had found that if he watched the figure skaters long enough, friends and other "interested parties" would soon filter away, bored. It would be only a matter of time before Radek could easily give them the slip. He checked his watch: 5:30 a.m. He and Rodney would be leaving for Amsterdam in a few hours. He leaned his chin on folded arms on the hard railing and watched Rodney from a dozen rows up in the stands. Though he would never tell Rodney that he did this, or else he would have too many questions about what he thought, was this good, was that good.

Rodney looked different skating. Strong. Radek couldn't tell if he was better than his Soviet competition, but he was definitely good, moving smoothly from one element to another, landing solidly.

He could see why Rodney was a star.

Radek did not like figure skating in his homeland. They were ballerinas on ice skates, their chins in the air, so serious. But Rodney, now, he made it look like fun.

His gestures were too exaggerated, almost funny, like he was teasing the other skaters. Or maybe even mocking figure skating itself. He skated a broad circle, one leg carving the ice, the other bent, an arm flung out dramatically as if greeting the sky. Radek snickered.

The music was suddenly cut off. "Now, Rodney…."

Rodney's coach was a big man, with rounded shoulders and wispy white hair, soft-voiced. And slightly shaky today. Radek burrowed his chin into his hands, leaning forward to listen.

"You have to give it your all. I want everything you have. These are the best of the best and you've only one shot at this. This isn't Worlds. There is no next year."

"Yes, yes," Rodney interrupted impatiently with a gesture like he was brushing away a fly.

But the man continued as relentless as a steamroller, clearly used to Rodney. "Four years from now who knows what you'll be doing -- or if I'll be your coach, or even in this world."

"Relax, Marc," Rodney laughed it off. "You're not planning on shuffling off this mortal coil today are you? This week? It'll be fine."

"Everything you've got, Rodney," he said in a gruff, strangled warning tone, wagging a finger. "If you have it, I want to see it."

A frown dented Radek's brow. He tucked in his chin as he drew away from his arms on the railing. The folding seat clicked a little as he straightened. It was not Radek's place to question, especially with a sport that he did not know as he knew ski jumping -- though he had never noticed that Rodney held back in anything. It was not Rodney's way. If anything Rodney went too far, risked too much.

But about one thing Radek was absolutely certain: Rodney should not be needing to reassure his own coach. That he had never seen. Had the man not been to the Olympics before?

Obviously, no. Radek shook his head as he pushed away from the railing. He would have just enough time to take a shower before he left for the train to Amsterdam. He should be able to beat Rodney to the station in Stuttgart, in fact. He made his way up the stairs to the back of the arena.

Amsterdam... speaking of Rodney and his crazy risks. The city was notorious, filled with sex and drugs and western corruption. Radek wanted a look. Though he should not take this chance. There would be no way he could say he'd just become lost and "accidentally" boarded a train out of the country. But it was only for the day, he could remove that page from his passport, plus he'd already been gone that long before. As Rodney had said, in Europe it was simply a little… further than usual.

Radek tucked his hands into his pockets and kept his head down in the busy corridor. Two German women ran vacuum cleaners over the carpets behind him, arguing cheerfully over the roar. A few workers in green overalls with the Olympic emblem staggered and swore under a huge plant they carried, tracking mud over the freshly cleaned halls.

He swallowed a smile over the impending fight, hunching down further to remain invisible.

"Mr. Zelenka?"

Radek turned with a startled if well-practiced innocent blink. A man and a woman wearing long overcoats came up smoothly to either side of him. He let his face go slack, suddenly conscious of his team jacket and the Czechoslovakian patch on his sleeve. They continued walking with him as Radek stared straight ahead.

"Come with us. The director would like a word."

He did not know the man but it was said in perfect unaccented Czech. He did recognize the director's sister-in-law. Her husband had privileges. Many privileges. And long-time friends in the Kremlin.

This could be very bad.

~*~*~

Amsterdam was a total bust. A naked woman posed in a storefront window as Rodney pretended not to be a somewhat shocked Canadian goggling that she was all-the-way naked. And in public. He aimed for jaded and came up with bored instead.

She changed positions, spreading her legs wider while Rodney glanced away. This was only going to be fun with Radek's cynical comments beside him, trapped in his untenable position that his country was both more sexually open and mature as well as uncorruptable and pure. Rodney couldn't win the argument when ninety percent of what he'd learned about sex (firsthand anyway) had been from Radek.

With a sigh he ducked through the door into a pub. He was handed a menu with scarcely a sidelong glance. No one recognized him. It was as if these people didn't even know the Olympics were underway. Rodney frowned down at the menu. A list of drugs, a lot of which he'd never even heard of. Though Radek probably had.

He handed it back to the waiter-or-whatever, saying, as if this were a personal affront, "Experimenting with unfamiliar drugs four days before a competition? Uh. Yeah. I don't think so."

He asked for a beer instead, and found they didn't serve that here. Which was absolutely ridiculous given what they did serve. He told them exactly what he thought of that and left to find a real bar.

It figured that he didn't get into trouble until he finally gave up on his little adventure and decided to go home. Radek would have told him to stay away from the airports, but Rodney had practically forgotten about the press by then.

~*~*~

The phone in the Olympic village room didn't often ring, so Rodney's coach already had a slack-jawed look of surprise before he answered it. The name on the other end left him puzzled.

"Mr. McKay?" he answered.

He was silent, then shook his head with a quick reassuring gesture that the older McKay calling from Canada couldn't see. "Amsterdam? No, Rodney is here," he said with assured patience, standing straighter, one hand on his hip. "His practice was just this--"

Interrupted, he nodded as fervently as any man who knew who paid the bills, wide shoulders hunched. "Yes, yes, I realize he's my responsibility… the news? Airport bar?" He switched the phone to his other ear. "You're kidding. Yes, Mr. McKa—I assure you, I had no idea. He was right here. I'll—I'll see to it. Of course he's grounded. Yes, sir, thank you for informing me."

He'd just hung up when Rodney came in, head down. He held up a tired hand. "Don't talk to me right now, I've had a very bad day."

"Just what the H.—E.—double-hockeysticks are you doing?! Why do you think you're even here?" He sounded more betrayed than angry.

Rodney goggled at him, lips parted. "But I might not get another chance."

~*~*~

February, 1999

Rodney's bathtub was built into the wall and John hesitated a moment, hand on the industrial green shower curtain, looking around at the ceiling before he turned on the water, testing it. It seemed Rodney's place had better water pressure than he had at home, although John couldn't find the soap and didn't know about how Rodney would feel about anyone using his shampoo, so he didn't.

The water echoed weirdly off of tile, instead of the pattering sound John was used to, and it was both colder and less airy than John's clawfoot tub with the curtains that gapped and always left a puddle oozing into the hall.

The lights suddenly shut off.

"Whoops. Sorry, sorry," he heard Rodney say through the door as the light came back on.

Rodney clicked a different switch. A loud fan started overhead and John glanced up. He heard the tinkle of Rodney taking a leak and wondered if Rodney was going to join him. He was sort of relieved when the toilet flushed and he didn't. It was 2 a.m. and he was tired.

He didn't discover that Rodney had no bath towels in there until he was dripping in the middle of the floor, so he wiped down with his tee-shirt instead.

The living room was dark by the time he popped open the door, a rush of cool air coming in. The only pool of light came from Rodney's room. The living room was cold and draughty, so John hurried through, carrying the damp tee-shirt he had planned to wear to bed.

He found Rodney out cold, flopped face down on his pillow, his jaw slack. With a little snort of laughter, he realized that Rodney hadn't left him any space on the bed. He ran a hand over his face, considering, but he was way too tired and bleary to even consider driving home.

He sat down, the mattress sagging under his weight and poked Rodney, whispering, "Hey. Move over, buddy."

Without waking up, Rodney rolled over, one arm flopping across the entire other half of the bed.

Good enough.

~*~*~

A few hours later, the dawn was just a bare hint of gray through the curtains, dusky, turning the refrigerator, boxes, and Rodney's overloaded kitchen table into vague angular shapes of shaded gray and black. There was just barely enough light to see by as John scuffed around. He blinked against the bright light of the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. He lifted the carton to his mouth out of sheer habit, then stopped. Looking around, he hunted for a glass, pulling open a cupboard – and just barely caught the line of CDs with his forearm before they fell, swearing under his breath. He'd forgotten Rodney's storage issues.

Shutting the cupboard, he surveyed the pile of dirty dishes doubtfully. Dropping his hand he gave up, sniffed the milk as a precaution, then drank directly from the carton and stuffed it into the fridge. The light shut off.

Back-lit against the kitchen window, John shrugged on his jacket and adjusted the shoulders. It turned out that pens were easy to scavenge in Rodney's piles of newspapers, envelopes, and open vitamin jars cluttering the kitchen table. John extracted what looked like a long grocery receipt from the pile. It curled under his hand as he flattened it and penned Rodney a note.

We slept through my practice. Sorry. Bet I shut off the alarm.
See you tomorrow, 4 a.m.?

John

He weighed it down with two vitamin jars and straightened this collar, leaning to peer out the window at his car in Rodney's driveway. The passenger side door was wide open.

"Fuck," John said, and hurried for the door.

Rodney's front door had also been left open a crack, Rodney's jacket was flung onto the floor, and John figured his underwear -- technically "dance belt" but same thing -- was in all likelihood tangled up in Rodney's sheets. Rodney was still out cold, probably slobbering like a big, friendly puppy.

Outside in the biting pre-dawn breeze, John missed his socks more than the underwear.

The car started, thank god for the broken dome light. John patted the Chevy's steering wheel affectionately and headed home, a smug satiated smile reflected on the inside of the windshield.

~*~*~

The sun peeked over the horizon, warming the frosted windows in his bathroom in pink and gold as John brushed his teeth and got ready for bed. It was almost full daylight outside, filling the kitchen and filtering into his main room by the time he lay back and folded his arms behind his head.

He shifted.

After five minutes, John found he couldn't sleep, his mind buzzing, his body hopped up on adrenaline like he'd had too much sugar.

By 6:30 a.m. he gave it up.

The rest of the day was spent in a kind of mental haze.

He ate, washed the dishes, and found himself cleaning the entire kitchen for reasons he couldn't explain. He stopped himself once he realized he'd started in on the freezer, squeezed the sponge out and tossed it in the sink.

After breakfast he turned on some music, his rock n' roll a little quieter than usual since it was eight o'clock in the morning. He pocketed his keys, and took a quick barefoot run down the hall of the apartment building, down the stairs and outside to the mailbox across cold pavement, and then back, using the trip for his warm up, legs feeling a little rubbery and tired. He tossed the mail on the table, ignoring the taut pull of certain clenched muscles on his inner thighs that he hadn't felt in way too long.

In the main room he pulled the weights away from the wall to the center of the floor, adjusting the workout bench. He picked a lighter set, spinning the wingnuts snug with a practiced gesture. He stretched out, lying back on the padded workout bench, feeling achy and tight everywhere. He yawned and sniffed. Then, frowning with concentration, he tried to force his shaky body into submission, a sharp exhale of breath as he started his first rep.

The bar wobbled on the way up.

~*~*~

It was a terrible day.

Rodney woke with a headache to a sore back, an empty bed and -- worst of all -- broad daylight. With a surge of panic Rodney grabbed his clock off the end table, peered at it, and swore, long and colorfully, dropping it onto the bed.

He was supposed to ride with John to the rink and now he was going to have to get a cab and, oh God, he had the Bevingtons again today. Plus he'd obviously missed John's skate time, not that either of them would have been of any use after last night.

Rodney allowed himself the luxury of gloating over that fact, even though, oh, this was very stupid of them. He lurched out of bed.

He saved time by brushing his teeth in the shower. And discovered he'd run out of bath towels -- this morning was getting better and better. John had probably used the last one. He was forced to use his tee-shirt, and rolled on deodorant, and then, with his shirt hanging open, he prowled into the kitchen. He opened a tub of peanut butter ate it straight from the jar with a spoon, leaving the open container on the counter while he dialed a cab.

~*~*~

John set the barbell down with a clank, vividly aware that around this time yesterday he'd been at the rink with Rodney and then practically running for the car, Rodney's warm chest under him as they'd— He blinked the image away.

He ran his hand through his hair and sat up. He really had to stop thinking about that. The exercises weren't all that effective if he couldn't pay attention and focus on the specific muscle groups. His mind just kept returning to the feel of Rodney under him, the flutter of his eyes closing and that little exhale when they had...

John pulled the hand towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat off his face. He let out his breath in a heavy sigh.

On the top shelf of his closet was a stack of thin white boxes. He pulled them out and stacked them on the bed. It was less than exciting but stuffing envelopes and sorting them by zip code was good for some grocery money. And it was something John could do when he was distracted.

~*~*~

Amanda Bevington was a perfect angel, at least according to her mother, so therefore her poor performance had nothing to do with her not practicing and everything to do with Rodney being five minutes late that morning. Of course.

Rodney had narrowly avoided the injudicious sarcasm that tended to lose him clients -- although it was a near squeak. He'd been up all night and therefore his notoriously limited patience was worn to a finely tuned thread. As it stood, his suggestion that her practice sessions be supervised – i.e. enforced – was not well received. Mrs. Bevington was a big woman with a haughty all-seeing air, certain that anyone who required her money would do as little for it as possible. Her mere presence was an insult.

"A glittering skating dress only makes you a make-believe skater," Rodney told Amanda, baring his teeth in a smile. He flickered his fingers like little sparkles rising.

All right, perhaps a teeny shred of sarcasm escaped.

~*~*~

The gears on John's ten speed whirred and clicked as he coasted to a stop in front of the nine-story building in downtown Toronto. He slung the overstuffed backpack to one shoulder while he went down on his knee to lock his bike. Gazing up the glass front of the office building, he slipped the pack onto his shoulders and tightened the belt. He swept past preoccupied people in business suits hurrying to lunch. Inside, he angled to the left, past the marble fountain in the lobby to the fire escape stairwell. He was only going to the fourth floor.

The office was small, with six or seven desks tucked away in a lilac and beige cubicle maze. Fortunately, Julia was still at her desk. John hated waiting around for her. Places like these made him feel like they were closing in on him, like they didn't have enough air. He leaned a hip against her cubicle wall and waited to be noticed.

Julia wore a loose tunic, little make up, and had long blond hair in deliberate waves that was starting to show brown at the roots. She glanced up from her computer and blinked at him in surprise, smiling. "Oh, hi, John. You're early."

~*~*~

As if to add a little "spice" to Rodney's day, he learned he had apparently lost someone's check and therefore had been teaching them gratis for weeks. Not only was it embarrassing, it gave him worrisome entertainment throughout his entire break, chasing through files till he found it, stapled to their application, right where it ought to be – after it was cashed. Annoyed with himself and rolling his eyes, Rodney pried the staple off the application.

He stumbled across his Skate Canada rule book in the search and took a moment to flip through and look up the policy on coaches sleeping with students – it had never been an issue before so he'd never bothered to read it. Who did? The rules printed in clear black and white made him swallow around a dry throat. Oh, no problem, John could just get him kicked out of coaching forever if he filed a complaint. Though it seemed like John would have to be the one to do it, or his parents if he were underage. How much could he trust John?

But his day was destined yet to improve. With a little negotiation and creativity with his fees, he'd been able to move the nine-year-old Bethany Morris, his impoverished young star, to private instruction. He planned to keep her at the Novice level as long as possible, cleaning everyone's clocks to build her confidence. She was his best hope for a Junior Worlds and had that rare combination: talent, and a willingness to work. If he'd realized how unusually dedicated he'd been as a teenager he would have made his coach spit-shine his skates.

It quickly became apparent Beth was not exactly in top form today. Her fluffy brown ponytail flew, fluffed like a Persian cat's tail as her legs slid out from under her and she hit the ice.

"Okay," Rodney said with barely suppressed laughter as he skated over to her. "Now that is the first time I've seen you fall while just standing at the boards."

"It's not my fault," she pouted, her small blue eyes squinting petulantly. "I have cramps."

Rodney gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you to warm up properly before class. It prevents injury to you and keeps me from dying of boredom." He pointed his thumb at his chest.

"Not that," she said. Then gave him a bug-eyed meaningful look that he apparently was supposed to interpret. When he didn't respond, she said, "The other kind." She blushed, the color deepening her freckles.

"What other kind?" Rodney puzzled. "Stop speaking in riddles. I don't enjoy guessing games."

She gave him a more wide-eyed exasperated meaningful look, tilting her head. Then he got it. Of course he did. Ninety-seven percent of his students were girls.

"That's impossible! You're only nine years old!"

Her mouth fell open in appalled offense. "I'm ten and a half!"

"Oh," Rodney said, disappointment and unhappiness sliding across his face, warring with his immediate sense of oh, great, not this and why me? From here on out they were doomed to have one week in four that was limited in its productiveness. He had no idea why it effected so many skaters' equilibrium. He slumped. "Um. Okay."

She looked up at him. "Can I just...?" She inclined her head towards the stands, her eyes wistful. He hoped it was only a moment of weakness.

"Are you out of your mind? Do you think all your future competitions will be scheduled around, around—" He waved a hand, feeling a little out of his depth. "—that, for your convenience? If I don't see a cast or the stump of a missing limb, you're skating!"

~*~*~

Rodney pinched the bridge of his nose as he dropped his keys on top of the pile of unopened mail on the kitchen table, contemplating dinner versus just going to bed. It was already nine p.m. and he was due to be up in less than eight hours. Then he remembered that it was John he was going to be teaching tomorrow and warmed at the thought.

As if on cue, the phone rang. It was ridiculously late so either it was Radek forgetting the time difference again, or... Rodney checked the caller ID... John. He fumbled the phone as he picked it up.

There was hard rock blasting in the background. It sounded like Metallica. The neighbors probably hated John.

"Hi," John said, a little breathless.

"Hi."

"Got my note?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow then."

"Right."

"Okay." There was a reluctant pause. "See you then."

"Yeah."

"Bye."

"Bye."

They hung up. And such a brief conversation should not have left Rodney flying.

~*~*~

John leaned out the car window, the light up menu glowing orange on his face as he scanned it, exhaust steaming around him. "I'll have an Egg McMuffin, an order of hash browns ... you know what? Make that two hash browns. Large OJ." He ducked into the car. "What'll it be, Rodney? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"Sometimes you're depressingly American." Rodney folded his arms and refused to participate.

John smiled at the intercom, which was just bizarre because the speaker couldn't see him. "He'll have the same -- only coffee instead of OJ," he added quickly, holding up a hand to forestall Rodney's knee-jerk 'citrus allergy' complaint. "Large coffee. He's cranky." John nodded, beaming. "Maybe we should get him a Happy Meal."

"You do know you're talking to a machine, right?"

"There's a real person on the other end," John said as he drove around to the drive-thru window.

"Fast food employees are not real people. They are illiterate morons whose sole purpose in life is to give you tepid water for your tea, forget the sugar, and yet insist on giving you a little paper cup with a nice deadly slice of lemon."

"I worked for McDonald's once. I used to close for the extra dollar an hour." John grinned as he handed Rodney the warm paper sacks. Rodney rattled through them suspiciously, counting hash browns while John handed over the cash.

"A lifetime of screwed up fast food orders has just been explained. Although no doubt the little paper hat looked sweet."

"I refused to wear the hat after the first day." John didn't wait for Rodney to finish perusing the bags and pulled away.

They were halfway out of the drive-thru about to head for the rink when Rodney squawked, "Oh, I don't believe it!" He gave an exaggerated sigh, crumpling the bag between his knees. "Where are the napkins? God, these people can't get anything right."

John threw the car in reverse, arm slung over the seat looking over his shoulder as he backed up, fishtailing.

"Wait! You can't go backwards in a drive-thru! You're supposed to pull up to the side where they make you wait for special orders."

"No one's there, Rodney." John swerved to get a better angle of approach. "And it figures you'd be one of those assholes with the special orders."

The girl in the window stared, startled as they reappeared in reverse. John thumbed over at Rodney. "He needs napkins." He wrinkled his nose and said with a wide smirk, bobbing his head, "Messy eater."

Rodney made an annoyed sound in response without looking up. Then held up a forefinger, still staring into the bag. "Ketchup," he announced.

~*~*~

Their next skate went reasonably well.

Rodney gave instructions.

John listened, his eyes on the ice, a little quieter than normal, which actually was quite bizarre.

He glided out to the center of the rink, his left skate carving him into a gentle turn, and did exactly what he was told, without debate, which left Rodney even more surprised. It was as if John were determined to prove that the other night wouldn't effect his training.

It was having quite the opposite effect. Rodney was beginning to wish that they'd done this sooner, insane risks to Rodney's career notwithstanding. He visualized conversations with John's former coach in his mind, Oh? How did I get him to listen to me? All you have to do is sleep with him and it's surprising how cooperative he becomes. No doubt half his pissiness is pure sexual frustration. Of course, Ed Wilcoxin was straight so it would never have worked for him.

Nevertheless, Rodney set aside their pairs skating for the time being, and he made a point of not touching John the way he would normally, maintaining his focus on simple footwork and stroking, working on subtle shifts in his edges. It conveniently kept him in constant motion and halfway across the rink for the entire session.

Rodney waved his approval from a distance and spun his finger to signal John to repeat the circuit. John gave him a duck of his head and a nod, and continued.

The last thing they needed was to start necking in the middle of the rink. Again.

They didn't mention a thing about the other night until John returned, his hair tousled, face damp, smelling sharply of male sweat. As he wiped down his skates – Rodney was already in his street clothes – John said:

"So. Tonight?"

Rodney paused, heart stopping.

"Sure," he said in a voice that was almost a squeak, much less confident than he would have liked. "My– my place?" he added, cursing himself for sounding like a love-struck teenager.

"Good." John looked up with soft eyes and gave him an endearing relieved smile, and Rodney thought that no one would blame him.

~*~*~

Later that evening, Rodney's neighbors were outside doing yard work in the bright gold sunset that cast a stark latticework of tree-branch shadows all the way down Rodney's street, the patchy dark gray clouds and puddles edged with color. Their son dragged two large trash cans full of leaves and dead branches to the curb, the surly slump of his shoulders advertising his resentment.

A dusty burgundy Chevy pulled into Rodney's drive, John's loud music thrumming but muted through the car door. The engine cut off, silencing the music with it. After a moment John stepped out, looking freshly scrubbed, hair relatively tame, clean shaven, his narrow hazel eyes bright as he glanced up at the sky then pulled a daypack from the back seat.

There was a skip to his step as he climbed the stair to Rodney's porch and rang the bell.

~*~*~

At Tech Nine Audio in the mall, a wall of flickering big screen TVs were surrounded by banks of smaller sets that all showed the same commercial advertising Orville Redenbacher popcorn. They flashed to a swooping overhead view of Jamestown Savings Bank Ice Arena just outside of Buffalo, New York.

"Welcome back to the second annual Orville Redenbacher 'Reach For The Stars' Challenge, a who's who of figure skating's champions, plus a glimpse of our brightest rising young stars!"

Behind the two announcers, small, distant skaters warmed up on the ice.

"Yes, Ted. Everyone who's anyone is here today. Isn't it exciting?" gushed a woman with red mittens wrapped around her ABC microphone.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, John listened to the pre-competition commentary, shoulders hunched, looking much like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons. A little plastic bag with a receipt and coiled extension cord in it slumped in his lap. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced over.

"Come here often?" Rodney stood in the glass doorway of the store, regarding him with a curious eye and warm quirk of a smile. Lazy Saturday shoppers passed behind him with packages and paper bags in hand. Two kids carrying drippy ice cones stumbled after a tired looking woman pushing a stroller.

"Hey, stranger." John dipped his head and edged over to give him space against the carpeted cube he was using as a backrest. Rodney settled next to him, his own shopping bags rustling as dropped them on the floor with twin thumps. He pulled a small spiral bound notepad out of one and rested it on his knee.

"Better reception than my TV at home," John explained, giving the clerk a stray guilty glance. The young guy with glasses didn't look up from his magazine. "I tell them I'm waiting for my wife. Who's shopping." John leaned over conspiratorially. "If you say 'shopping' with just the right attitude, they'll let you stay as long as you like."

"And I thought I was the only one who did this." Rodney snickered. "Though I usually just buy something portable and expensive and tell them to get lost." He brushed his hands off and snuggled his back more comfortably into their carpeted cube. "A pity we can't find a sports bar that'll show figure skating."

"Yes. Dehydration's a definite danger." John pursed his lips and agreed, bobbing his head mockingly.

"—we have the current National Champion, Kyle Fletcher, here to start us off."

They hushed each other for the celebrity interviews. The cameras switched to Kyle Fletcher, rink-side.

Kyle always looked like a deer caught in headlights in front of cameras, warm puppy eyes with long lashes gazing past them with a distant distracted look, lips parted like someone had just woke him for a surprise interview, although it had to have been scheduled for weeks. He was the sort of guy who could walk around with his shirt half untucked all day and never notice. Everyone in the figure skating community knew that Kyle would rather eat a plate of his own shit than give an interview, but he had to do them all the time.

"So, Kyle, what do you think of your chances of taking the gold here today?"

He shifted uncomfortably, leaned in to the microphone, his shoulders tight, and said in a measured tone, "Uh. Probably pretty good."

"And what do you think of Jeff Kulka? They say he has the best shot at beating you this afternoon." The microphone returned to Kyle.

"Jeff's a nice guy," he said, an eye tracking the camera with a nervous glance.

The woman from ABC struggled to get interesting answers from the reticent Fletcher, asking tougher questions. She towered over the five foot nine inch, twenty-two year old skater.

"I understand many people are critical of your decision not to attend the America Cup next week."

"To go to a cheese-fest," John supplied for them in an undertone, and Rodney snorted.

"What is your response?"

"Uh."

Rodney shook his head. "If there was ever a kid who needed his mother to still dress him...."

"Now, now," John said. "Try not to bite." Though inwardly he agreed, fully aware that he was just seething with jealousy.

Once Kyle had set a new standard for vagueness, ABC thanked him and cut away to rave about his unique style.

They showed clips of Fletcher's performance at Nationals, skating to Duke Ellington's "Caravan," music that was as unusual as his skating. He jumped clockwise instead of counterclockwise, and his jumping technique was weird, had this little flail before he left the ice that should lose him points – but it didn't matter. That extra push launched him incredibly high, high enough that there was the risk of his losing the ice on the way down. But he never did. The hang time meant that each jump was on display, seeming to hit slow motion in the air.

Beautiful. John shook his head, envy evaporating into clear-eyed wonder.

John bent to Rodney and murmured, "I want a free pass," his eyes on the screen like a cat. "If I ever get a chance to do Fletcher...."

"He has a girlfriend," Rodney scoffed.

"I said 'if.'"

Rodney snorted. "I can hardly see why, beyond the natural aphrodisiac of fame." Then smirked. "And yes, but only if I get the same -- plus torrid photos of your whole affair. Close-ups," he added.

John waved a hand like a priest giving absolution. "You're forgiven, my wayward lamb." And got an elbow in the ribs for what he thought was a pretty good imitation of Obi-wan Kenobi.

The video froze with Fletcher still in mid-air, and the announcers talked about how even skaters who could do it avoided jumping so high because of the danger: it was that much harder to land on a quarter inch edge.

"Kyle's a high risk performer," said the woman with the red mittens.

He was musical, too, went to some kind of art school. But Fletcher only recently started landing his quads, and they didn't have the height and speed of his triple axel. That was the one area where John had him beat.

The television broke for a commercial -- more popcorn, they were making John hungry -- then returned to a montage of the women skaters and an interview with Heidi Pauwels, even though the women's event wasn't for another two hours.

The first skater up was Jeff Kulka, skating gracelessly to center ice. The rules were loose at this "competition," with lyrics and even props allowed, the performance aspect coming first. The point was to please the crowd. And sell popcorn.

Kulka simply used his long program from Nationals, though he got a rousing cheer for a back flip he threw in.

John snorted at the cheap thrill. "That's easy."

"Shh," said Rodney, taking notes.

Kulka skated conservatively, seeming bored. Some skaters needed the edge of a real competition to turn them on.

Then after still more popcorn commercials – you never forgot who the sponsor was, now did you? – the cameras abruptly and inexpertly cut to Mark Svick, wearing a purple Prince Valiant costume. He let out a breath and began backward stroking, a little ahead of his music. John couldn't help a small vicious smile at that. He had nothing personal against Mark, they'd been chasing each other's tail winds at various competitions for two years, but after his disappointment over the America Cup he resented anyone who was going. Though he'd been okay with it before.

He launched into his first combination jump, stepping into a beautiful triple salchow, then dug his toe pick into the ice and sprung into the double toe loop – and over rotated, landing with his skate almost sideways. John winced, a hiss through his teeth. Svick fell on his ass, and bounced back up, stroking to match the pace of his music. But he was already out of the running.

"Oh, that's such a shame...." said the announcer."

Rodney leaned forward, an elbow on his knee. He tapped his lower lip with a forefinger, and then held it up. "Medieval themes are a tad overused this season but I like the effect."

John glanced at him in surprise, realizing for the first time that Rodney was watching for very different reasons. Rodney's eyes flicked between his notepad and the screen as he took rapid fire notes with incomprehensible arrows and stick figures.

The rest of Mark's program was picture perfect, effortless. John could almost see the pressure come off his thin shoulders as he relaxed into it.

At the end, the crowd cheered, recognizing the great recovery he'd made. Mark's prominent Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, beaming, and took a bow.

"What a wonderful performance," the woman with the red mittens said.

"He may not have won here today but he has certainly won over this crowd," the other announcer said, laughing.

So there was a point to cheese-fests after all.

The next skater was someone from Australia whom John had never heard of – and then a Japanese skater doing his first international performance. They were clearly saving Fletcher for last. Kulka, despite his lame performance, turned out to be in the lead, and the announcers were trying to drum up some excitement that Kulka "--might catch the elusive Fletcher just this once. Can he do it?" As if Jeff's life goal were to beat Kyle, rather than the more practical aim of winning the fifteen grand slated for second place. John doubted even the television audience bought the phony tension. None of it mattered. All that was on the line was cash, not titles.

The skater right before Fletcher was the Korean-born American, Christian Yong Suk. The cheerful crowd hushed as he entered wearing head-to-toe black, with a black cape and white mask, straightening his leather gloves.

John perked up. He had to admit that the outfit was pretty cool. Everyone liked to play the bad guy. But Rodney had tipped his head in complete disdain, lips pressed together like he had a bad taste in his mouth, which John took to mean he'd shoot down any "cape" ideas in the near future.

The first strains of "O Fortuna" began, accompanied by drums and electric guitar -- John thought this was kick ass -- and Yong Suk took heavy spiraling steps, like a gladiator marching into the arena. Then he worked up his trademark intense speed, blazing around the far curve -- ABC had trouble switching cameras quick enough -- and slowed for his first triple-triple combination.

He hammered it. Sweet!

John caught the clerk and Rodney staring at him. He realized he might have said that aloud. "Sorry. Good jump."

"No, it wasn't," Rodney sniped.

"He nailed it," John said, turning to Rodney in annoyance.

"His coach shouldn't let him get away with that," Rodney said. "His shoulders hunched before the jump, he telegraphed it a mile beforehand, and then his landing was probably felt in Pittsburgh."

"He got his ass in the air and he was still standing afterward. That's a good jump." John began, a hand out, earnestly trying to explain this to Rodney. "Look. My brother's in the Air Force, right? The way he put it is this: a good landing is one you can walk away from. A great landing is one where you can reuse the plane."

Rodney's knowing chuckle was snide. "First, remind me to never fly with your brother, because the idea of anyone even remotely like you in control of a machine that's capable of a velocity of over four hundred miles per hour is terrifying. Second," Rodney said with a smile, "airline travel has no bearing on the artistry of a perfect salchow."

"You have to not worry about how you do it. The more you think, the more likely you are to screw it up."

"He's down! Christian Yong Suk is down!" the television shouted.

John and Rodney spun to the TV.

They found Yong Suk curled up on the ice, one hand wrapped around his knee, the shaky cameras zooming in as he tried to lever his shoulders off the ice with the other. People were hurrying onto the rink while cameras glided in close. Yong Suk shook his head, brushing them away.

"What happened?" Rodney turned to the clerk.

The young clerk shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring in fascination. "I dunno, exactly. It looked pretty silly at first but then he didn't get back up."

"The judges are offering... Yes, if Christian is able to, he will be allowed restart his program," the woman announcer said.

"It is so difficult to perform after a fall like that. You've lost all momentum and it's really hard to put it out of your mind. Let's have a look at what happened."

Eyes wide, John watched as ABC replayed the scene in slow motion. Yong Suk's twizzle steps, spinning on one leg as he swept off the cape. But instead of it fanning out around him, the cape wrapped around an arm--

"He could have recovered there, but then—" the woman announcer began.

In slow motion they watched Yong Suk struggle to shake it off, and the cape dropped to the ground. The slo-mo paused here, the cape in midair, almost at his feet—

"—And that's where it tangled his skate," she ended.

The replay inched forward to when the lump of fabric fell. Yong Suk jerked to a stop and went down like he'd been hit by a middle linebacker, arms out, jaw cracking the ice. The instant replay froze as he curled around his leg.

"Falls are so common in figure skating. You feel yourself start to slide then try to control the landing. But here, something like this -- technically, he wasn't even on ice for that moment," the other announcer said in a gruff voice. "This is why props are not allowed in official competitions. One of the many, many, very good reasons."

The camera returned to Yong Suk in the present. He had an arm around his coach's shoulders, standing on the ice, his leg bent like a stork's. Officials and camera crews milled about him, cutting in front of the camera.

"He's not skating today," John said.

"The angle and speed he fell? I'd be worried about a hip fracture," Rodney responded. "They shouldn't be letting him stand on it."

"No. You got so much adrenaline pumping from the program and the fall, you can't feel what's going wrong," John agreed.

The woman broke in, "Well, we have the word now: Christian Yong Suk will not be restarting his program."

"We will have more information—and Kyle Fletcher—after a short commercial break."

"Is he going to be okay?" the clerk asked Rodney.

"The leg is still attached and he was able to stand, so he'll not be joining the society for the halt and lame anytime soon, no," Rodney said.

"But skating wise...." John broke in, shaking his head.

Rodney nodded. "His season's definitely over."

"Which..." John blinked once, face going blank. "...is a shame." And he was quiet a moment, before he added, "I mean, it--it could be a serious injury that affects him for the long haul. And that would be... really bad."

"Yes, it's quite sad," Rodney agreed. Then pointed out, reassuring John, "Although he was walking."

"Yeah. That's... good. Still, uh, I hope he's okay," John said, licking his lips.

"Oh, yes," Rodney said. "Me, too."

They were silent a long, pregnant moment.

Rodney took a deep breath and said in a tight voice, not looking at John, thumbing towards the TV, "You're aware that you're next in line for the America Cup at this point, right?"

"Yep."

"So we can stop pretending now?"

John let out the breath he was holding, face in his hands. "It's the best news all week."

~*~*~

February, 1986

"Welcome to the 1986 Winter Olympics! The excitement is building for the crown jewel of these Olympic games: women's figure skating. But first we have the men's event."

"Yes, Frank, and the star of the show is Canada's seventeen-year-old Rodney McKay."

"McKay has medaled in every major competition he's entered over the last three years, with the exception of the Grand Prix where he was beaten by veteran teammate Serge Martineau. But these are McKay's first Olympic games."

"The pressure is intense."

"He is expected to medal here. The question is: will it be silver or gold? Or will the Soviets push him back to bronze?"

~*~*~

The hotel was the nicest one near the Olympic village; three stories of intricate brickwork that clearly predated the bombing of WWII. The interior was modern brass and white with thick carpeting, and there was a guard at attention just inside the door. Clusters of well-dressed people carrying briefcases spoke together in whispers, and Radek was reminded of the embassy in Prague where he'd had to get his papers to go to the Olympic games.

He hadn't liked that experience either.

Radek's guide, the director's sister-in-law, left him with her friend, the man he didn't know, and leaned over the counter to speak with the front desk clerk. She gestured Radek over with a little clutching motion. He was asked to sign a book to be permitted in. He set the gold pen down and wrung his hands.

The elevator was new and worked as smooth as glass. Radek watched the numbers as if his life depended on them and evaded any conversation. Outside room number 322, his two guides paused in the hallway. The woman waved Radek in with an artificial smile.

The director of the Czechoslovakian Olympic Committee had a room with the same thick white carpeting, but overlaid with oriental rugs. It was smaller than Radek had expected, considering the lobby, with just a wide bed with two graceful bedside tables. There was a mahogany roll top desk against one wall, and curtains drawn over what looked to be the door to a balcony on the opposite side. The director sat on the balcony side of the bed with his shoes off and tie undone. He was a short man with dark slate-gray hair and a small round face, his brow furrowed with deep worry lines over deep set eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Zelenka, come in," he said, waving him in with the same cupping gesture his sister-in-law had used.

Radek wiped his feet outside the door. He was not usually called Mr. Zelenka, that was his father's name, but he obeyed, pausing at the foot of the bed.

"Please, have a seat," the director patted the spot next to himself. "It's Radek, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Director," Radek said, sitting gingerly, upright and wary, hands folded in his lap. The director's black socks had crisscrossing diamond patterns on them.

"Please, call me Karl. There is no need to be formal." He pulled an old fashioned cigarette case out of his pocket. "Cigarette?"

"Ah. I have my own, thank you," Radek said, patting his pocket. He very carefully didn't use the director's name either.

The director brought out his own cigarette and lit it. Glancing over at him warily, Radek pulled out his battered cheaper packet. The director offered a light and Radek was forced to lean forward and accept, aware that this was meant to relax him. It didn't work. They sat back in silence, enjoying the smoke.

"So," the director began, blue smoke striping the air. "How are the Olympic games so far for you?"

Normally this line of conversation would get an enthusiastic response from Radek, spilling out detailed descriptions of all he'd seen and done, plus his views on everything from warm German beer to the current ski jump standings. And figure skating, too, now that he'd taken an interest.

"Good," was all Radek said.

"Glad to hear it," said the director.

They fell silent again.

"I understand from the other judges that your family would like you to be an engineer. That you show some promise." The director blew a puff of smoke. "Czechoslovakia could use more engineers. Building roads, bridges. It's a noble profession."

"Yes." Radek nodded, blinking behind his round glasses, not even trying to hide his nervousness.

"My son is an engineer." The director pointed with his cigarette. "Quite a good one. He could take you under his wing in the future. Help guide you in your career."

Radek could not think of anything he wanted less. "Thank you, that's... very kind."

"We help those who help us, in my family."

The director regarded him with a sharp eye now, and Radek shrank where he sat. Here it came. He listened with every pore for what was not being said.

"We could use your help," the director added.

"Mine?" Radek squeaked. He elected to play innocent. Ignorant on the other hand, was nothing less than the truth. The director was not prodding in the direction he had expected – and feared – with questions about his loyalty and hints regarding certain Canadian figure skaters. Consorting with Rodney could get him branded a dissident, though he was sure he'd been careful enough. Almost certain. "What for?"

The director sighed, world-weary and well acted. "With your brother.''

Radek's throat closed up in alarm. "Is he in any trouble?"

His mind flashed through dozens of possibilities, all of them entirely too likely. It was not without reason his father had sent Radek to watch his brother Jiri. He was too enthusiastic about the west and Glasnost, which was all well and good for the Kremlin, but the Czechoslovakian leaders were more... conservative. You couldn't say anything bad about Stalin.

"No, he isn't in any trouble. Although a sixteen year old boy, far from home? That is simply asking for problems. Wise of your father to send along his responsible engineer," the director patted Radek's knee twice at the word 'responsible,' hard enough to make Radek wince, "to keep an eye on his little brother."

This engineer talk was getting to be a little much for Radek. "I'm still in school, not in university yet. If I'm even a candidate next year."

"That will not be a problem," the director assured him, with a firm confidence that told Radek all he needed to know.

Whatever the director wanted, he wanted it badly enough to offer a bribe. Which meant that he would not accept a no. This was no mere favor. Now Radek was really nervous.

"Er, I do not understand," Radek said, dodging any agreement to the bribe. Especially when he did not know what it was for.

"I need you to convince your brother not to throw away his entire future for just one ski jump," the director said.

Radek asked, with growing trepidation, "Which ski jump do you mean?" This was much worse than he imagined.

"The large hill."

Radek dropped his face to his hands. He couldn't help it, he knew it was dangerous not to appear cooperative, but that was his brother's main event. Without it, he had no Olympics. They were taking it all away.

The director continued, his voice rising and obviously irritated, "He is just sixteen, with a long Olympic career ahead of him if he remains eligible. In four years he'll be twenty. There will be another Olympics. He should not jeopardize that for nothing." The director's eyes had darkened with alarm over Radek's reaction. "He's such a young boy, of course he lives just in the moment, for this one jump. He does not consider the future. But he needs to think of the wider implications." And that phrasing alone convinced Radek the Soviets were involved somehow; why, he didn't know. His brother had jeopardized their medal count? A Soviet jumper had powerful friends? "As his older brother you must have a better understanding. Someday he'll need to work, he'll want to be married – maybe even go to university like yourself. He needs to not ruin all this for himself, for you, and for your family, when just a little patience will make all the difference."

Radek pulled himself together, to ask, the words strangled, "You've spoken with him?"

He prayed his brother had not said no.

The director smiled, his voice tinged with relief. "We need you to talk to him." He spread his hands, the shadow of anger still on his face, but calmer now. "He does not know us. But he'll listen to his older brother."

Radek bowed his head. There was nothing to be done about it. "I'll do what I can."

He made no promises. Because he knew what his brother would have to say.

~*~*~

February, 1999

Monday morning, Rodney was at the door before John could even knock, pushing past John onto the porch. He turned and grabbed John's arm, pulling and shoving him towards the Chevy.

"In, in! Get in the car. We've already lost two days and the only reason I didn't make you skate yesterday is that my Sundays are sacred as the only day of the week I get off." He yanked open the car door.

"You've been getting off pretty much every night from what I've seen." John smirked, his eyes glittering with humor as he slid behind the steering wheel. Rodney slammed the passenger side door and snuggled his shoulders into the seat.

"Driving! I don't see you driving! Cheap jokes aren't going to get us to the rink any faster." He checked his watch, sitting forward and tapping his foot. "We're going to be three minutes late because of this time-wasting conversation alone."

"No, we won't." John looked over at him suspiciously as he stepped on the gas, speeding. "Have you slept?"

"You have a mere eight days to get ready for a major competition – no, make that seven days and twelve hours – you haven't performed a single one of your jumps in over a month, and you're worried about whether or not I've slept?" Rodney took a deep sip from his coffee mug.

"Okay. That's a no." John crouched over the steering wheel, shifty-eyed and looking anywhere but at Rodney. "I think we're gonna be fine."

"Well, pardon me if I don't find your utterly baseless confidence all that reassuring!"

At the rink, John discovered that his playful, relaxed, and imaginative coach of the last six weeks had vanished, to be replaced by Hitler. Rodney was already giving orders while they dressed, rink-side.

"When you wake up in the morning what is your first thought?" Rodney snapped his fingers when John didn't answer right away.

"That I need to go to the bathroom."

"No! Wrong. Your first thought is to run through your short program, visualizing every aspect of your choreography. I want you to imagine your program as if you were really there."

"While I'm going to the bathroom." John gave him a tired look.

Rodney huffed, almost whining. "If you must."

John was on the nearly empty ice before Rodney, beginning his warm up. Rodney shouted to him as he returned, rounding the first lap, "We won't have any time to work on the dance aspects so I want you to walk those out at home – with music! Never mind how it looks to the neighbors, in fact, it's better if the neighbors see you so you get a little practice performing."

John whizzed by him, thinking of the kind of speed Yong Suk had managed. He wondered if he could do it.

"But right now we'll need to focus on your more difficult elements, try to get you back up to speed. Sadly, we'll have to eschew music for this morning -- though tomorrow I want to see your entire long program, straight through."

Rodney stepped out onto the ice, straightening his orange warm-up jacket with a tug. John turned and stroked backwards, losing a little momentum. Yong Suk did favor forward jumps. He was beginning to see why.

"Now. We'll start with single jumps and work our way up. Don't be upset if it doesn't go as well as you remember. It's just like riding a bicycle—"

John swung his inside leg back, arms flung out in a slicing gesture as he nicked the ice with his toe pick, spinning tight into an effortless triple Lutz, landing backward again. It really was his favorite jump. Something about starting and ending backward, not knowing where you were headed and flying blind....

Rodney made a strangled sound off to his right. John glanced his direction to see if he was okay.

"Okay, okay, that's, uh, not bad for a first time out...." Rodney said, his voice a little high, gliding onto the ice behind him with a sharp clap. He rubbed his hands together. "Okay, then. Um. Let this be a lesson to you: if you ever have to stop the jumps for a while, always keep up with your spins. Then they'll return to you as natural as breathing." He frowned. "Apparently."

John returned, hands on his hips as he finished the curve of his momentum. He nodded, pursed his lips and said in a dry voice, "I'll try to remember that."

~*~*~

February, 1986

"And now for a word on the Canadian controversy... two days ago, seventeen-year-old figure skater, Rodney McKay, was spotted in an airport bar in Amsterdam, far from the Olympic games. Here's what some of his fans have to say."

"If he doesn't want to be there, I bet there are plenty of others who'd be glad to be at the Olympics. I'm just saying."

"Rodney's my favorite skater. I'm sure he had a good reason to be in Amsterdam. I mean, no one's said he was actually drinking."

"For me, I don't care what he does in his spare time, but while he's at the Olympics he's supposed to be representing us."

"What I wonder is who's keeping an eye on that boy? Where are his parents? And what were they doing serving alcohol to a minor in that airport? Something should be done about that."

"I usually think of the Olympics as being totally intense and stuff. But he's just a figure skater, so I guess that's easier than, like, skiing."

~*~*~

February, 1999

Squeezed into a tiny table at a Chinese take-out joint, Rodney dropped noodles from his chopsticks – John wrinkled his nose, watching him stuff his face – and they reviewed John's schedule. He crossed off John's laundry, his grocery shopping, and nixed two of his cardio sessions.

"Okay, I get why you don't want me to have a life -- though I don't see what you think I'm going to wear in Colorado -- but taking off the cardio?" John rumpled his eyebrows and shot him a funny look.

Rodney wolfed down noodles, pointing with a chopstick. He said, muffled through his mouthful, "Trust me, you'll have more cardio than you can stand, given the number of times I'm going to make you run through your program this week." He swallowed. "Now. How much anaerobic training do you do on average?"

With a grudging tip of his head, John admitted, "I train to near muscle failure about three or four times a week."

"On average?" Rodney leaned towards him with a puzzled expression.

"I like to see how far I can push it."

"Okay," Rodney breathed. "Your status as a complete masochist is confirmed. Good. Keep that up." His sharp eyes scanned the list for anything he'd missed. "And no, no, no." He sliced three big dark X's through all of John's training plans for Friday. "Nothing on Friday."

"If we go – and that's a big if – I won't be able to train Saturday," John complained.

"You still haven't heard from them?" Rodney asked, looking frazzled as he ran his hand through his short hair.

"Not a word."

"Hmm. That's disturbing...." Rodney muttered. He squared his shoulders in determination anyway. "Well. We must assume that you're going, and given that's the case, I want you to spoil like a racehorse for the Kentucky Derby on Friday. You are not to do anything."

"Can I do my laundry?"

Rodney frowned and thought about it, tipped back in his chair, running a knuckle along his lower lip. "How much laundry?" he asked, eyes slitted in suspicion.

John gave him a dirty look, head tilted at him, annoyed.

"All right, laundry's allowable." Rodney held up a finger. "But one load only."

~*~*~

The music cut off, leaving John in his final pose, his right fist punched into the air. It was the best moment of his choreography, and they were so fortunate it was at the end. Rodney clapped several times.

"Again," he said, biting into a sandwich from the other side of the boards. "This time straight through, no stopping for missed elements. You miss it, you miss it – move on. Leave it on the ice like a dog turd you don't want to clean up." He waved the hand with the sandwich as if magically making all mistakes disappear. "Don't even notice it."

John slid over with several sweeping strokes to slump in front of the boards. His long-sleeved red tee-shirt was stained dark with sweat halfway down his back and stuck to him. After a minute he reached for his water bottle, draping himself over the edge. He slanted his eyes at Rodney. "Didn't you just eat lunch?"

Rodney held the sandwich out, bemused, like it had sneaked up on him and leapt into his hands. "Um. I tend to eat when I'm nervous." He set the sandwich down on a bench and complained, hands rolled into fists. "And I hate this program, hate it, hate it, hate it. The only thing that's worse is your long program -- what possessed you to choose Holst for your music?"

"You know, I'm the one who's supposed to be a neurotic wreck," John noted.

"Well, I've got that covered it seems, so just... get out there and skate." Rodney made a wide brushing gesture. "This time with the jumps."

John moaned, dropping his head onto his folded arms. Rodney tried to ignore how much he sounded like that on other, far more intimate occasions, eyes going wide as he squirmed.

"Most people practice the jumps separate."

"And most people miss at least one of their jumps. Hmm...." Rodney tapped his chin, gazing up at the ceiling. "...I wonder if there's a connection...."

"You're killing me, Rodney."

Rodney's beaming response was smug. "Told you that you wouldn't need your cardio, Mr. I-Train-To-Muscle-Failure-Four-Times-A-Week."

"You're trying to prove something, aren't you?" John scowled at him.

But he finished his water and tossed the bottle into the trash, skating back out to center ice with quick smooth strokes. He struck his beginning pose, both palms in the small of his back. Rodney restarted the music and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to not think how similar this was to the starting pose for the Funky Chicken.

John began in a straight line step sequence, arms held in a circle as he bounced and turned like he was blown by the wind – right up into his first triple with the run of the violins.

It was a relief to see John jump, such great height, his evident delight. The piece had wonderful high notes to emphasize his jumps, too, in contrast to the unrelieved boredom of the rest of the program. Rodney could see why his former coach chose Brahms' "Hungarian Dance #5."

He realized he'd stopped watching, and forced his eyes back to John, scratching the back of his head. What made him so unwatchable when he wasn't in the air?

Rodney could feel the music and the choreography in his bones, how he himself would let his body turn first and let his head whip around after. How he'd fold his arms Cossack style and emphasize the low bounce of the cellos, bending his knees in his stroking, bring out the Slavic flavor. John was doing it right, yes, but the little touches just weren't there. He wasn't feeling it.

Machine-like, he drilled across the ice, and – ah! – another jump. It was like an oasis. John finished the program.

"How was that?" he asked, running his hands through wet sweat-slick hair.

Rodney took a breath. He'd learned from hard experience that one week before a competition was not the time for excessive honesty. "Accurate."

~*~*~

February, 1986

"Welcome to Sports Talk. A French reporter has revealed footage of Canadian skating star, Rodney McKay, slipping out at other points during the 1986 Olympic games when most athletes are preparing for their competitions. These photos show Rodney speaking with his fans—"

"Rodney always has a moment for his fans."

"—and going to museums in the town near the Olympic village."

"And another museum, and another museum... here's another one...."

"Ha. He must like museums. Maybe he was in Amsterdam for the Van Gogh?"

"Yeah right, maybe. Jeeze. I did less sightseeing on my vacation in Greece last year."

"While Rodney may have plenty of energy for his fans, he's declined to be interviewed on this matter – citing, get this, his rigorous training schedule."

"Guess he needs to make up for lost time."

~*~*~

Rodney was grounded. Grounded! Umteen thousand miles from home, he was in Europe for Christ's sakes, and his coach had him under lock and key. He stared up at the beige ceiling of his room – which didn't get any more interesting with familiarity – and folded his arms with a huff. The room was tiny and cheaply made, with aluminum trim around the windows. It was particularly stifling after the heady freedom he'd experienced over the last week. He had magazines he was allowed to read but the press was strictly off-limits in person. His coach-cum-jailer sat in the adjoining bedroom, turning pages like the steady tick of a clock. He was silently furious, giving off a storm cloud vibe that even Rodney knew to avoid.

Rodney did his best not to read the news, but curiosity got the best of him. He flung the newspaper across the room. Everything he'd said or done was getting twisted, and it was like the French press were out for blood!

"Rodney," his coach snapped, closing his magazine. "Do I need to come in there?"

"No."

Three times a day his coach accompanied Rodney to the cafeteria, stalking behind him, where Rodney was allowed to eat but not to interact with any of the other athletes sitting at the long tables. Not that there was any chance of that anyway.

Rodney glared back at the looks he was getting. A young girl with dark hair falling in her face, an Austrian skater he didn't know, gave him a pitying flick of her eyes before she looked away. But most people seemed all too smug. The Americans clustered together, laughing as a group, casting Rodney quick glances as they grinned. Rodney smothered a sigh as he looked at the ceiling. The topic of conversation was quite apparent. The east German, Hans-or-whatever-his-name-was, stood tall, radiating satisfaction as he picked up his tray. He didn't look in Rodney's direction as he went through the cafeteria line, though his shoulder was turned enough towards Rodney that it was obvious he was aware of his presence.

The other Canadian skaters pointedly sat at another table, pretending not to notice him. Rodney had never socialized with them anyway, he assured himself, surprised at how much it stung. What did he care? But these supposedly were his friends and teammates.

Huh. So much for that.

His practices were the only respite he had from the boredom and the skaters' gleeful disdain. But there it was impossible to avoid his coach. His heavy air of anger and disappointment hung over their sessions.

Other than the compulsories, Rodney hadn't even competed yet.

He threw himself into his training and did his best not to invite conversation. Or look at the newspapers. Though the headlines drew him....

After two days of misery -- it seemed like twelve -- Rodney managed to excuse himself during his morning practice to go to the bathroom. His coach had begun to relax enough that he was permitted to go on his own. Rodney climbed the flights of stairs through the stands. The bathrooms for the audiences were nicer than the ones for the athletes.

"Psst!" said a voice. "Rodney."

Cautious and worried that this might be some kind of prank or something to land him in even more hot water, Rodney looked around. It came from an alcove by the ladies bathroom.

"Rodney, please, I haven't much time."

Radek.

Rodney hesitated, then walked over, squinting in confusion. There Radek grabbed his arm and herded him into the ladies room, shooting a quick look over his shoulder. Inside, he pulled Rodney through another little door into a diaper changing room. Rodney had had no idea women's bathrooms had these. There was even a padded bench for a nap.

"They won't think to look in here," Radek said, twitching toward the door on tiptoe, gazing through the little window.

Rodney couldn't fathom why the press would follow him into the bathroom anyway, unless they wanted to report on how he smelled -- although he wouldn't put it past them at this point.

"I don't have time for any cozy moments, Marc will notice I'm gone -- and where have you been anyway?" Rodney started in on him. "I went all the way to Amsterdam – without you! Thanks for hanging me out to dry, by the way, you ruined the whole trip."

"Yes. I know. I heard. I could not go. The director of the Czech Olympic team wanted to speak with me, personally."

"Couldn't he wait? This was important!"

"Given what happened, I think it was a good thing I did not go."

"Great. Wonderful. So now you're avoiding me, too?" Rodney said. "I wondered why you disappeared. I made one tiny little mistake and it's not even relevant to my skating!"

Radek made a frantic panicky gesture. "Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"I'm getting ripped to shreds here! I'm not doing anything different, my practices are the same, but now every move I make is a bad one. And my coach won't even let me talk to the press so that makes me look even more guilty! They can say whatever they want."

"Rodney, I should not even be speaking to you now."

"Oh, thanks a lot!"

"Rodney," Radek said, hands down in an emphatic gesture. "The director is paying attention to me. They want my brother to not do his jump."

"Fine. Kick me when I'm down. My future's on the line here!"

"His is 'on the line' as you say, too! Through no fault of his own," Radek said, frowning.

Rodney's eyes went wide. "So you're saying I deserve this? I brought it on myself?"

"That is not what I said."

The door outside to the bathroom swung open and the click of high heels echoed off the tile. Rodney and Radek ducked below the little window in the changing room, crouching on the floor.

Several moments later, a toilet flushed. A faucet ran for a moment. Then the clicking heels walked by them again. The door squeaked open and the heavy outer door shut.

"You know what?" Rodney leaned close, pointing a finger at Radek's chest, his voice an undertone now. "I did it for you. So that just once in your insignificant little communist life you had a glimpse of the world outside, before they slammed the door shut for good and melted the key. But, fine, throw it all back in my face. See if I care."

Radek put his hands out in a forestalling gesture. "Rodney, I'm telling you, it is getting dangerous." He took a deep breath, and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his voice soft and urgent. "My brother, he is going to win something. I've done the calculations and I don't know who is connected to who, but I know that after his first jump? The next, no matter what it is, will push the Soviet Union off the podium."

Rodney's face crumpled as he realized where this was headed.

He said unhappily, "I thought you were my friend."

"I cannot see you any more, Rodney. I'm sorry."

~*~*~

"Welcome back to the 1986 Winter Olympics. We've been talking to Stevie Owens, this year's downhill bronze medalist. So, Stevie, regarding our question in the first segment, what's it like in between events? Do our athletes usually stay in the Olympic village for the duration?"

"Either that or wherever you're training. A lot of the other skiers like to stay away from the Olympic village -- they complain about the food or say the press is around too much. Me, I'm training all the time so it doesn't matter."

"And the food?"

"Ha! Okay, you got me there. I bring in some of my own. I miss pizza back in the good ol' U. S. of A."

"It's unusual then to leave the grounds during the Olympics?"

"Oh. Yeah. I heard about McKay. I don't know about figure skaters myself, but for downhill, no, no way, there's just no time. I can see Europe after the Olympics."

"And get pizza?"

"You bet. They got pizza in Italy, right?"

~*~*~

February, 1999

"Go, go, go!" Rodney yelled. "You say you train so hard, but I'm not seeing any life out there! When we finally hear from the figure skating committee, you're going to be ready despite yourself."

John swept by, turned and stroked backward, arms out, shoulders tight, his lips pressed together as he eked out more speed, digging into the ice hard.

"You're not on a Merry-Go-Round – this should be fast!"

John flowed into the pause to set up his jump, shoulders squared, then threw himself into the toe loop, landing on the other foot.

"Yes!" Rodney called out, following behind him with two sharp strokes. "Much smoother. That transition was like glass. I guess we should've been working on your speed all along."

John put his hands on his hips and breathed, looking up at the ceiling with a relieved smile.

"What are you doing?" Rodney squawked, straightening, arms spread and palms up in a question. "Don't stop. Did I say stop?" He made an emphatic wide spiraling gesture, finger in the air. "Keep going! That's a very bad habit of yours. Think of a river: does it ever pause? There should be no breaks in your program."

Eyes sharp and focused, dead serious, John restarted his circuit.

~*~*~

John stretched his feet luxuriously, rolling onto his back. He slung an arm behind his head, his eyes mostly closed. Faint light from the street lamp outside John's kitchen window traced a bluish sheen across his skin and cast a square door-shaped pattern on the hardwood floor. Rodney lay on his side, pressed against the wall, squeezed into a corner of John's double futon. He was certain "double" really meant that it was designed for small children – if that – rather than full-grown men.

He couldn't get used to how empty John's place felt, as though he'd just moved in. Maybe it was because John didn't own very much. There was a hollow echo as John got up and walked naked to the kitchen, scratching the back of his head, footsteps scuffing.

"You want anything?" John offered, turning back, hand still on the back of his head.

John's sheet draped across his lap, Rodney sat up. He would never be that relaxed in the nude, but then again, he'd never look like that either.

"Anything in particular?" Rodney asked doubtfully. John's fridge was a study in Buddhist emptiness.

John disappeared into the kitchen. There was the rattle of bottles as the refrigerator door opened. "I dunno. A beer?" he called out.

"You're allowed to have that?"

John returned, twisting the bottle cap off as he stood in the doorway. "Well. Now that I'm off the meds, sure."

"You are?"

John sat down on the bed and handed Rodney his beer. He took a long draw from his own and sighed. "Yeah." His eyes sharpened, waking up a little. They flicked to the side. "I didn't tell you that?"

"Since when?"

John pursed his lips. "Couple weeks ago."

"And you didn't bother to tell me?"

"I was busy." John cringed, having the grace to look remorseful as he lay back down, slipping under the covers.

"When were you going to say something? We could have been working on your jumps last week." Rodney took a long sip from his own beer, dipping his head as he swallowed. He gestured with the bottle. "From here on out, you are to keep me informed of any and all health issues related to your skating -- and I can't believe I even have to explain this to you," he added, muttering to himself.

"Kind of like everything's supposed to be on a schedule now?"

There was a faint glimmer of amusement in John's sleepy, slitted eyes. He rubbed his feet together under the sheet, a slip-slide shifting sound of cotton.

"Well, obviously this was not on the agenda." He gestured to the bed.

"It was on mine." John snickered, taking another pull of his beer, and Rodney was close enough to feel his chest rumble with laughter. His skin was sticky with sweat and they still smelled like sex. He held up his beer and measured the remainder with his eyes.

"What time is it anyway?" Rodney cringed even as he asked.

Blinking himself a little more awake, John reached for his watch on the nightstand, picked it up and squinted. "One a.m."

"Oh, no...."

"Let's try to get some sleep," John said. He rolled to his side, up on one elbow to set his beer on the floor – Rodney imagined that would probably be knocked over in the morning – and then reached back for Rodney's, fingers wiggling. Rodney took a quick deep swallow and handed it over. Tugging at the covers, John pulled them over his shoulder and Rodney tucked in around behind him, arm awkwardly draped over John's waist.

They were quiet a long moment, their breathing shallow, still not sleeping.

Then Rodney complained, "Is that light always so bright?"

"Yes, Rodney," came John's mumble from the pillow.

Rodney tried to roll to his other side, and found himself squashed face first into the wall. He turned back around towards John.

"You sure you didn't shrink this bed in the wash? Cotton batting does shrink, you know."

"Good night, Rodney." John groaned.

~*~*~

February, 1986

"Czechoslovakian ski jumper, Jiri Zelenka, in third place after his initial jump, has withdrawn from the competition due to an injury incurred while skateboarding."

"That's good news for the Soviets."

"You know that Glasnost has arrived when an eastern bloc skier injures himself skateboarding."

~*~*~

February, 1999

Rodney rapped out a staccato on the bench, flicking a glance up at the clock on the rink wall behind him. He checked his watch as if it would tell him something different, stood and walked partway up the aisle, then returned.

The double door into the rink opened and John entered, his face alight, eyes looking past Rodney in a kind of happy wonder.

"I said you could take a break, not a vacation." Rodney scowled, tapping his watch for emphasis.

"Thought I'd make a little phone call," John said, tipping his head nonchalantly. Then he broke into a slow spreading smile, unable to contain himself. "Heard from the U.S. Figure Skating Association."

Rodney's eyebrows raised. "And-?" His hand spun impatiently at John's excruciating, slow unspooling of information. It was one of his more annoying traits.

"Seems they're having some sort of competition in Colorado." John's smile had turned to a grin. "Think we should go?"

Rodney rubbed his hands together. "Oh, I'll have to check my schedule."

"Let me know when you decide." John licked his lips, chuckling as he stepped out onto the ice. He bobbed his head, still grinning. "We're going to the America Cup."

~*~*~

February, 1986

"Canadian figure skating champion, Rodney McKay, struggled with his triple Lutz in his warm-up today, falling twice. Linda, what's going on with McKay?"

"It's very common to have a bad practice before a major competition. In fact, I consider it a good sign, working out those early jitters. You want to peak at the competition, not right before. I always did better when my last practice didn't go well: it motivated me to do my best."

~*~*~

February, 1999

On auto-pilot, John woke at three a.m. His bedroom was still dark, the thrumming quiet filled with anticipation. Outside a dog barked and John heard the street cleaners whir by, a steady grinding hum, just like every other morning.

But today there was no point in taking a shower yet. Rodney had called off their practice, and tomorrow they were scheduled for a 10 a.m. flight. The tickets had already arrived via overnight express. The America Cup committee had been annoyed that they had to pay thirty-five dollars because John didn't have a computer to print out an online ticket, and stunned he didn't even have an email address, but they'd made do, though not without telling him how to sign up for a free email that he'd never check.

Outside, moving down in the hallway, John heard the measured footsteps of his neighbor, the union guy, going to work. Then his quicker steps on the front stairs and squeak of the main doors as they shut behind him.

Right about now John would normally be toweling off his wet hair and grabbing some toast, maybe some eggs if he had time, before throwing on workout clothes and heading out to pick up Rodney.

John shut his eyes to try to sleep in, but it was like Christmas morning when he and his brother would end up whispering until 5 a.m., hovering at the top of the stairs to peek at the stacks of presents that had appeared magically overnight.

He gave in, and got up to go jogging to get this energy out of his system, running his hands over his eyes with a sniff. He clicked on the overhead and hunted for clean sweats -- until he remembered that a run was strictly off-limits, too. Damn. The prospect of an entire day with nothing to do stretched out before him.

With a sigh, John took a long shower, apologizing in his mind to the other tenants for using all the hot water.

A warm stripe of dawn slowly stained the sky pink as, towel wrapped around his waist, John forced himself to take the time to make an omelet with wilted chives, caramelizing the onions in a separate frying pan. He sat down at the kitchen table – normally he ate breakfast standing – and looked out the kitchen window at a time of day he didn't usually see, since he was supposed to be at the rink by now. Three or four kids, their breath steaming in golden morning, took a shortcut over the neighbor's lawn and jumped the fence to the road. A car sputtered, then started up in the driveway just past them. The sense of being late, of not being where he was supposed to be, itched under his skin.

John grabbed his plate and washed the dishes, then leaned his hand on the cupboard, head down, chewing his lip as he tried to think what else to do. The free weights came to mind and were discarded. Stretches were probably okay.

Laundry.

John had meant to save laundry for later, but he could get that started and then do stretches for forty-five minutes or so. Maybe an hour. Nothing wrong with doing stretches for an hour.

~*~*~

The laundry was draped on hangers off the kitchen curtain rod and across the kitchen chairs to dry. He had the second load in the tub and had stripped the sheets off the bed. Rodney was just being anal in insisting on only one load.

He had graduated to handstands next to the bed, but he'd been good: he caught himself right before he moved into pushups out of sheer habit.

It wasn't until 10 o'clock that John remembered the existence of television. ESPN had a ping-pong tournament. John couldn't see the point of watching a sport where you couldn't see the ball. It was translated from Chinese and every game point had to be shown in slow motion afterward. He changed channels, stretched out on his bare mattress. CTV was showing a marathon of "Upstairs/Downstairs," a show John could never follow. What was it with the Canadian obsession over an upper crust they were lucky not to have? He clicked through cooking shows and game shows and an early soap opera before he gave up and turned it off. He prowled his apartment, running his hands through his hair until it stuck up.

He needed to get out.

He put on a warm coat, hat, and sneakers, and went for a walk. There was nothing wrong with walking. Even if he felt like an old man, forcing himself not to run.

Outside on the concrete sidewalk, hands tucked in his pockets, John nodded to a big guy with a mustache in a hunter's orange scarf who was being pulled along in a stumble behind a huge Labrador retriever. The guy nodded back, preoccupied with his dog. The sky was bright, slate-gray, the kind of day where you had to squint even if you never saw the sun. The trees stretched their bare branches over the street. John reached the end of his block and turned onto the main drag. He passed little shops, a listless hair salon, a used bookstore with a sleeping cat stretched out in the window, a tea shop, and other stores he'd never noticed, and still didn't care about now.

He backed up and tapped on the window of the bookstore to get the cat's attention. He liked animals. Then noticed the sign that begged, "Please don't tap on the window."

He almost stopped in the bakery before he realized he hadn't thought to bring his wallet. Cars swept up and down the street. John wondered what other people did with their time if they didn't skate.

John returned to an empty apartment that smelled like soap and was more chaotic and messy than he was used to, laundry everywhere, sheets torn off and bundled at the end of the bed, the video box pulled out from when John had decided it would be torture to watch them today.

He'd made it to lunch. But he couldn't deal with his place like this, so he tidied up first, did a fourth load of laundry with the sheets, then used up the last of the greens for lunch so they wouldn't go bad.

Which reminded him he was going to be competing in less than forty-eight hours. His heart pounded; the nerves were starting early this time.

Fletcher wasn't going to be there, so if he could take Kulka on the technical scores, maybe... John clenched his fist and stopped that line of thought. The last thing he needed was to think about the other skaters. He had to stay focused on his own game.

It took him less than half an hour to pack.

The answering machine had no messages except the one from U.S. Figure Skating, which he didn't know why he'd kept since it made his breath turn shallow. John had gotten out of the habit of calling his parents about his competitions. It opened too much of a can of worms and he didn't need a discussion about his "future" right before he was going to be skating in front of several thousand people.

John leaned over his answering machine on the floor next to the bed which blinked red, one message, looked around his spotless apartment, noticed the inline skates propped up next to his bike, and said, "Fuck it."

He had the inline skates laced up in seconds. He'd take it easy.

~*~*~

Late afternoon, the sun had finally decided to show itself, bright golden streaks painted on the side of John's face. He lazily turned on the back edge of the inline skates, toes up. It wasn't as easy as skating, inlines wanted to go forward, but he could get one to one-and-a-half revolutions out of them, catching himself with his other skate.

He restricted himself to his own block to avoid the temptation of speed.

Instead, he skated down the apartment walkway and jumped the single step at the gate, turning sharply right before he hit a row of parked cars. He lost track of time, absorbed in perfecting his technique.

He tried again, with just a little more lift this time, swinging his arms right as he hit the step. He landed way too far out, turned in midair and slammed his hip into a car. The car alarm squawked, headlights flashing, the whine and wail of the siren drawing all eyes up and down the street. A woman with dark carefully curled hair glared at him from a third floor window. John gave a sheepish little wave and coughed into his fist as he slipped away.

He needed a spot that didn't have a damned obstacle course at the end.

He started with jumping the three steps by the front door of the apartment, grabbing the rail as he usually did to propel himself forward. He had the full walkway to finish out his momentum. Then he worked on getting both skates up on the rail and sliding down. On the third jump he missed the walkway completely and had to roll into the soft grass. But he'd almost made it. He just needed to extend his left foot more to control his balance.

The fourth try he had to abort. He grabbed the rail and swung himself up and over onto the grass.

The fifth he promised himself he'd hold onto. He jumped and knew immediately he'd fucked up as the skate slid out, clutching at the rail as it cracked his chest and his knee went down and hit the steps.

Breathless, he stayed where he was for a moment, his leg ringing like a bell -- not painful yet, oh no -- and tried not to measure the depths of his stupidity.

Pushing himself up off the steps, he decided to call it a day. And thought it was a good thing he still had some of his meds.

~*~*~

John and Rodney threaded their way through the airport terminal, edging between sliding glass doors that popped back open, bumping past busy travelers towards the Air Canada check-in. And it was totally Rodney's fault they were cutting it close.

John had his costumes in a garment bag slung over his shoulder, a backpack on the other arm as he trailed Rodney. He scowled in annoyance that they had to get in line because Rodney didn't know how to pack. Dressed in a comfortable sport jacket and button down shirt, Rodney had an snazzy leather carry-all on one shoulder plus two large suitcases, complete with the annoying little wheels. John just wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He didn't know why it bugged him when people didn't carry their own crap, but it did. He looked around the airport in frustration as they inched forward to check Rodney's bags. On his own he would be at the gate by now, parked in front of a window, watching the planes take off and land.

He shut his eyes and listened to the high rumble and whine of what was probably a DC-9 or DC-10. The 757s had a much lower and louder boom. The sound mixed with the nasal echo of an announcement, the squeak of some kid's tennis shoes, and the liquid murmur of chatter heard at a distance.

And fingers snapping next to his ear. "Earth to Sheppard," Rodney said.

John opened his eyes. The line had finally moved. "You know, they'll have towels at the hotel," he said.

"They use harsh detergents and my skin is very delicate." Rodney handed over his bags to be dropped on the conveyer. "At least I brought more than just a change of underwear -- how are your costumes holding up?"

They hadn't had time to run through John's programs in full costume.

John tipped his head, pursing his lips as they made their way down the dark stairs to the shuttle for terminal one. "I may have picked a few sequins off the sleeves but it's nothing anyone will notice. Of course, it is the end of the season."

"Meaning they could probably crawl to Colorado unaided?" Rodney quirked a smile back at him, taking the steps to the shuttle quickly at least.

"I'm more worried about setting off one of these fire alarms," John said, tongue in cheek, looking around at the ceiling over the stairs.

"Someday they'll invent a sequin that can be dry cleaned. Just don't unpack them in my hotel room."

They walked past bare drywall cordoned off with yellow tape, the floor dry and gritty underfoot from Toronto International Airport's never-ending construction.

"Weren't they renovating this section last year?" Rodney sniped.

John studied the walls. "Someone's milking it."

They reached the shuttle, only to watch it pull away, the soft ding as the doors closed. Of course they had to wait.

"Your hotel room?" John puzzled, with a little frown of disappointment as his mind caught up with what Rodney had said. "We have separate rooms?"

Rodney rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation.

"I'm courting enough trouble as it is," Rodney admonished him, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. "Skate Canada is tied to professional hockey -- which is big business in Canada -- but the U.S. Figure Skating Association?" He squinted at John, forehead creased in a worried expression. "They're little more than an elitist country club that makes it up as they go along. They'd probably invent a 'McKay Rule' just for me, kick me out of the country and portray me as some kind of child molester, never mind that you're twenty-eight years old and perfectly capable of making your own sexual decisions and only three years my junior."

The shuttle arrived, setting loose a flood of passengers. They boarded, Rodney dropping to a seat with huff. John held onto a rail. He didn't see the point of sitting down when they'd be at the terminal in a minute.

"I'm not messing with that," Rodney continued as if they hadn't been interrupted, crossing his legs, arm stretched across the back of the seat. "So, no, we're not sharing a room. And guess what else is off-limits for the duration."

"Too bad," John said, leaning closer. "I've had some good times on these trips."

Rodney sagged and looked mournful. "Don't tell me. I don't want to spend the entire competition jealous of your dozens of ex-lovers."

"Hundreds, even," John said. He raised his eyebrows and suggested with a little smile, "Some of them might be there, too."

They pulled up to the mid-field terminal. As they stepped off the shuttle, Rodney gave him a miserable backward glance.

John just beamed a smirk at him.

~*~*~

The midfield terminal one had a tall glass wall and John paused and looked across the airfield, starry-eyed. Other travelers had to walk around him. Outside, a cool-looking 727 taxied down the runway while right below them a Fokker F-27 was being loaded up with baggage, it's huge propellers still and waiting. The 50-passenger plane was probably bound for Montreal or someplace else close. John ignored Rodney... who mumbled something about "snacks" and "stay right here"... to find a seat by the window, setting his backpack on the floor, the garment bag all but forgotten on his shoulder as he identified aircraft.

A sweet L-1011 thundered, its powerful engines igniting as it took on the runway... and it was airborne. A large styrofoam cup with a straw cut across John's field of vision. John accepted the soda just to get it out of the way.

"You look approximately nine years old at the moment," Rodney commented.

John took a sip from the straw and let it trail across his lower lip, undistracted from the aircraft. "I always wanted to fly," he admitted with a sheepish glance up at Rodney.

Rodney motioned towards the door with a jerk his head, "Well, here's your chance. Time to board." John checked over his shoulder. The line had already started moving. "Looks like they've been boarding for several minutes though it seems I can't expect you to pay attention, despite the fact that I asked you to fetch me when they called our flight."

John picked up his pack and cut ahead of Rodney. "I call the window."

~*~*~

At thirty-six thousand feet, Rodney's head lolled to the side, his mouth slack.

"Rodney?" John said in a stage whisper. When he got no response, he stretched his leg and stood, staggering stiff-legged. Outside the restroom he leaned his shoulder against the wall to take the pressure off the right side.

"Are you all right, sir?" a blond stewardess with gentle eyes asked.

"Yeah. Long flights just make the knee act up." John shrugged. "Old war injury," he lied.

Inside the bathroom, John rattled several pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. He held the bottle up to examine the number he had left. He only needed to make it to the end of the competition.

By the time John returned to his seat, Rodney was awake and snacking on salted peanuts, the crumbs decorating his jacket. "How's it going?" he asked, smiling.

"Feeling no pain," John said, and sighed as he settled into his seat.

~*~*~

February, 1986

"Oh, there's no question that Rodney McKay has raw talent. But what McKay lacks is maturity. It shows in his dealings with the press, his attitudes towards other skaters like myself, and it shows on the ice, too. He doesn't have the consistency and control of a seasoned skater."

"Well. He has consistently won consecutive World titles."

"Yes, but the Olympics are different. The whole skating community watches the World Championships. The whole world watches the Olympics."

~*~*~

The ski lift allowed only Olympic competitors, their coaches, and support crew during the events, with spectators restricted to the stands at the base of the ramp. The judges, of course, had the best view of the actual landing site, sectioned off with fluttering ribbons. Most ski jumpers' support teams carried with them an alternate pair of skis, back-up ski poles, even ski boots, along with extra goggles, hats, gloves... there wouldn't be time to go back down the slope if they forgot anything, and no one was more superstitious than a ski jumper.

The small young man in a sky blue and red skintight jumpsuit skied off the lift alone, with nothing but his ski poles and the hat and goggles he was wearing. Two officials, clipboards in hand, bundled in parkas against the cold that made them look twice as imposing, checked his name and his country. There was some confusion at first until they found him on the injured list.

"You cut it close, kid," said a referee with an American accent and five interlocking rings on his coat. "You're not supposed to write on your number, you know," he added. Getting no answer, he glanced over to the windsock and waved the all clear signal to the group at the gate. They had taken this mess aside so that it wouldn't distract the current jumper from his intense concentration.

In the judges stand below, wishing he'd brought warmer gloves, Radek ducked his head and dutifully marked his scores as an assistant trial judge. It was hard being on the slope when his brother had been forced to withdraw, it was wrong, but it was also his job.

The primary Czech judge beside him poked him in the ribs with an elbow.

"Isn't that your little brother?"

Radek shook his head. "No. He's not coming today."

"No, I mean -- isn't that him?" The judge pointed to the top of the ski ramp.

Radek looked up and caught the glimpse of a sky blue and red jumpsuit disappearing into the starting gate. His mouth opened to say something that didn't come. It was not possible.

Up at the top of the slope, the ski jumper tightened the velcro on his gloves, and wrapped the straps of ski poles tightly around his hands, testing them. There was no coach to shout last minute encouragement, which for the officials made the starting gate strangely silent. Everyone else fell still in response.

The kid planted his ski poles in the slushy trampled ice at the top and got in tuck. He rocked forward, once, twice... on the bell, he was off. He stabbed the poles into the snow, fighting for speed, then tucked in tight, a blue and red blur rocketing down the ramp.

The loudspeaker had announced his name, Jiri Zelenka of Czechoslovakia, but Radek didn't hear it, his breath taken away. He sat frozen in horror and yet somehow impressed as his sixteen-year-old brother flew off the edge of the world.

Radek saw the landing, forward knee bent and perfect, though he couldn't score the jump if his life depended on it. He discovered himself standing, a hand pressed to his forehead, the crowd cheering around him, and remembered that he hadn't brought his camera, before he realized that the whole world would have this on film.

~*~*~

"After his lackluster performance in the short program yesterday, Canada's Rodney McKay needs to go for broke if he is to have any shot at the gold."

"Right now it's his technical scores in the compulsories that are keeping him afloat. Although many feel that the precision of the compulsories are the true measure of the best skater."

"Still, it's the freeskate that will determine the gold tonight."

"Absolutely. McKay's program does not have quite the level of technical difficulty as the Soviets, nor does he have the athletic power of the East German team, but what he does have is the artistic scores that often carry the day. Rodney McKay is a charismatic performer. It is truly something to see him skate in person."

~*~*~

Rodney's coach had both hands on Rodney's thin shoulders as Rodney bent over, coiled in on himself on the locker room bench.

"But they have better jumps than I do," Rodney said, dispirited.

"This is figure skating, not the high jump in track and field. No one cares if they put their footprints a little further on the ice – that's not a sign of real talent," his coach said. "You're better than all of them, and you've beaten them all before at Worlds."

Rodney's wide blue eyes flicked up, looking a shade desperate. "I have," he said, as if trying to remind himself.

"Now last night—"

"Last night was terrible!" Rodney wailed.

"Last night was good, you skated it clean, and almost everyone else made mistakes. Remember that. But these are the Olympics. You don't get a second chance. So skate like last night but this time put it all on the line," he said. "Give us everything, Rodney, and you'll do great." He thumped Rodney's back as he stood. They heard the thunder of applause even this far down the hall from the ice. The Russian skater must have done something amazing because the Soviets weren't popular in Germany.

Swallowing, Rodney stepped out of the locker room into the brightly lit concrete tunnel to the rink, the crowd noise rising as he approached for his final skate. They were cheering the Soviet skater as he bowed at center ice, arms sweeping up, flowers thrown in cellophane-wrapped bundles and stuffed animals bouncing to the ice. Through the opening of the tunnel he saw the Soviet star lean down to scoop up a turquoise dinosaur and hold it in the air with amusement as this prompted more cheers.

Rodney read him: loose-limbed and confident. He must have had a very good skate. He approached the edge of the rink, deliberately a little late, as he rested his chin on the boards, praying quietly. His hands on his hips, he warmed up with slow pushes, not practicing any hard moves.

The rink was huge, every seat full and blinking with flashbulbs. Rodney noticed one of the cameras aimed in his direction and affected not to care. He'd never performed in front of so many, not even at Worlds. The rink had a wet shine to it from the heat of the stage lighting. Fortunately, from here the acoustics were such that you couldn't hear the scores as they were announced. But the flood of cheers said a word or two on that account.

Then everything seemed to fall still and speed up at once. Rodney didn't hear his name called, but his coach pushed his shoulder forward and said, "Go on, Rodney." He'd forgotten he was there.

The crowd roared, cheered, and whistled, Canadian flags and banners waving as Rodney skated onto the ice for his final freeskate.

~*~*~

February, 1999

John was in the men's room bent over the toilet. The tile was a green-blue with rust between the edges, and the roll was out of toilet paper. He slowly eased up till he was standing, wiping his mouth and rocking back a little.

"Must be something I ate on the plane," he told Rodney.

"I throw up every time, too," Rodney said, and waved him away from the toilet. "Come on." Then backed up a step, hands up. "Whoa. I mean, if you're done."

"I think so," John said, wavering where he stood and still woozy. He cupped his hand under a faucet, rinsed and spat as he leaned on both arms over the sink.

Rodney led John to the locker room mirror by the elbow. "Let's get you fixed up."

Still recovering and spacey, John stood in front of the long wall-length mirror, the cropped cobalt blue spangled jacket of his costume draped across one of the benches behind him. He ignored the sweep of the little sponge as Rodney reapplied the pancake make-up over his nose and around his mouth, then added the dry fluff of the powder brush. John shook out first one foot, then the other, bouncing a little as he loosened his shoulders like a boxer.

Rubbing his fingers together with a quick flicking motion, Rodney picked up the black eye pencil from John's bag.

"I got that." John stopped him, slipping the eye pencil out of his hand. He stretched one eyelid, applying a thin line right above his eye lashes. "It's scary that we're all good with this stuff," he said, doing the other eye and blinking. Examining himself in the mirror, he smeared a small mistake away at the corner.

Rodney grimaced, scrunching his face. "I try not to think about it."

He put on the tiny cobalt blue sequined jacket over the white ruffled shirt and gave Rodney a death glare as Rodney pressed his lips together, eyes dancing, obviously trying hard not to laugh. He hadn't considered that they'd need to practice in costume just so Rodney could get it out of his system.

"One word...." John warned him in a low growl as he considered disemboweling Rodney if he lost it now.

"You look... great," Rodney lied. John appreciated the effort.

With a purposeful stride, Rodney led John out in the bare concrete hall, the noise of the crowd rising as they approached. John was as white as a sheet, drawn in on himself, sweat beading along his hairline.

They were reading the scores for the last skater as John had his final brief warm-up on the edge of the ice. He always did his best not to listen to those, hands on his hips, head down. Cameras flashed in his direction.

Moments later the announcer called, "Representing the Glen Ellyn Figure Skating Club of Chicago, Illinois... John Sheppard."

John skated out, pasting a tight smile on his face. To this day John could still hear his first coach's voice: Smile, John. You look like you're going to a funeral.

At center ice, his body struck the starting pose of its own accord. Now there was nothing left but to skate. Rodney was rink-side behind him, he knew, chewing his nails. Living through every moment of this with him. It was like a thin imaginary lifeline.

The arena was much colder, quieter than Nationals six weeks ago, all the seats down in front full but only a scattering of spectators in the upper stands. Two people alone, way up in the seats above the cavernous hole of the entryway, were having a conversation. The dark eye of a television camera pointed in his direction, which John tried hard not to think about. There were so many lights aimed at the ice that the stadium practically whited out.

The familiar music began, the music he'd skated to in every competition this season and countless practices over the last year. He'd never been more sick of a piece of music in his life. He moved, acting on pure muscle memory, and found himself spinning up into his first quad, landing it clean. A distant clapping sounded like someone shuffling a deck of cards.

Weird things were suddenly amplified as he moved into the straight line steps, left, right, turn, arms out, little stuff he never noticed: his posture wasn't good, his back had hunched as he jumped up into the next double. He knew it as it happened, yet couldn't help it on auto pilot, skating into a well-worn groove.

His favorite section, the low sliding steps with the double push to the outward edge went smoothly, he could feel it; he changed his footing and did the same on the inside edge and let himself glide up, bouncing and swinging his leg around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees into the half camels, switched legs and did the same. When he stabbed the ice with his toe pick for the triple flip, something wobbled. He spun around tight and landed it okay, but something was wrong.

Even though he skated like he'd always had, he suddenly knew none of it was right; it wasn't fixed. This was nothing like his skating with Rodney. It felt like going to kindergarten to sit in the back in too small a chair. For the first time he knew he hadn't made any progress.

Amazed, John lost his sense of the music, and the connection with his program vanished. He found himself going through the motions in the Russian step sequence – hit an edge wrong -- shit! -- his right skate tipped sideways for no good reason. He stumbled. And was skidding on his hands and knees. Stupid! Stupid!

He got back up but found himself chasing the music from then onward. It was all over very quickly as he found his last pose, not quite on his mark, his right fist punched in the air like he'd scored a victory.

The music stopped, after what seemed like three seconds on the ice, all of them that fall – in the easiest section of his program! – John wondered if the crowd was as floored as he was.

Then they started clapping. That was forgiving of them, he thought.

He forced himself to bow as if everything had gone perfectly, hands sweeping out, his eyes wide and stunned. Then, shoulders hunched and his head down, he turned to skate off the ice. His knee wouldn't cooperate, and felt leaden, like it had been injected with novocaine.

A moment later, while he struggling to get a little momentum going -- his face turning hot as he couldn't get off the ice in front of all these people -- a solid someone reached under his arm and grabbed him, wrapping John's arm over his shoulder. John looked over at a bald-headed burly guy in a white polo shirt, a whistle dangling and the skating rink logo over his pocket.

"Where does it hurt?" burly guy asked.

He was fine. He didn't need any help.

"It doesn't hurt at all," John heard himself saying. "It just won't work."

"Okay. You need to get your weight off your right leg... straighten your left leg and I'll pull you."

They started moving towards the cavernous exit.

"Um. I hate to be a back seat driver but the Kiss-and-Cry is over there," John pointed, casting a glance over his shoulder to the right. He scanned for Rodney, waiting for him, but didn't see anyone on the platform.

"I don't think you're going there."

Oh, good, John thought. He sure as hell didn't want to know his scores for that lousy performance. He looked again for Rodney but no dice.

The audience had grown a lot louder, their talk and chatter sounding like the ocean to John. Faces collected alongside the boards, pressing closer and, as he got off the ice, John was pretty sure there were a lot more people taking pictures of him now than earlier. The thought had a bitter ironic taste, though he also thought it was kind of funny. His knee twanged like a bow once they were on dry land and that's when the pain began, throbbing low and searing up his leg. Eyes watering, he wished the ice stretched all the way to the locker room where he could lie down. His pills were there, too, though this would probably require the rest of the bottle.

"Where are you taking him?" Rodney's familiar snappish voice, sharp with panic, was a balm. John's face spun towards him in relief. Rodney was forcing his way through the crowd, must have come all the way from the Kiss-N-Cry, rudely shouldering people aside with the grace of a linebacker.

"Hey, Rodney," John said with breezy calm he didn't feel. "My knee stopped working. And I missed the straight line steps, can you believe it?" he blurted out.

"Shut up, I wasn't talking to you," Rodney said to John, turning to the guy holding John up.

The burly guy answered, "That's your option. We have medical staff on hand or we can call 911 and have him taken to the hospital."

The crowd hummed and roared around them. The announcer said something; John couldn't tell what it was. It occurred to him that they were probably holding up the program.

"Hospital," Rodney rapped out without a second's hesitation.

"I don't think that's necessary, I'm fine," John interrupted.

"And you are-?" the burly guy asked Rodney.

Why were they both ignoring him?

"I'm his coach and therefore my word is law: hospital. Now."

"No, no, I just need to lie down," John said in a cheerful, strangely disconnected voice that seemed to come from a vast distance. He felt the truth of that as the energy drained out of him; it was taking everything he had to stand there with his leg on fire, waves of pain licking up his calf. Coupled with skating exhaustion, he felt like he could fall asleep on the spot, though usually it hit him in the Kiss-N-Cry when he came off the adrenaline.

The burly guy staggered a step under John's sudden full weight.

"Get him to a hospital, or I'll have you all sued within an inch of your lives at which point I'll buy this rink just for the satisfaction of seeing you fired!" Rodney said.

"Call 911," the burly guy said over his shoulder. He was a practical man.

They brought John a stretcher – which was embarrassing and unnecessary, John was sure, but they still weren't listening to him as they poured him onto it – and then two guys bounced him down a corridor. Watching the ceiling go by overhead, with the poorly painted pipes and ragged concrete, was a weird experience and John was sure he could have gone more smoothly and with fewer jogs of pain if they had just let him stand.

Outside in the wet parking lot, double-headed lamps made the slick asphalt shine. An ambulance was already silently waiting for him, its red lights blinking and flashing. It was cold in Colorado, crumbled brown snow shoved in every corner, and John shivered, still in just his costume. He was grateful when they finally shut the ambulance doors and he was staring at a new ceiling, white and curved.

The doors reopened, bringing a wash of cold air as Rodney bullied his way into the ambulance, raising holy hell when the paramedic didn't want him along. John caught the tail end of the argument as the doors shut behind Rodney. "...do I look like I carry an automobile in my pocket? How am I supposed to get there?"

The ambulance staff hunched away from him. Rodney wasn't winning any friends tonight, and John was so grateful.

Rodney yelled at him the whole way.

"Don't think I haven't figured out you were doing the jumps all along, because no one pulls a triple axel out of his ass after being grounded for five weeks, I don't care how talented they are...."

It was the first time Rodney had ever called him talented.

~*~*~

February, 1986

"The Czech officials have asked Jiri Zelenka to remove his number, which seems to have some writing on it. Looks like magic marker. They seem very upset. Let's have a closer look at that."

"I don't read Czech. You?"

"No. But there's a date on there. Let's see if we can get more infor.... We've just learned that it's the date of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia."

"Jiri Zelenka has certainly made a statement at these Olympic games."

"And currently he's in first place. But Finland is up next. They'll be tough to beat."

~*~*~

February, 1999

The hospital had speckled floors and white walls and brightly lit rooms that reminded John of something that nagged at the back of his mind, until he realized the lighting was a lot like the rink. He was laying on the hospital bed as strange hands cut away the pant leg of his costume and exposed him up to his thigh. Then those hands, warm and sure, touched his knee and rotated it gently.

"Agh!" John yelped, coming to full awareness. The doctor prodded him just below the knee. "Try that with a hot poker next because I don't think it hurt enough." He glared.

"You do have a medical license, right?" Rodney asked. "And your name's not Kevorkian?"

The doctor wore a sea-green hospital coat and was very young, with cropped curly hair and deep brown skin. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote on a chart without comment, the pen scratching quietly.

"It's probably the ACL again," John said to fill the space.

"No. Your knee is not subluxated in full extension so the anterior cruciate ligament is not a likely culprit," the young doctor said in a clipped tenor, with just a little of an inner city blur in his voice. "Also, the pain would suggest another cause."

"Really?" Rodney said with an amazed expression, seeming to understand all that.

John just looked at the doc as if he'd just spouted Greek. Or Latin, which was probably closer to the truth.

"I've had ACL problems before," John said, mystified.

"Yes. We had your medical records faxed to us by the U.S. Figure Skating Association." The association had his medical records? John wondered about the legality of that but didn't have time to consider the implications. "It appears that the reconstructive surgery two years ago was a success, although all signs suggest an extreme amount of stress on the affected knee which we would prefer you'd avoid. For the current situation we'll need X-rays to confirm it," the doctor continued, clicking on an overhead light. John put his hand up to block it. "But your symptoms most likely indicate an anterior tibial stress fracture."

"A fracture?" John said.

"Have you engaged in an increased level of activity recently? Heavy, repetitive motions?"

"I've done a lot of jumping...." John said.

"Mmm-hmm. When did the pain first appear?" the doctor continued briskly, not looking at John.

"When I was rollerblading. I, uh, fell."

"It was related to a specific fall?" the doctor asked, frowning in sudden concern.

"Rollerblading?" Rodney squawked.

"And this was on-?"

John winced and squirmed, scrunching his face. "Can we not talk about that right now?"

"Did the pain first appear this evening or before?" the doctor continued relentlessly.

"Before," John admitted. "It started on Friday."

"Friday?" Rodney said.

John hung his head. "I really don't want to talk about this...."

"I can have him removed if you like," the doctor offered. His manner was professional and smooth, the sort of guy who worked very hard to be perfect, but it seemed he liked the idea as he finally raised his face from John's chart.

John's eyes widened in worry at the thought of Rodney leaving. "No, he can stay," he said, the casual words belied by his sharp tone.

Once the doctor left, Rodney started in on John. "Friday? Didn't I tell you to cool it on Friday?"

And with a complaining groan, John put his arm over his face.

~*~*~

February, 1986

Jeannie pounded on Rodney's door. She had moved past polite knocking to the full drum kit, but he was Not. Listening. He turned up his Walkman further and could easily ignore her till the cows came home.

"You can't stay locked in your room forever," came Jeannie's muffled voice.

"Oh, yes, I can," Rodney said into his pillow. He wasn't crying. He was avoiding the press in the most thorough way possible, and why did they have those vultures ready to pounce the moment you left the Kiss-n-Cry?

"Dad wants to talk to you," Jeannie added.

His little sister always loved to deliver bad news.

"Tell him to go away," Rodney said.

"And there's a letter here for you from someone called 'Dalek'...?"

"That's Radek," Rodney corrected. He stood, unlocked the door and yanked it open in a heartbeat, snatching the letter out of her hand with a quick swipe, then tried to close it again – but she threw her shoulder against it and held the door wide open, her feet braced against the doorjamb. His coach and his father were there in the adjoining room to Rodney's. His father's arms were crossed while his coach sat on his bed, wiping his forehead.

"Told you that would flush him out," Jeannie said to their dad with a victorious smile. Rodney was already tearing the letter open. A folded newspaper article fell out onto the floor and Rodney bent to pick it up. "Bet it's a love letter."

"Rodney...." his father began, his voice stern.

"Who's Radek?" his coach asked, puzzled.

Rodney made an impatient gesture. "He's a Czech ski jump...." He drifted into silence as he read Radek's note. It was short. Far too short. All it said was:

I'm sorry I could not come to see you skate. -

R.Z. -

Rodney turned his attention to the folded article, which was in English, thankfully. The headline said, Czech Protester Jumps to Silver.

"How do you know a Czech ski jumper?" his coach asked, mouth open.

"He's a ski jump judge, now will you all be quiet a second?" Rodney waved them off as his eyes scanned frantically down the page. He threw them a bone, adding with an off-handed gesture, "He was supposed to go to Amsterdam with me."

His father froze. He pulled the article firmly from Rodney's hand, his eyes growing wide as he read it. "You planned to go to Amsterdam with a Czechoslovakian dissident?"

Jeannie chortled, sidling close and shifting the article delicately from her father's hands. "What? You leading some kind of double life, Mer?"

Rodney snatched it from her. "That's mine." He started reading again. "And he's not a dissident – oh, my god, they're calling him a dissident! Well, from this newspaper it's a compliment, but still."

"How do you know this person?" Rodney's father asked, his intense eyes alarmed.

"That's what I'd like to know," his coach echoed wonderingly.

His sister snatched the article from Rodney's hands -- again -- and skimmed it. "Oh, he's the one that did that ski jump protest." Rodney's coach leaned over her shoulder to read it, frowning.

"You know about this?" Rodney looked up, squinting at her.

"It's all over the news. Where've you been?" Jeannie said.

"Skating!"

"...And going to Amsterdam," Jeannie muttered under her breath, quickly silenced by a dark look from her dad.

Rodney took advantage of her distraction to seize the article back. She held tight and he shouted, "Rip it and I'll disown you all!"

She let go.

"Rodney. I need to speak with you. Privately," his father said. His words fell on deaf ears as Rodney kept reading.

Then Rodney looked up, eyes wide with horror. "He's gone. They sent him back to Czechoslovakia yesterday."

The article fluttered to the bed.

"How did you meet this person?" his father asked, his brow furrowed.

"Oooo! Meredith has a boyfriend...." Jeannie teased.

"Oh, shut up, everyone knows I'm gay!" Rodney snapped at her.

Rodney's father fell completely still.

Rodney glanced around the room at the sudden silence. Jeannie's eyes circled warily to their dad.

"Um. Present company excepted, I guess." Rodney turned to his coach with a puzzled frown. "But I thought... Marc, didn't I ask you to tell dad?"

His coach had his face in his hands, rounded shoulders slumped. He ran his hands slowly down his face and let them drop his lap, saying, "I think I said that this is something you have to handle yourself, Rodney."

"Okay. Well. News flash!" He held his hands up and waggled his fingers. "I'm gay, gay, gay! Now that that's handled, can we get back to the point?"

"I knew...." Jeannie muttered.

His father turned to the window, his hand to his forehead like he had a headache. "What am I going to tell your mother?" Shoulders squared and stiff, he sighed and braced a forearm against the window frame. "Am I to understand that instead of hearing about you sneaking away to Amsterdam -- during the most important competition of your life -- we could have been hearing about you sneaking off to have a... relationship, a gay relationship," he seemed stuck on that point, reeling, "in Amsterdam. With a Czechoslovakian dissident?"

"You make it sound so terrible." Rodney blinked.

"So this is your boyfriend?" Jeannie interrupted gleefully, holding up the picture in the article.

"No," Rodney said with infinite disgust and patience. "That's his brother, Jiri."

"So you were with the criminal."

"No! He's not a criminal!"

"They said he cheated in the judging for his brother. The Czechoslovakians even want to give the medal back."

"Read it!" Rodney shouted, poking his finger at the article. "It says right here, bottom of the third paragraph: Radek was just a trial judge. The article says his scores wouldn't count towards the total. It's like a practice judge when you're new." He sighed heavily and sat on Marc's bed. "The Czech government was threatening him to make his brother not jump, because of the Russians. He told me. I just wasn't listening," Rodney said, slumped and miserable. Then an option dawned on him and he brightened. "I could go to the press."

Rodney's father watched this exchange like an impending train wreck. Then he finally said, with false soft-voiced calm, "Rodney. You are going to stay here. You are not to leave your room unless I say so." He speared Rodney with a look, his pale blue eyes bright and laser-sharp. "'Room' as defined by these four walls. 'Me' as defined as no one other than me. These are simple rules in clear language, Rodney, with no wiggle room whatsoever. Have I been understood? Nod and say yes to answer."

Rodney stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. He nodded. "Yes," he said, careful not to add a single syllable to his instructions.

"Marc." He motioned for Rodney's coach to follow him. "I'd like a word." He stepped into the hallway without looking back.

Rodney's coach looked equally frightened, if resigned. As he and Rodney's father left, Marc cast a wan look back at Rodney. As the door hissed slowly shut behind them, his father's voice carried from the hall, "Explain to me how you didn't know about this...."

~*~*~

February, 1999

John shut the door to his apartment with his elbow and it banged too loud behind him. He fumbled the crutch back under his arm, and swung forward towards the kitchen, ignoring all the things that he wasn't going to be able to do right now. The sheets still stripped off the bed. The laundry still hanging off the rod in the kitchen, half-blocking the window.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, John plunked a saucepan of water on the stove and then, with a hop, pulled the hot dogs out of the fridge. He achieved splashdown, tossing one, and then the second hot dog into the pan from where he stood. The water sloshed and hissed onto the electric burner. The next toss landed the buns on the kitchen table. He was a pro with crutches.

He'd told Rodney the truth when he said he had food, but Rodney had fussed and insisted on going shopping tomorrow anyway -- though neither of them had figured out how that would work given Rodney didn't have a car. But he was the one who'd insisted on the most conservative treatment plan possible. Rodney spent most of the return trip following John around with a pen and notepad, forcing John sit in the aisle seat (saying loudly that it was so he could get up for the bathroom) and harassing the stewardesses with his demands that they be allowed to sit in the exit row for the extra leg room. John had smiled his apologies and made Rodney sit in their assigned seats.

John speared his hotdogs on a fork, carrying the ketchup bottle in his teeth. Experience had taught him that throwing the bottle only resulted in ketchup splatter.

He dropped the ketchup on the table, and got the hotdogs into buns, never mind a plate. John propped himself in front of the chair and turned around, using the table for balance. He leaned the crutches against the wall and eased himself down to the seat -- and bumped his foot on the table leg with a wince. He hated the weakness that came from hospital drugs and moving around with the pendulum of a cast.

John leaned his head on his elbow, trying to work out logistics. When he'd hurt his knee two years ago, ruining his chances at Worlds, he'd lived with roommates. That had made certain things easier.

A moment later, he shook himself awake and forced himself to eat.

~*~*~

March, 1997

None of his roommates from U of T gave a damn about figure skating. That helped. It cut down on the pity.

John edged his hips deeper into the couch, lifting himself up on his hands as he tried not to jostle the injured knee. He grimaced, then reached for the remote. Having roommates sucked and he couldn't wait to have his own pad again but he'd been saving money for--

John cut off that thought with a scowl, because it went places that hurt more than the leg. The electric buzz on the back of his knee felt like it had fallen asleep, though it was probably pain deadened by the drugs. He wrapped the ace bandage tighter, tugging at it. The doctor had mentioned surgery, given he was twenty-six and an athlete.

At least the guys had sprung for cable. John clicked on ESPN and lay back against the arm of the couch, not watching it, staring at the ceiling. The sharp pitch of a whistle sounded over the hiss and roar of the crowd. John idly identified it as football.

He popped the cap off a beer and sipped, his one rebellion against the meds. He was getting seriously dizzy and he couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Pounding footsteps interrupted his haze.

His roommate, Nate, lumbered down the stairs, unshaven, wearing a sloppy stretched sweatshirt and a pair of boxers that just barely peeked out over hairy white legs. He stopped just before the last step, catching sight of John, hands trailing along the low ceiling.

"Sheppard?" He had that sour look of unpleasant surprise you got when a relative dropped by. "Aren't you supposed to be in, like, France or something?"

John supplied the translation: I thought I'd have the place to myself to screw my girlfriend.

"Ecuador, but close enough," John said with a deliberate easy gesture, dangling the beer from two fingers—and hating him with a passion. "Injured my leg. ACL."

Nate took in "ACL" with a blank look followed by a disinterested shrug. "Too bad. Sounded like a cool place. Better luck next year." He headed for the kitchen and John heard the fridge open and close.

"Yeah," John muttered to himself aloud. "Because I get picked for the U.S. Worlds team every year."

The TV switched to a blaring commercial, an electric guitar run and flashing images in the corner of John's eye. Then an announcer shouted, "Next up: Live coverage of the World's Championship men's figure skating short program! Will Kyle--"

With quick-draw speed, John switched the channel to a bad soap opera.

Even ESPN had betrayed him. He didn't throw the remote at the TV but it was a near thing.

The sound of the soap opera washed over him, barely sounding like English. He'd heard that they had Spanish soap operas in Ecuador that the skaters mocked in between practices.

He wished he could just as easily change the channel in his mind.

The doorbell rang, too close and loud to be on the TV. There was the voice of Nate's girlfriend, with that effusive "Hiiii...!" The sound of a wet kiss in the doorway. John shut his eyes and could almost feel the moment when she stopped cold just on the edge of the living room.

"John. Aren't you supposed to be in France or something?"

"Ecuador," John snapped, biting off the word. He tried to follow it with a smile. It wasn't her fault after all.

He heard them scamper up the stairs, her squeal and giggle at the top of the steps, and silently vowed to get really drunk this weekend. Maybe all week.

With a limp gesture he picked up one of the vials on the folding TV dinner tray, turning it in his fingers. The label warned in capital letters: DO NOT TAKE WITH ALCOHOL.

Drunk and stoned, he amended.

~*~*~

February, 1999

It took John several minutes to answer the door, as the knocking grew steadily louder and more impatient. With an irritated scowl, he unlocked it and backed up a step on the crutches before the door swung wide. Rodney stood in the hallway with four plastic bags of groceries dangling from his hands.

"Number one," he announced, "you need to give me a key. This is cantaloupe—" He held up one arm and jiggled the two bags. "—and therefore heavy, not to mention I start feeling rejected if I'm left standing in the hall forever. Number two, your convalescence is becoming painfully inconvenient for me, so let me borrow your car."

He slipped past John, head held high as he made a beeline for the kitchen and snapped on the lights. To Rodney's credit, he did put the groceries away, something he didn't always do for himself.

"Rodney, I've never even seen you drive."

"How hard can it be?"

John rolled his eyes as he followed more slowly to the kitchen.

"Kidding, just kidding," Rodney said as he stuffed lettuce into the crisper. John had him trained to put things where they belonged. More or less. "I have a Honda – the trouble is, it doesn't work." He swung around to John, eyes pleading. He narrowly missed clipping his head on the corner of an open cabinet. "Please? You don't understand what it's been like. You were my ride every morning, all I had to work out was Saturdays. Now my budget is spinning out of control what with all the cab rides—"

"Get somebody else to drive you," John said, settling himself in the chair Rodney usually used. He refused to feel guilty. It was Rodney who had insisted on the full cast.

"Well, it's not as though I'm on the way for everyone."

John decided not to mention that Rodney wasn't exactly on the way for him either. He just hadn't minded.

"And there are some people I can't ask, like, oh, the Bevingtons." He shuddered visibly. "And this." He brandished a bag of celery in his fist. "Is getting ridiculous. If I had a vehicle I could do it all in one trip a week, but the most I can carry when I get a ride is four bags and I'm really regretting that cantaloupe right about now." He rubbed his wrist. "I take back what I said about you eating like a bird, by the way: you consume your body weight daily. I just don't know where it goes."

John didn't want to admit that he didn't like the idea of seeing Rodney only once a week. It got really quiet during the day. He'd never had many distractions and all his hobbies were pretty similar: skateboarding, rollerblading, basketball – skiing back when he could afford it. He played chess.

"Rodney. Look around." John gestured at his apartment. "This is it. Everything you see here and that car is all I've got." He made a slicing gesture. "And I've never even seen you drive. No."

"I remember how!" Rodney swore to him.

"It's only a few more weeks. Or I can work something else out...." John began, rubbing the back of his head, though he had no idea what that would be.

"Yes, you and your thousands of friends. I noticed I had to fight my way through the flowers and crowds of well-wishers." Rodney gestured to the empty flower-free apartment, then huffed a heavy sigh as he clicked on the electric stove.

John couldn't tell his friends. One, most of them were back in the states, and two, they might slip and mention it to his parents. Then with alarm he noticed Rodney was cooking. "Wait... no, you don't have to do that...." He scrambled for his crutches, knocking one to the floor. It landed with a clatter.

Rodney picked up the crutch for him and leaned it against the wall. Out of reach. "I wouldn't dream of it. What are friends for?" He beamed, opening the cookbook. He studied it like a textbook. Then he bent to assemble the pots and pans he'd need.

On the one hand, Rodney didn't cook so much as overcook. Spaghetti really was the only thing he could manage, probably because you could simmer it for days. On the other hand, when he cooked he stayed and watched TV afterward with John, making fun of the dull documentaries on cable and "mindless American television, oh, this so explains Ronald Reagan...."

As ever, Rodney dismissed his suggestions as "interference" with his "culinary expertise." John sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching Rodney, and felling pretty pathetic.

~*~*~

It had worked that morning. John flipped through entire channels of gray fuzz searching for ESPN. Or The Movie Channel. Or anything. He finally realized he'd cycled through the same buttons on the remote several times with no response. He dropped the remote on the covers, snagging the crutches as he swung off the bed.

He hobbled over to the TV and circled it, bouncing as he moved around to check for wires that might have been knocked loose. He did bump into things these days.

Lifting his head, it dawned on him what must have happened.

"Oh, hell," John said. The cable man must have caught on to his illegal connection.

This was the last straw.

Determined, John walk-hopped with swinging steps towards the closet. Halfway there, he thought better of it and changed direction, rearranging himself to angle towards the kitchen.

Under the sink there was a ballooning collection of plastic grocery bags, and the garbage was getting ripe. He grabbed two bags. Returning to the closet, he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and used the end of his crutch to drag a cardboard box of tools across the wood floor of the closet. Clutter in the closet settled in a small landslide behind it, but he'd worry about putting it back later. Luckily, the most recently used tools were the very ones he'd needed the last time he'd set up the connection. Leaning a crutch against the wall, the spool of wire, flathead screwdriver, and tin-snips were lifted easily into the plastic bags. He tied them around the bend of his crutches, testing the balance and swing. Separated, they were both pretty light. John smiled at his cleverness.

He experimented with the whole set-up in a walk-hop to the kitchen, the two bags acting as awkward counterweights. Yep, this was going to work. Crutches clutched in one hand as he opened the fridge, John nabbed a bottle of water. Then snagged his keys from the little tray on the counter.

He stood on one leg as he pocketed the jingling key ring, then looked up to begin his trek, eyes narrowed and intent.

The cable box was on the third floor.

He left the door unlocked behind him. The main hall was carpeted in a green that had seen better days, though the walls were freshly painted. The main stair ran through the center of the building only a few doors down from his first floor studio. It wasn't far. John just didn't expect a traffic jam on the steps.

"Hi, John," said Mrs. Ebrey, a round woman in a blue flowered dress. She had a potted fern under one arm and stood on the bottom step, blocking his way. "Good to see you out and about. How's the leg?"

"Still in a cast." John stated the obvious, swinging it, tipping his head with rueful charm.

"I'll bet you've been going stir crazy in that apartment of yours." She smiled at him. Not moving from that step.

"Yeah," John said, wishing her gone.

They continued the pointless pleasantries while she somehow failed to notice that he was standing there on one leg and crutches. She finally cleared the stairway and waddled down the hall.

John breathed a sigh and gripped the handrail with the crutches under his arm, and quickly noticed a flaw in his plan. The bags now both swung on his left side, off-balance. He was guaranteed to drop the whole deal. He stopped on one leg with one shoulder against the wall to untie them, head dipped in concentration. He stretched the loops of the bags a little and swung them over his neck. It was less than ideal. If he fell... well, he'd just better not.

There was a tramping sound down the stairs. His upstairs neighbor appeared, the one with the habit of pacing late at night. He was older man in his late fifties, solidly built with slate-gray hair. He wore a jogging outfit, complete with racing stripes down the sides.

"What are you up to, John?" he said.

"Out for a little walk," John said, pressed against the banister.

"Good for you," the man said, completely disinterested as he headed for the front door. For the first time John regretted he lived in a building with a lot of retirees, who apparently were around all the time. Also, they were painfully healthy. He watched the guy jog down the front steps with ease.

Better balanced, John grabbed the handrail again, glad it was on the side by the injured leg, and tucked the crutches under his arm. He got them braced and then, hanging onto the rail, he hopped up a step, holding the cast up behind him. The tools bounced against his chest.

His right side was his take-off leg for jumps but otherwise this really wasn't all that different. Experience had taught him to take stairs fast, though.

He paused at the top of the first flight, balanced, a shoulder against the wall. Surprisingly, it was his arms that felt tired, missing his workouts. He should start using the free weights. He started to pull the bottled water out of the bag but blew it and dropped one of the crutches. Never mind. He gave up on the water – he'd reward himself with that on the top floor – and scraped the crutch closer. Finally, with a sigh, he focused on the next flight, turning into position.

Jaw clenched, he took the next series of hops easily, paused, then finished the flight. He didn't give himself time to think of the fact that he had still more to go, launching up the next steps.

Other than the nagging ache in his right leg, it felt good. A relief to be back in action. At the base of the last flight he steadied himself and focused, recognizing the wave of giddiness that came with pushing it while on the drugs. They messed with his balance. He had to remember that. He forced himself to rest, propped up against the wall. He set the crutches, handles down, against the wall and pulled out the bottle of water.

The gray metal cable box was at the top of the last flight. Target acquired.

With a grim smile, John put away the water and tucked the crutches back under his arm. Then took the quick series of swing-hops to the top. With a relieved breath, John propped his crutches up and leaned his back against the wall.

Down the stairway, several levels below, loud heavy footsteps echoed. He paused, wary. But whoever it was didn't come his way.

John slipped the two plastic grocery bags off his neck, then thought the better of it – what was he going to do? Put them out of reach on the floor? – and helped himself to more water. Recapping the bottle, he drew out the flathead screwdriver, smiling with mischief.

With one sharp look over his shoulder, he set to work.

Sure enough, the cable guy had replaced the old lock with a thicker Master lock. Nice try, but John didn't need to cut the lock when hinges were so much easier to remove. He pried the rusted pins out. They were even still loose from the last time.

The box swung open with a loud clattering crash, sagging on the Master lock like a hinge. Last time, John had caught and eased it down, but this time he had to just let it swing back and forth. He froze, listening for steps, eyes wide and hunted. He silently waited for it to finish as he pocketed the hinges.

Hopping closer to peer into the box, it wasn't difficult to figure out the switches. Not that they were marked or anything, but it was obvious, since only two were in the off position. That was a benefit of living in an apartment building with retirees. Everyone had cable. Shoulder against the hard edge of metal, he connected both just in case, although he was fairly sure he knew which was his.

The next stage was going to be the hard part, though last time it had been simple. One hand on the box, John grabbed the leaning cabinet door, staggering as he hopped back and swung it up to slam it shut with his shoulder.

Okay. That was stupid. That could have been a bad backward fall. He tapped the hinge-pins back in.

The stairway door swung open. John slid the screwdriver behind his hip. A guy in his thirties in a rumpled brown suit with blond hair falling in his eyes, peered around the door. John didn't recognize him, but he didn't know the people on the third floor.

"Loud out here. What are you doing?" the guy asked, taking in John's crutches. His accent sounded British.

John said, still clutching the box, "Holding on for dear life."

"Oh," the blond guy blinked. "You probably shouldn't be on the stair. You could fall."

"I needed the exercise," John said, truthfully, his heart pounding.

Looking concerned, the guy reached over and handed John his crutches.

"Sometimes I think they should put in a lift. You sure you can manage it all right?" he asked with a worried expression, glancing down the long stairs.

"Oh, I got this far," John said, then he reassured the nice guy. "Down is always a lot easier than up."

"Okay," he said doubtfully. "Don't slip." And he stayed on the top step watching as John hopped down the steps.

Down really was easier. After the second flight, John glanced back. The guy had gone. John let his head tip back with an audible sigh of relief.

He grinned as he turned the corner of the last landing.

At the bottom of the stretch of stairway was Rodney, staring up at John with an open-mouthed mystified expression. Several plastic bags of groceries dangled from his wrists.

~*~*~

"The bedroom of course you are already thoroughly familiar with." Rodney indicated his own room with a wave of his hand in the cheerful tone of a tour guide director on the Love Boat. "Your clothes are on hangers in the closet -- within easy reach you'll note -- while your toiletries—"

"Toiletries?" John echoed with a ghost of amusement.

"—Reside in the medicine cabinet. Left-hand side." Rodney's casual flick indicated the bathroom behind them. "You may go outside onto the porch to get some air, but!" He emphasized this with a raised forefinger. "You are not allowed under any circumstances to negotiate the front steps." There were only three steps. Rodney added, "And don't think I won't stoop to electronic surveillance because I most certainly will."

"Kinky," John commented with an approving nod. He rocked forward on his crutches and started to explore.

Rodney's clutter of boxes, scattered clothes, (skate guards, piles of magazines and newspapers, CDs, computer equipment and DVDs) hadn't been so much "cleaned up" as they'd been shoved against the livingroom walls to clear a wider path for John. He had to admit there was a lot more space than in his tiny apartment, which had never seemed so small. The coffee table had been pushed out of the way and it was now possible to reach the couch without having to step over anything. John looked around back towards the kitchen. Both chairs had been similarly cleared, while the piles of envelopes and whatnot had been moved from the table to the top of the boxes of cans -- that were still there, almost a month later.

"What if there's a fire?"

Rodney looked pained. "I'm speaking of actualities, as in you actually walking up three steep flights of stairs today, as opposed to hypotheticals, such as this house catching on fire – which hasn't happened in the ten years that I've lived here."

"So I'm allowed to run for my life?" John said, a smile starting at the corner of his mouth.

"It had better be dire, and you had better not be the one who started it."

Rodney followed John to the bathroom where John leaned a crutch under an arm, freeing his hand to click on the light. There were fluffy white towels on the towel rack. He opened the medicine cabinet. His toothbrush was right there next to Rodney's.

He backed out and tried the new path to the bedroom. So far his crutches cleared all the piles, though he thought this was far more hazardous than his nice, empty apartment. In the bedroom the path had been widened to leave a clear ring around both sides of the bed.

Rodney stood behind him in the doorway and wrung his hands. "Um. If you'd prefer, I can clean out the den and you can have the hide-a-bed and your own space... I don't mean to presume, there just hasn't been time...."

"Nah, this is all right," John said, and smiled at Rodney with a tiny shrug of one shoulder. "It's only a few weeks."

"Ah. Well. Don't think you get to loaf about eating bon-bons." Rodney clapped and rubbed his hands together. "It's pre-season so...."

"I know. Program design time." John bobbed his head. "As soon as you have it and I can skate again," he lifted his arms to indicate the crutches, "I'll try it out."

"What do you mean, as soon as I have it?" Rodney asked.

"As soon as you've got the general choreography, I'll run through it," John said. "It's okay. I know we're going to be behind and we'll probably have to tweak it here and there, but I have confidence in what you can do."

Rodney stared. "Have you never participated in the design of your programs?"

John gave him a sarcastic smile. "I'm not a choreographer, Rodney."

"Okay. I'll do that for a nine-year-old, just hand over a program, but even my preteens participate in their program design. How can you expect any trace of your personality to shine through if... wait. You know what?" Rodney cut himself off. "Never mind. I've seen what you skate, and, oh, this explains so much."

John tipped his head doubtfully and said in a sour voice, "Rodney. Maybe the kids you've had doing this since they were five are good at it, but I've had a few years to learn what I can and can't do." He rubbed an itchy spot on his nose with his shoulder and admitted, "It'll suck."

"I'm not going to have you do it from scratch. I can't even design an elite program -- not one that'll win anyway," Rodney admitted. "But you can't be passively handed a program and expect it to be anything more than just a reflection of the choreographer."

"I dunno...." John shook his head.

"Tomorrow, you start with the music," Rodney rolled right over him, ignoring his doubts. He smirked. "I trust I have a sufficient selection? Try not to blow out the speakers, they're expensive, and the neighbors," he twiddled his fingers in the air and tipped his head with a guilty wince, "well, they complain." That sounded a lot like personal experience, John thought. "Oh. And John...?" Rodney had a devilish glint and his smile didn't bode well. He picked up the television remote and placed it firmly in John's hand. "I have cable."

~*~*~

John's eyelashes flickered and he was dimly aware when Rodney flashed on the overhead light then mumbled, "Sorry, sorry, forgot—"

The light clicked off.

He heard Rodney stumble around in the dark, making twice as much noise as moments before. Then he tripped. Whatever it was went down with a clatter, and John blinked, recognizing the sound of his crutches. With a slightly irritated, slightly amused smile, John reached for the lamp and turned it on. Rodney crouched on the floor, looking up at him owl-eyed and apologetic, his foot through the handle of – yep – one of the crutches, the other flat. The clock read 5:12 a.m.

"Oops," Rodney whispered. "Um, it seems we need a nightlight."

John decided not to wake up all the way. He rolled to his side away from the light with a growl of a sigh.

The rest of his sleep hovered on the edge of awareness. The patter of Rodney's feet on the living room carpet. The click, a buzz, and then the faint hum of the television set in the next room turned down low. It sounded like the news. A tiny, sleepy frown furrowed John's brow as he tightened his grip on the pillow. The spurt and spatter of water as the shower started up on the other side of the bedroom wall.

John faded in and out of sleep, hazy and quiet. There was a shift in air currents that woke him again, a waft of humid moisture as Rodney left the bathroom, a whirring sound turning loud as he opened the door. The overhead fan still running.

John heard a distant clink of dishes. Rodney's next destination was the kitchen. The chug and hiss of the coffeemaker followed by a burble. Then the soft, warm smell of coffee began to permeate the house as Rodney returned to the living room, blue light flickering off the angles of the bedroom walls through the door. John scratched his hand through his hair and stretched till his elbow touched the headboard.

He rolled over, curious, as Rodney sat down at the couch, his head wrapped in a turban of fluffy white towel, another tucked around his waist. The mystery of why they ran through so many towels was solved. Rodney leaned forward and watched the news, carefully sipping his coffee. A half-eaten bagel sat ignored on the coffee table. The blue light caught on his eyelashes, his face open and innocent. His mouth pulled to one side over something the anchorman said, bright eyes taking it all in with sharp intelligence. John just watched him.

John gave up on sleep. He swung himself over, only to be surprised by the weight of his cast anchoring him. Right. Forgot.

Eyes blinking slowly, he debated getting up, then reached for the crutches, sliding the cast off the bed with a light thump as he sat up. He pushed himself off the bed with one hand then braced the crutches, bumping the door all the way open with the end.

Rodney sat up, the towel slipping over one eye. "Oh. I didn't mean to...."

"Bathroom," John said simply, raising a hand.

John returned moments later, and attempted to focus on the morning news show, trying to fathom the concept of the TV first thing in the morning. He watched the weather report, yawning, as the image of clouds drifted across the great lakes. Partly cloudy. Forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Warm day.

John realized he was staring at the TV, slack-jawed -- that thing couldn't be healthy. He shook his head and yawned again, rubbing his face with a sniff. He realized Rodney had stopped gazing at the TV and was looking at him. "What?"

"Aren't you... cold or something?" Rodney marveled.

"Huh?" John was a light sleeper, but it didn't mean he was as sharp as a tack right after he woke up.

"Well. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd have a naked man on crutches in my living room...."

"Oh. No," John said. He swung towards the kitchen and balanced, one crutch crushed in his armpit as he clicked on the light.

"That's a picture window," Rodney said.

"So?" John said, his head buried in the fridge. He pulled out the cold cuts. They didn't smell too off.

"So? The whole neighborhood can see you!"

John peered at the window and squinted. "Looks like the coast is clear to me." Truthfully, he couldn't see anything but his own reflection. He hopped to the kitchen chair, ignoring the crutches. "It's five a.m., Rodney."

"And the paperboy's due by any minute."

"And you're wearing a turban." John pointed at him with a floppy cold cut, then took a bite out of it.

"I fail to see how that's relevant," Rodney said, chin raised, lips together.

"I'm just saying... people with glass picture windows should not—you know what?" John said, an elbow on the kitchen table. "Let me take a rain check on this conversation till after I'm awake."

"You need to learn to drink coffee," Rodney said, standing with a smirk and taking a long sip. The towel made a mound around his waist and gapped above his thigh.

"Corrupting me already, huh?" John leaned back in the chair, stretching both arms over his head.

"Oh, I certainly hope so." Rodney's smirk turned into a salacious smile.

"You wanna cut class today?" John offered.

Rodney looked tempted and hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said emphatically, "but I can't. I have a lesson at six-thirty."

John gave him a funny look. "You'd better hurry up. It's after six."

"It's--? Oh!" Rodney scrambled away, stripping off and flinging both towels on the couch. At a leisurely pace, John got up, and with two swings across the kitchen had the phone in hand, dialing with an amused smile.

Rodney emerged from the bedroom not five minutes later, fully dressed and hopping on one foot as he put on a shoe. He looked up pleading and hopeful to where John had planted a shoulder against the wall by the phone. "Could you, um--?"

"Already called."

"I wish you'd let me drive your—"

"No."

Rodney huffed a dramatic sigh. "It would be so much easier, and faster, and in addition it would cost so much les—"

"No."

"It's a piece of—!"

"Don't say it, Rodney," John interrupted with a snarl. He crossed his arms, half-serious, with a glint in his eye. "You don't get to insult a man's car and then expect favors afterward."

The yellow body of a cab pulled up at the curb outside, its sign lit up against the deep blue of the morning.

Rodney flung the door open, walked two steps, then spun around to grab his gym bag just inside the entryway, stuffing it under his arm. Halfway down the walk he stumbled, walking backwards with a little wave, then he yanked the cab door open, gesturing wildly to the driver who appeared to be Indian and in no particular hurry. And hurrying even less the more Rodney yelled.

John eyed the clock over the stove. It was 6:20 a.m.

He might make it.

With an easy step, John swung to the bedroom where he rooted around for a pair of fleece pants and wool socks. A sweatshirt and his jacket off the back of the door came next.

He returned to the fridge. They were low on groceries as usual, but there was a half gallon of apple cider left. John set that on the counter and extracted a travel mug from the stack next to the sink. He no longer allowed Rodney to leave dirty dishes in the sink: it attracted ants. Though it was weird having to store dishes in piles on the countertop. He filled the mug, grabbed the box of cinnamon tea, dropped in a teabag, then popped on the lid and set the whole thing in the microwave. He leaned back with both elbows on the counter. He found the other half of Rodney's bagel – it was cold, but good enough – and finished that. The microwave dinged.

He grabbed the fanny pack he used for bicycling from where it was hung on the cabinet door and strapped it around his waist, then stuck the travel mug in a sleeve that was supposed to carry a water bottle. With a tired swinging hop, he crossed through the kitchen, ignored the still-muttering TV, and pulled open the front door.

He brushed a few leaves off the seat of a chair on the porch, then turned around to ease himself into it, the cast sliding on wood, scraping chipped paint. The plastic was cold through his fleece but warmed slowly, while a gentle breeze carried away the mist of John's breath.

John pulled out his mug – it had spattered, but then again, it always did – and took a long sip as he watched light gradually paint Rodney's neighborhood.

~*~*~

"Go long!"

John reached back and slung the Nerf ball into a perfect spiral, his elbow narrowly missing the arm of the chair. A stocky kid dove across Rodney's lawn, caught it and rolled into the damp grass and un-raked leaves, giggling. John stood up, balanced on his cast and gestured to his chest.

"I can't chase it, so bring it home, right here." He thumped his chest and held out his arms, ready.

The kid, who looked about ten years old, flung it end over end. It bounced off the corner of Rodney's house and into the rose bushes. John laughed and shook his head.

"You're gonna have to go get it now," he said, stumbling to peer over the porch railing.

The kid made a weird groaning sound like a small animal and then ran across sunset-streaked lawn. He rooted around for it and the ball flipped up into John's hands as if of its own accord while a taxi pulled into the drive.

Rodney stepped out and shaded his eyes.

The ball made a straight short line to the kid, who'd scampered out of the brush. He caught it with a huff, and raised his arms in victory. Rodney paid the cab driver, grabbed his gym bag out of the back and wandered up the sidewalk to John. The ball narrowly missed him as it returned.

"Where did you find the urchin?"

John pursed his lips in amusement. "He was just wandering by." He shrugged and pointed with his chin. "I saw the football and bet him he couldn't reach the porch. He missed, so we went for two out of three... five out of seven...." John tipped his head and grinned, tossing the Nerf ball from hand to hand. "I think he needs the practice."

"I trust we don't have to feed him."

"He looks well fed. Coat's shiny. I'm pretty sure he has a home." John slung the football to the kid and called, "Looks like it's dinner time for me!"

The kid made a disappointed noise, popped the football in the air and waved goodbye.

"You're the Pied Piper of the neighborhood," Rodney said, making it sound like a complaint. Then he brightened. "You said you made dinner?"

"Just a hint to the urchin, Rodney," John said, collecting his crutches.

"Fine. I'll order Chinese." Rodney held the door for him. "No doubt you've made startling progress on choosing your program music. Short program? Long program? Ring a bell?"

John winced. "Mostly I've been just sleeping."

Rodney frowned as the door shut behind them. A rumpled blanket hung half off the couch, one of the bedroom pillows stuffed at the end and still dented. John had a cleared a space on the coffee table for the remote, his meds, and a half-full glass of water. Rodney noted that the fine layer of dust on his collection of CDs lay almost completely undisturbed.

John swung by the table, plucking up the open bottle of meds. Rodney shot him a puzzled look.

"I'm supposed to take them with meals," John explained, slipping the bottle into a pocket. "Plus the cold..." He shrugged. "... it bugs the knee."

"Ah."

Later, picking at his Chinese food with his chopsticks, John admitted, staring into the depths of the box, "It's just kind of overwhelming." The chopsticks scraped. "I'd have an easier time in a record store. At least there it's organized."

"What? I have a highly sophisticated system of classification! The classical is organized by year and by opus," Rodney informed him.

"Yeah, see, that's not all that helpful." John's eyes seemed more green than hazel today as they flicked up over the box. "Given the only 'opus' I know is a cartoon character."

"The opus is the order in which the composer wrote each piece," Rodney explained.

"I know that – okay, I didn't know that. But it doesn't matter because it's just a number," John said. "The names aren't even all that descriptive. Beethoven's Symphony Number 6. Might as well be Chanel Number 5."

Rodney swallowed his bite, thinking. "No. I think the Pastoral Symphony is far too..." He wiggled his fingers as he scrunched his face and looked for the word. "... Something... for you...."

"Fruity?" John supplied, eyebrows raised.

"Balletic."

"Princess-y."

"It could only be performed in tights and those have been outlawed thanks to Brian Boitano," Rodney continued.

"God." John's laugh was breathy. "All you could watch was his nuts skating by."

"The cameras kept shifting to wide angle shots to keep it PG for the folks at home." Rodney snickered, his shoulders shaking.

"I know," John confessed with a devilish grin, tongue-in-cheek. "I've got the tape."

"Oh, everyone does."

John tapped his fingers. Licked his lips. "So. Anything I should consider for the top ten...?"

Rodney had already reached the bottom of his carton but he studiously avoided John's eyes. Every single one of his students was wracking their brains for music right now in the pre-season, humming snatches for their friends, "You remember the one that goes... hmmm, mmm, hmmm-aaah?" He'd spent the entire day fielding complaints. He'd discovered Mrs. Weir had picked out the music for her daughter – a definite no-no, it always showed – which put Melanie back to square one. He'd had to all but drag Melanie through the rest of the lesson by the hair.

John might be older than Rodney's "girls," but he didn't get to be the exception. It was a kind of torture he enjoyed, making them work for their programs. And, yes, even learn a little bit about classical music in the process. It wouldn't kill them. Rodney waited for it.

John continued, "I mean, I know a lot of music, it's just that it—"

Rodney lip synched the rest with John, rolling his eyes.

"—all has words."

Rodney pushed away from the table and gave him a sharp smile. "Let me know what you decide."

~*~*~

The bags of groceries cut into Rodney's hand as he struggled to get his wallet out of his back pocket to pay the cab. It was nine pm, not his latest night at the rink, but certainly later than most. The cold had seeped into his bones, so deep that he could still feel it radiating from his skin as he adjusted to normal temperatures. As a skater, the cold was brisk and refreshing, especially by the end of a work out. But as coach he spent more time standing on the ice than skating over it.

All the lights in the house were off.

With a sigh, Rodney briefly wished John would greet him at the door like a pet. Or at least open it when he knocked. He set the groceries down, making a face as he stretched with his fist in his back. Through the window he saw that the house wasn't completely dark. The television flickered like a strobe light.

"No, no, don't get up, don't strain yourself," Rodney said as he stumbled through, shouldering the door open.

But John was draped on the couch, out cold, head slumped into pillow, an arm across his stomach and the remote balanced on his chest. Based on his well-past-five-o'clock-shadow, it didn't look like he'd shaved. A few CDs were scattered on the coffee table, and the house, if possible, seemed messier than Rodney remembered, though he couldn't place how.

The television show was on mute. MTV. Oh, sure, "rap central" would help a lot with his music search. Rodney rolled his eyes, remorselessly flicking on the kitchen lights. The glare fell across the couch.

John didn't budge.

"No need to stir to help me with the groceries, I've got it," Rodney said, a little louder than before. "Although a simple 'hello, welcome home' wouldn't go amiss."

John sniffed, rolled over... and snuggled deeper into the couch. The remote thumped to the floor.

"Should've gotten a dog," Rodney muttered. He left the cans on the counter and put away the perishables.

Moments later, he retrieved a steaming plateful of spaghetti from the microwave. The noodles were still a little cold but good enough. He stirred the sauce to warm them up.

He heard a gulping sound from the living room as John downed some water, then the light clatter of the pill bottle being opened. Rodney stood in the kitchen doorway. John's hair had flattened to one side and stood almost straight on end over the part. It was quite a bizarre effect, reminding Rodney of Indian feathers. 'How,' his mind quipped, though he didn't think John was in the mood to get the joke.

John sat up, blinking at the kitchen light.

Holding up his plate to indicate dinner, Rodney said through a forkful, "Want some?"

John squinted at Rodney and shook his head. "S'alright," he said, then sighed back into the couch, the pill bottle still clutched in his hand.

Rodney stared at him a long moment, inwardly debating whether it was worth the effort to wake John and try to relocate him to the bedroom. He opted to finish dinner. Over the last week he'd learned the meaning of the phrase "immovable object."

Finally, he grew sick of the spasmodic MTV: the silent movie edition.

Muttering, Rodney shook John's shoulder. "Wakey, wakey, hands off snake-y...." Normally that got a adolescent snort from John, but the sleepy pout remained -- his eyelids didn't even flicker.

"C'mon, junior...." Rodney's hand rocked him a little more firmly. John's eyes tightened and he pulled away, rolling into the couch with a childish sniff, arms curling in on himself. Rodney chuckled and said in John's ear, sing-song, "It will get terribly cold out here...."

John's eyes slit open, not quite focusing. He groaned with a little hopeful note, "Hrmm... blanket?"

"No, no, no, not on your life. I'm not getting the quilt this time. But there's a nice soft down comforter in the bedroom. Just a few steps away...."

This percolated through John's sleepy mind, his eyes flicked to the side, puffy and resentful as he considered it.

He stretched up onto one elbow with a baleful, if vague, glare. He shook off the hand still resting on his arm and shambled to his feet, head bobbing like a new-born chick, seeking his crutches.

He made an unintelligible noise that Rodney somehow understood and answered, "Just use me. I'll bring them in later."

John nodded, accepting, and put far more weight than he normally would on Rodney as he wrapped an arm clumsily over his shoulder. Rodney grunted and staggered, righting them both. "You're going to have to wake up a little more than that or we're going to do a face plant – make that you, because I'm not going down with you."

"Bring the pills...?" John queried, sounding a tad more alert.

"They're in your hand, moron." Rodney tucked John's arm tight around his shoulder, leading him to the bedroom.

"Oh."

~*~*~

John had insisted on the window being open an inch. A trace of wind shifted the sheers, breathing them outward, then pulling them dark and tight, outlining the window frame.

Rodney stroked over soft flesh, fondled between the warm folds of John's balls, coarse hair tickling his hand. John's cock draped over his wrist. With two fingers, Rodney explored the line from his balls to the base of his ass and back again. He scraped nails lightly down the inside of John's thighs, raising goose bumps, but got no other response. Usually that maneuver was like hitting John's "on" switch. A firm pull found him pliable and still soft. And he could tell going down on him would be useless.

"This isn't working." Rodney huffed, releasing him. He sat back on his heels, the Sunday paper rustling under his hip. He swiped it off the bed onto the floor.

John looked down at him with half-lidded eyes, listless.

"What's the point of having you move in here if you can't perform your wifely duties?"

"What do you mean, can't? I'm just... a little spacey, is all."

"It's probably those drugs and, my god, I hate modern medicine right now," Rodney said. "Whatever happened to good old fashioned 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning'?"

Stretching the leg with the cast straight, John rolled onto his stomach. Leaning on his elbows, he suggested, "Why don't you do me?"

He angled his good knee up on the bed.

Rodney blinked and tried not to feel a little heartbroken as he swallowed his disappointment. He palmed John's hip, cupping his ass to get him in the mood. In massaging circles he teased down his crack, pulling away at the last second.

John grumbled, "Don't fiddle around. Just slam it in."

"You don't do that with me."

John said over his shoulder, "Most people don't like it the way I do."

Rodney grabbed the lube from the dresser anyway, warming a generous dab between his fingers. As John's glance over his shoulder turned into a glare, he delicately circled his thumb over the silky smooth pucker.

"Rodney..." John complained, pushing up so his thumb dipped in.

"I refuse to do damage," Rodney said, removing his hand to get more oil.

"If I weren't in a cast, I'd hurt you," he growled.

So Rodney grabbed his hips, squeezing. He lined himself up, then pressed forward. It was obvious John didn't do this often -- as in ever. Rodney reached down to readjust as he slid off, and tried again. Finally, he had his head snubbed in, biting his lip as he rocked in small pushes, trying to work John gently open.

John's hand clamped down on his hip, heavy and surprisingly strong.

"Harder," he said through gritted teeth, then exhaled and let go. He gasped as Rodney forced it.

John's head dipped between his arms and he panted, mouth open and unable to speak. His fist clenched on the pillow. Rodney bore down, all his weight squeezed forward and John's hand clenched again, making star shapes on the pillowcase. John was squashed flat under him, his free leg sprawled out at an awkward angle and he actually bit the sheets when Rodney began to put more energy into it.

Rodney rocked his whole body forward and John's hand released the pillow, at which point Rodney forgot to pay attention even out of the corner of his eye as it got really good, the heat building fast.

His forehead pressed against John's slick shoulder, he spiraled a long moment, lost in freefall.

He came back down, noticing first that John's back was rising and falling in harsh, rasping breaths. John licked his lips, and from the side Rodney could see his eyelashes looked wet, forehead beaded with sweat. John released a white-knuckled grip on the abused pillow and let out a long, heavy breath. A subtle shimmy of John's hips reminded Rodney that he had all his weight on him, and was in fact, still inside.

He slowly pulled out, wincing as his sensitive cock touched the blankets. He realized that he'd stupidly forgotten the condom, distracted as he was with John's demands. He took far too many chances with John.

John shifted to a more comfortable position, laying limp on one side. He swept the damp hair off his face with the inside of his arm.

"You didn't come," Rodney realized, bewildered. His eyes swept John's body. "You aren't even hard."

"Doesn't mean I didn't like it." John stretched, long and languid, with a naughty smirk. He murmured, his eyes glittering at Rodney, the smirk turning into a smug smile, "Only the bad boys get fucked." And he did look like a bad little boy who'd gotten away with a stolen cookie.

"You are twisted," Rodney said even as John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and rolled Rodney closer with a grunt. Rodney's foot kicked out, but John was stronger. "No, I'm not kidding. You have issues and clearly need psychiatric help."

Sticky with sweat, John pillowed his head in the crook of Rodney's arm and shoulder, nuzzling. Which was something he didn't usually do either. John had sharp elbows and used them when he wanted more room.

John mumbled happily into Rodney's chest, "I'll sleep 'em off." Then sighed. "Wake me when it's lunch time, will you?"

"Lunch was half an hour ago."

But John's eyelids fluttered once or twice more, and fell shut. Rodney was far from comfortable and suddenly aware that, yes, in fact, it was lunch, and yes, he was hungry. He looked down at the warm weight of John's cheek on his chest and decided he could wait fifteen minutes. Maybe even twenty.

~*~*~

Light blustery rain spattered on taxicab windshield, cold fat drops that blew into Rodney's face as he ducked away and struggled to open the umbrella. There was more wind than rain, and it threatened to turn his umbrella inside out as his wallet became another seven dollars lighter. He tried not to resent the taunting sight of John's car, parked on the street right in front of the house.

Before the cab could leave, it was blocked by a small Toyota that pulled in behind it, enthusiastic wipers beating unnecessarily fast. The passenger side door opened and an aluminum crutch got out, followed by John. He waved a breezy hand at a woman in the driver's seat as she backed away. John crumpled a small white bag in his hand. Freed, the cab sped off as if on a mission from God.

"That was my neighbor," Rodney accused him.

"Yeah. Nice lady," John said, watching as she left.

"What? The one that mutilated my shrubs without asking me?!"

"She didn't mention it." John pointed as he moved down the walk, passing Rodney. "But she did tell me about some impressively loud Beethoven...."

"Beethoven's 5th and Wagner should only be played at full volume; anything less undermines the intended impact of the music – and that woman is a menace with hedge trimmers. Don't be fooled for a moment by that smiling face. She didn't express one iota of remorse." He shook out the umbrella as John navigated the steps. "What were you doing anyway?"

John wrinkled his nose and complained, "Spilled my prescription. The pharmacist, though, she was nice enough to let me refill it."

Rodney snorted as he unlocked the door. "You and women." He stopped suddenly and John nearly walked into him. "Wait. Should I be worried here? I mean, you've never actually slept with one, have you?"

"Not intentionally," John said.

~*~*~

Rodney was never sure what prompted him to check. The white bag containing the prescription had been set on the coffee table, in the usual spot, while John went to the bathroom. Rodney had heaved the spaghetti sauce on the stove to reheat, pondered cleaning the kitchen, then dismissed it as a pointless waste of time. He clicked on the porch light, crossing to the living room. Then he probably meant to glance at the CDs John had listened to that day, but John's prescription had his name and the contents on a sticker on the outside of the bag. He leaned closer.

John emerged from the bathroom. Rodney already had the bag unstapled to check to see if there was some mistake. But it wasn't mislabeled. He held the bottle up, spinning towards a startled John.

"This isn't your prescription," Rodney said.

"Yes, it is. It's even got my name on it." John's smile was dry.

"This isn't what they gave you in Colorado," Rodney clarified with a sarcastic flutter of his eyelashes.

"That stuff didn't work for me." John nodded to it with his chin. "That's my old prescription."

Rodney's shoulders sagged. "How old?"

"It's actually milder, Rodney." John came closer and reached to pull it out of Rodney's hand.

Rodney held it away, over his head. "How old?"

John let his hand drop. "It's the same prescription from when they took me off the jumps. It's been working for weeks."

"Weeks? That was almost two months ago!" Rodney was aghast. "You didn't spill it, did you? How did you sweep them up, hmm?"

"Rodney...."

It took three angry steps for Rodney to fling the front door open. He struggled with the bottle with shaking hands for a moment, then scattered the contents in an arc across the lawn. They caught the light for a moment, then fell with a patter and vanished into the grass.

He turned, capping the bottle, his shoulders hunched, to find John regarding him with sardonic calm. John had one arm draped over his crutch as he balanced next to the couch.

"Thanks, Rodney. That was expensive."

He was too calm.

"You have another stash, don't you?" Rodney asked him, eyes darting over John's face.

~*~*~

John had never seen an SUV packed with quite that much stuff. He observed Rodney's preparations from the sidelines, his own single backpack already flung inside and buried. "You sure you can drive that thing? Because I could take over. Though I'd probably be a lead foot." He indicated the cast with a gentle swing.

"I assure you, I can drive," Rodney said, heaving another shoulder full of blankets into the back before slamming the door.

He opened it again and tossed in a cooler that he'd left on the ground outside, sliding it along the carpeted floor. The door slammed again.

"So... where are we going? Everest? K-2-? I think you forgot the oxygen bottles."

Rodney gave him a dismal look. "You are the first non-McKay to visit the family retreat, and I had to deal with Jeannie's mockery that I even wanted to go back there after years of swearing that I never would – all on your behalf! But someone has to get you away from the evils and temptations—" He waved a hand generally to indicate the quiet suburban Toronto neighborhood. "—of big city life."

"For a weekend," John said, dry with humor.

"It's all I could get!" Rodney's forehead crumpled in frustration and dismay. "We have a large family – hello? The Scottish McKays. We're known for that – and the Canadian summer is approximately three minutes long. So you're just going to have to... hurry up and recover from your drug addiction."

John rolled his eyes and refrained from pointing out that it was nowhere near summer. "I'm not addicted. I just like them."

The horrified look Rodney shot him convinced John to not pursue that topic of conversation further. He figured Rodney would completely freak out if he said anything along the lines of "I can stop any time I want."

Rodney walked around the side of the rented SUV and slid the side door shut. Then he hopped into the driver's seat and bounced until he was comfortable, adjusting the mirrors and steering wheel like he knew what he was doing. "Well? Get in."

John shrugged and climbed up. He leaned the crutches between the seats. "It's March. You're aware that the ice has probably just broken, right? And that it's going to be freezing cold?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," Rodney said, hunched down behind the wheel, not looking at John.

They weren't ten minutes outside the city, heading at exactly the speed limit in the left hand lane towards Kingston, when Rodney asked, eyes flicking to John with guarded fear and curiosity, "So. Feeling any cravings or...um...?"

A car came up on Rodney's bumper, flashed its lights, then went around him as it was ignored. A second car followed it. John sighed and leaned his forehead against the window. "I'm not a drug addict, Rodney."

It was going to be a long trip.

~*~*~

In a relaxing haze of road noise, John drifted, his head rocking gently against the headrest as they thumped over the regular lines of uneven pavement. Cars hummed around them, passing on the right. The scenery had been nothing special. Farms, fences, trees, farms, fences. Rocks. More trees. The SUV suddenly rumbled, shaking them both.

"Sorry," Rodney said, head ducked into his collar. He moved the vehicle back into the center of the lane. It figured he couldn't drive in a straight line.

John tried to adjust the seat further back, unsuccessfully – these new cars never had space for long legs, even without the cast – stretching for more room. It had turned out to be a good thing he had an extra supply ("stash" was an exaggeration), but John was determined to prove was not addicted by not taking them. He winced at his stiff knee, wondering about bathroom breaks even as Rodney hit the turn signal and slowed, looking nervously over his shoulder. He dodged into the next lane and then lurched towards the nearest exit. Rodney had refused to stop for fast food, skipping one rest stop sign after another. Now he steered the vehicle unerringly towards an old store with a few camper trucks parked in front, bouncing over potholes in the parking lot.

"It's still here," Rodney said, his face lit up and distant.

"Great. So we can do some grocery shopping," John said, though really, he was just glad they'd stopped.

"No, no, there's a little – well, I don't know if they still have it, but—" Without finishing his sentence, Rodney squirmed out from behind the wheel, dropping to the sandy pavement. "Well, come on. No, wait. Stay there. I forgot about the cast." And with that, he dashed towards the store.

John ignored his instructions and got out, gratefully rolling his shoulders, crutch tucked under one arm though he wasn't putting all his weight on it. Colder wind than he was used to brushed his hair. The air smelled like oil, dirt, and damp wood, things John associated with farms and camp outs. John glanced around. The little store adjoined a two-pump gas station and a more modern mini-mart with glass walls. Rodney poked his head out the front door of the store, beaming, and waved John over. John dragged his other crutch out of the car.

"It's still here," Rodney said, clearly excited.

"Oh. That's good to know," John said as Rodney held the door for him. He had no idea what Rodney was talking about.

"I recognized the exit immediately, and that's some memory I've got, because I haven't been here in what-? Fifteen? Twenty years?"

"Like a homing pigeon," John said, his smile snide. Rodney shot him a dirty look.

Stepping inside, John surveyed the dusty wooden shelves with lonely boxes of cereal and stacks of tuna fish cans, the refrigerator full of styrofoam bait containers, and all the fishing poles mounted to the wall. He nodded slowly. "This is a real find, Rodney."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's in the back."

The back had six or seven chipped formica tables and even in the middle of the afternoon it was busy, filled with what looked like locals; men in work jackets perched on old-fashioned soda fountain stools; a mother herding a toddler back to their table; a group of kids talking loudly as they blew straw wrappers at each other. A teenage girl in an apron swerved between the tables, holding a pot of coffee over her head as John and Rodney sat down.

The menu on the blackboard behind the grill was simple, but promising, and the food smelled great. Mentally, John already had his fork and knife in hand.

"This place is word of mouth," Rodney said proudly. "Only the locals know about it -- and, of course, yours truly."

Never let it be said that Rodney's bragging was without cause.

The platter for John's cheeseburger was the size of a trough, cheese dripping down the side of a burger that was actually medium rare. The home fries were crisp, and Rodney waved John off when he reached for the ketchup. "I realize this is sacrilege, but, try their gravy first." He pointed to a little ceramic cup. "I don't know what they do to it, but no doubt somebody's grandma won first prize at the county fair."

It was a little greasy and John had to wipe a drip off his chin but he suspected the moan conveyed his opinion, because Rodney grinned at him across the table before he dug in to his own lunch. Their coffee was ordinary, black, and perfect -- hot enough to burn your windpipe. It was also bottomless. The coffee pot circled like a dish at Thanksgiving dinner, in constant motion. Some of the men at the counter cradled mugs in their hands, seeming to thaw in place. The owner certainly knew how to keep the customers coming back.

Finally, with a sigh, John leaned away from his plate, thinking he might need a forklift to get back into the SUV. Rodney picked his teeth with a toothpick, slumped in his chair. They'd blown any semblance of a diet and John was grateful neither of them were competing any time soon.

"Dessert?" Rodney smirked at him.

John groaned and laughed, tipping his head back in a plea for mercy.

They stayed later than they should have, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze, soaking up the homey atmosphere. Outside, the gray skies and flecks of cold rain against the window seemed unwelcoming.

Rodney set down his cup and dug a folded sheet out of his pocket. "Now let's see what I'll have to endure this weekend."

John half expected a map – he doubted Rodney had actually driven to the family cottage when he was twelve – but it turned out to be some sort of pamphlet.

"'Symptoms of withdrawal....'" Rodney read aloud.

"Oh, way to spoil a good time, McKay," John snarled, leaning forward, hunched, elbows on the table. He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "And would you keep it down? This is a family kind of place."

"Embarrassment, that's good. It's a step towards admitting you have a problem."

John scowled at him, eyes narrowed.

"Says so right here," Rodney added brightly, tipping the brochure towards him.

"I don't have a problem."

"One step forward, two steps back is the name of the game," Rodney said sagely with a shake of his head. He looked up from his reading. "That's in paragraph two."

"Gimme that," John said, snatching it out of his hands. He balled it up.

"Sure, keep that one. I have plenty," Rodney said, withdrawing another from an inside pocket. "They give these things out by the dozen."

John ran his hands through his bangs and gave in to the inevitable.

Rodney frowned, reading, his chin high, quick eyes skimming the page. "Hmm... remove the source, hello, obvious?... blah, blah, blah... avoid dehydration, yes, yes, taken care of that... no, I don't think a cavity search is entirely necessary..." John glared bloody murder at him and Rodney shifted nervously. "... Or wise. Ah! Here we go: Symptoms. Irritability... restlessness...." Rodney looked up and stared at John. "But-- how am I supposed to be able to tell?"

"Maybe when I come after you with an ax?" John suggested, turning his coffee cup.

"Oh, ha. Try not to hurt yourself when you fall off your crutches, Freddie Kruger."

"I don't know, I've seen some pretty scary villains who limped," John said.

Rodney rubbed an eye and huffed. "I guess the goal here is to return you to normal. You've been entirely too sanguine."

"Funny, I'm feeling irritable already."

"Oh? Really?" Rodney perked up. "Does this mean it's working?"

~*~*~

Rodney so richly deserved it. And he really should have known better with all that greasy food.

They bought "supplies." John figured this was how the little restaurant made its real money as Rodney tossed several bags of groceries and a couple of wrapped bundles of wood in the back. He assumed they must have a fireplace at that cabin of Rodney's, which did sound nice right about now with the cold seeping in around the doors. Rodney hopped into the cab, and they hit the road. John waited for his moment.

The SUV warmed up and there was good air circulation in the vehicle. Rodney rolled over to the left lane on the highway (John decided he must feel safer there) and proceeded to hog it again. Traffic spilled around them.

Then Rodney turned off the heater and the air went still. Perfect.

John eased off the seat a half inch or so.

Rodney twitched, sitting up straight. He muttered to himself, nose high, looking around through the windows, "... Must be a dairy farm around here somewhere." There were rocks to either side of the freeway. "Or an overturned port-o-potty. Kids do that sort of thing 'out in the country.'"

He shook his head to clear it. "God, that reeks!"

John couldn't help it, his shoulders started shaking. Rodney zeroed in on him.

"That's you?!" He fumbled with the buttons to roll down the window. His seat buzzed forward, the mirrors turned, before he finally hit one for the window.

John took a deep, voluptuous breath and then choked, his snickers exploding into laughter.

"I hate you!" Rodney said. His stuck head out the window, sucking down air.

John cracked his own window. He had to admit, it was pretty bad.

"You shall rue the day!" Rodney swore.

He was pretty sure that was true, since Rodney had eaten the same lunch. But John had won the element of surprise.

They weren't a hundred yards along the road before John rolled his window all the way down, one arm clawed over the side, gagging with laughter. "Oh, man, Rodney!"

~*~*~

The light was dim by the time they found the old dirt road, rutted enough to make John's teeth jangle. Fortunately, the ground was still pretty frozen. In a month or so John would bet any money they'd be sinking to the wheel wells in mud.

"Sure you know where we're going?" John asked for the third time.

"It was right here," Rodney complained, peering into the trees.

But then the road curved left and the trees cleared to the right, revealing an open sky and the bright chop of water reflecting twilight gray. The grade was at an angle and there was a strip of sandy gravel straight ahead, leading to moorings where there might be a dock come summer. Rodney turned the SUV sharply to the left and uphill, and John found himself looking at a cabin with dark windows like eyes, tucked into the hillside. John let his gaze trail up the crest where the trees were bent southeast from prevailing winds in the direction of the long lake.

With a huff of a sigh, Rodney shut off the engine.

The silence was almost surreal. No road noise. No hum of street lights. Just the hush of the water and faint hiss of wind. Briefly, John wanted to turn around and go home. This was about as far as he could get from his fantasies of curling up by a cozy fire. He zipped up his jacket instead and Rodney creaked the driver's side door open, the cold rushing in.

John's breath misted as he stepped out onto hard ground, ignoring the sound of Rodney's grumbling. Rodney bundled up a huge armload of blankets, slinging the strap of a bag over his shoulder. A blanket slid and dragged along the ground.

"Need a hand?" John asked, adjusting the crutch under his arm.

Rodney gave him a dismal look and snorted. "Just bang on the hood of the car."

"What?"

"In case a bear has broken into the cabin," Rodney said. "Of course it would only be a hazard if someone were idiotic enough to leave food there over the winter -- which, given my relatives I would not be surprised -- but I'd rather not risk being eaten alive."

"There are bears out here?" John growled, leaning closer, his head turning slowly towards Rodney.

"It's only happened once and our parents had us bang pots and pans and it swam away -- and did I not tell you that I had good reason to never want to come here again?"

John's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. "And you didn't bring a .357?"

"What is it with you and the military thing?" Rodney adjusted his load of blankets. He made a flicking gesture. "Now. Bang away."

"Let's not. Instead, why don't we walk around the cabin and see if any doors or windows are broken in," John suggested with slow sarcasm. "Unless you think a bear would lock the