Miracle fic for mentalhygiene
Jul. 6th, 2005 05:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardHappy birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mentalhygiene! All I can offer is weird Miracle fic with OC and Mac and Magic and, unfortunately, no porn.
Mac doesn’t expect to see any of Team USA’s players on the ice when he goes down to the rink the morning of their first game. Maybe Mark Johnson, but that’s it. Most of Team USA sleeps late when they have the chance, which is seldom enough the way Coach Brooks works them. Mac is an early riser, though, and always has been, and even six months of unmercifully hard training and bone-deep exhaustion that haunts him every waking moment can’t change that. Much as his body (or maybe his mind) wants to sleep late, his mind (or maybe his body) never lets him.
Sure enough, Johnson is on the ice, skating lazy circles around the goal at the other end of the rink and exchanging tart words with a couple of the Czech skaters. Form what Mac can hear, Mark’s the one trying to keep it civil, while the Czechs are the ones spoiling for a fight. Even from a hundred and fifty feet down ice, the strain in Mark’s voice comes clearly to Mac’s ears, and he wonders if he’s going to have to help Mark even the odds if it comes to a fight.
Mac’s not the only to catch sense of the growing tensions. OC’s on the ice too, and that’s what surprises him, because OC’s never struck Mac as an early riser. There’s also the fact that OC said he wasn’t allowed to play for at least a week, doctor’s orders (Herb’s, more likely; Doc would probably prefer not having OC anywhere near the ice for at least a month, but we can’t all have what we want), but that surprises Mac less than the fact that OC’s awake at this hour of the day.
OC’s braced himself on his stick by the boards, watching Mark and the Czechs with a small frown marring his golden features. He turns his head as Mac steps out onto the ice and scowls, skating a few paces away. He limps as he does so, and while it’s not he first time Mac’s seen such a thing before, it’s certainly the most severe limp he’s ever seen on ice, and how can OC even think of skating? That must hurt like hell, and only reinforces the lingering suspicion in the back of Mac’s mind that OC’s a stubborn, stupid son of a bitch.
“What’s up with Magic?” Mac asks just as OC opens his mouth, probably to snap out something profane.
OC scowls again. “Fucking Czechs,” he says, and maybe it’s just Mac but there seems to be more accent in his words than he’s heard in a long time. “Magic was out here before them, and they have to go and start picking on him about ’76. Him, and us.”
“Us” probably refers to nothing more than Team USA in general, which would account for OC’s unhappy expression (unless that’s the pain in his leg), but it still makes Mac twitch a little. ’76, though…that was the year Magic toured with the Olympic team, and got dropped just before opening ceremonies. Everyone on Team USA knows it was nothing more than hockey politics; Magic was still a fucking teenager, still in high school, and he held his own with the best players in college hockey. But being the coach’s kid is something else entirely, and if he’d gone all the way to the games people would have talked more than they already were. Everyone on the team, including Buzzy Schneider, the one holdover from the ’76 games, knows it’s a crying shame that Mark didn’t get to play then. And no matter what the Czechs are saying, if it’s about the ’76 games, then that’s got to hurt. Mark’s the calm one, and they’re damn lucky OC’s crippled, otherwise there’d be blood on the ice right now, Mac is sure of that.
Mac’s eyes flicker back up ice. Magic’s holding his own, and it doesn’t look like he needs or wants Mac and OC’s help. He looks back towards OC, who’s standing awkwardly with his wrist curled around his stick. “Thought you weren’t supposed to be on the ice,” he said. “Something about a plane ticket back to Boston.”
OC cuts his eyes warily at Mac, tensing for a fight or at least an argument, then seems to relax, at least a little. Mac isn’t sure how much of that tension is due to pain (OC, he has learned, surprisingly Does Not Like painkillers at all, despite the fact that they’re legal drugs. Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s the Olympics, and painkillers could get him thrown out. If he was even playing right now), but some of it, at least, is stress, and it doesn’t take him much imagination to decide where that’s coming from. “You wanna get me off’a it?” he offers, golden eyes speculative and a little challenging.
OC, Mac decides after a moment, does not deserve to be flown back to Boston if Herb catches him on the ice. He spares a last glance at Mark, who has determinedly abandoned the Czechs and is skating toward them with clean even strokes. “Sure,” Mac tells OC, and tilts his head at Magic. “If you don’t mind company.”
“Not that company,” OC grins after a considering moment as Magic skates to a halt beside them.
mentalhygiene! All I can offer is weird Miracle fic with OC and Mac and Magic and, unfortunately, no porn.Mac doesn’t expect to see any of Team USA’s players on the ice when he goes down to the rink the morning of their first game. Maybe Mark Johnson, but that’s it. Most of Team USA sleeps late when they have the chance, which is seldom enough the way Coach Brooks works them. Mac is an early riser, though, and always has been, and even six months of unmercifully hard training and bone-deep exhaustion that haunts him every waking moment can’t change that. Much as his body (or maybe his mind) wants to sleep late, his mind (or maybe his body) never lets him.
Sure enough, Johnson is on the ice, skating lazy circles around the goal at the other end of the rink and exchanging tart words with a couple of the Czech skaters. Form what Mac can hear, Mark’s the one trying to keep it civil, while the Czechs are the ones spoiling for a fight. Even from a hundred and fifty feet down ice, the strain in Mark’s voice comes clearly to Mac’s ears, and he wonders if he’s going to have to help Mark even the odds if it comes to a fight.
Mac’s not the only to catch sense of the growing tensions. OC’s on the ice too, and that’s what surprises him, because OC’s never struck Mac as an early riser. There’s also the fact that OC said he wasn’t allowed to play for at least a week, doctor’s orders (Herb’s, more likely; Doc would probably prefer not having OC anywhere near the ice for at least a month, but we can’t all have what we want), but that surprises Mac less than the fact that OC’s awake at this hour of the day.
OC’s braced himself on his stick by the boards, watching Mark and the Czechs with a small frown marring his golden features. He turns his head as Mac steps out onto the ice and scowls, skating a few paces away. He limps as he does so, and while it’s not he first time Mac’s seen such a thing before, it’s certainly the most severe limp he’s ever seen on ice, and how can OC even think of skating? That must hurt like hell, and only reinforces the lingering suspicion in the back of Mac’s mind that OC’s a stubborn, stupid son of a bitch.
“What’s up with Magic?” Mac asks just as OC opens his mouth, probably to snap out something profane.
OC scowls again. “Fucking Czechs,” he says, and maybe it’s just Mac but there seems to be more accent in his words than he’s heard in a long time. “Magic was out here before them, and they have to go and start picking on him about ’76. Him, and us.”
“Us” probably refers to nothing more than Team USA in general, which would account for OC’s unhappy expression (unless that’s the pain in his leg), but it still makes Mac twitch a little. ’76, though…that was the year Magic toured with the Olympic team, and got dropped just before opening ceremonies. Everyone on Team USA knows it was nothing more than hockey politics; Magic was still a fucking teenager, still in high school, and he held his own with the best players in college hockey. But being the coach’s kid is something else entirely, and if he’d gone all the way to the games people would have talked more than they already were. Everyone on the team, including Buzzy Schneider, the one holdover from the ’76 games, knows it’s a crying shame that Mark didn’t get to play then. And no matter what the Czechs are saying, if it’s about the ’76 games, then that’s got to hurt. Mark’s the calm one, and they’re damn lucky OC’s crippled, otherwise there’d be blood on the ice right now, Mac is sure of that.
Mac’s eyes flicker back up ice. Magic’s holding his own, and it doesn’t look like he needs or wants Mac and OC’s help. He looks back towards OC, who’s standing awkwardly with his wrist curled around his stick. “Thought you weren’t supposed to be on the ice,” he said. “Something about a plane ticket back to Boston.”
OC cuts his eyes warily at Mac, tensing for a fight or at least an argument, then seems to relax, at least a little. Mac isn’t sure how much of that tension is due to pain (OC, he has learned, surprisingly Does Not Like painkillers at all, despite the fact that they’re legal drugs. Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s the Olympics, and painkillers could get him thrown out. If he was even playing right now), but some of it, at least, is stress, and it doesn’t take him much imagination to decide where that’s coming from. “You wanna get me off’a it?” he offers, golden eyes speculative and a little challenging.
OC, Mac decides after a moment, does not deserve to be flown back to Boston if Herb catches him on the ice. He spares a last glance at Mark, who has determinedly abandoned the Czechs and is skating toward them with clean even strokes. “Sure,” Mac tells OC, and tilts his head at Magic. “If you don’t mind company.”
“Not that company,” OC grins after a considering moment as Magic skates to a halt beside them.