Boston Red Sox - J.D. Drew - no. 97 - Fielder's Choice
Title: Something Unlike Enemies
Team: Boston Red Sox
Characters: J.D. Drew, Josh Beckett
Prompt: Fielder's Choice
Rating: G
Summary: A handful of moments. Nothing like friendship, but at least something unlike enemies.
Author's Notes: These came out of no where, and are somewhat random.
DISCLAIMER: The events I write about are entirely fictional. They have never occurred, and are complete fabrications and imaginings. Nothing I write is intended to be taken as truth or fact. Nothing I write is written with malicious intent, and no profit is made whatsoever. Slander and libel are not intended, nor is offense.
my table is here
June:
"So you think you're hot shit, huh?" Beckett drawled, and J.D. just sort of looked up at him for a moment, because 'standoffish' was the nicest way of describing Beckett, and that mostly only applied to Beckett's attitude with other pitchers. The most politic word for Beckett's interactions with position players, with the exception of Lowell, was 'cool'. Which made this - whatever it was - odd at best. "Just doing what I can," J.D. offered in reply, shrugging nonchalantly to hide his lingering confusion. He was willing to be civil, because all insinuations to the contrary, he hadn't actually been raised in a barn. Beckett scoffed, then went on his way, and that was that.
July:
He didn't exactly care about the top ten high scores on the clubhouse video game machine, but it did amuse him somewhat that when Beckett went on the DL, he was constantly playing Duck Hunter, demolishing all the previous high scores in his aggravated boredom. The pitcher hardly seemed to speak to anyone except in swears, went out of his way to get out a rise out of everyone for his personal amusement. But J.D. had made himself a reputation of being even keeled, and so when even 'Tek was foaming at the mouth in annoyance, J.D. maintained his cool. He somewhat understood Beckett's seeming urge to piss off everyone within a five mile radius, and he understood the plaguing boredom of being on the disabled list all too well. Just because he understood though, didn't mean J.D. found the behavior any less irritating.
August:
"Hear you've got a herniated disk," Beckett observed, and J.D. looked up quickly, the stoic facade he wore in public slipping easily back into place. "Yeah," he said, and nearly winced, because he hadn't meant his voice to come out that tired, that beaten. There was a quiet little spark of understanding in Beckett's eyes, and it eased its way into J.D., let him relax just a little bit, enough for his mask to fall away a fraction, and Beckett game him a strange little smile unlike anything he had ever seen before on the pitcher. That wormed in next to the quiet little spark of understanding, and he felt his own lips twist into the approximation of a smile in response.
September:
The worst, in some ways, was not knowing how he would feel from one day to the next. Some mornings, he could barely get out of bed. He could barely move he was so stiff, and every stiff motion left him bright eyed and gasping in pain. Other mornings he was just a bit sore, a bit slow, a bit feeble and achy in a way that suggested it was due to inaction rather than anything actually physically wrong. Those days, he tried to make sure he got in swings and fielding drills and conditioning. When he got two of those days in a row, he felt like he might really do this, might make it back. It was funny in a way, because Beckett was finally better, he and J.D. seeming to trade off their time on the DL.
October:
He winced tiredly as the endorphins and adrenaline faded, and all he was left with was the dull, lingering pain and the bitterness of defeat. "Yeah," Beckett said softly, and he sounded how J.D. felt, raw and tired and strung out. J.D. looked up fully, and Beckett's expression matched his voice, drawn and tight, eyes bruised with weariness. J.D. slid over a little, wincing as the pain sharpened slightly. Now that he could afford to let his mind wander, he probably ought to take a muscle relaxant and some pain killers, but somehow that felt like cheating at the moment. Beckett eased onto the clubhouse sofa next to him stiffly, and they sat and stared into space for a long while. "I feel like shooting something," Beckett said after a while, voice low and dangerous, and J.D. barked out a sudden laugh, his foul mood disappearing in an instant.
Team: Boston Red Sox
Characters: J.D. Drew, Josh Beckett
Prompt: Fielder's Choice
Rating: G
Summary: A handful of moments. Nothing like friendship, but at least something unlike enemies.
Author's Notes: These came out of no where, and are somewhat random.
DISCLAIMER: The events I write about are entirely fictional. They have never occurred, and are complete fabrications and imaginings. Nothing I write is intended to be taken as truth or fact. Nothing I write is written with malicious intent, and no profit is made whatsoever. Slander and libel are not intended, nor is offense.
my table is here
June:
"So you think you're hot shit, huh?" Beckett drawled, and J.D. just sort of looked up at him for a moment, because 'standoffish' was the nicest way of describing Beckett, and that mostly only applied to Beckett's attitude with other pitchers. The most politic word for Beckett's interactions with position players, with the exception of Lowell, was 'cool'. Which made this - whatever it was - odd at best. "Just doing what I can," J.D. offered in reply, shrugging nonchalantly to hide his lingering confusion. He was willing to be civil, because all insinuations to the contrary, he hadn't actually been raised in a barn. Beckett scoffed, then went on his way, and that was that.
July:
He didn't exactly care about the top ten high scores on the clubhouse video game machine, but it did amuse him somewhat that when Beckett went on the DL, he was constantly playing Duck Hunter, demolishing all the previous high scores in his aggravated boredom. The pitcher hardly seemed to speak to anyone except in swears, went out of his way to get out a rise out of everyone for his personal amusement. But J.D. had made himself a reputation of being even keeled, and so when even 'Tek was foaming at the mouth in annoyance, J.D. maintained his cool. He somewhat understood Beckett's seeming urge to piss off everyone within a five mile radius, and he understood the plaguing boredom of being on the disabled list all too well. Just because he understood though, didn't mean J.D. found the behavior any less irritating.
August:
"Hear you've got a herniated disk," Beckett observed, and J.D. looked up quickly, the stoic facade he wore in public slipping easily back into place. "Yeah," he said, and nearly winced, because he hadn't meant his voice to come out that tired, that beaten. There was a quiet little spark of understanding in Beckett's eyes, and it eased its way into J.D., let him relax just a little bit, enough for his mask to fall away a fraction, and Beckett game him a strange little smile unlike anything he had ever seen before on the pitcher. That wormed in next to the quiet little spark of understanding, and he felt his own lips twist into the approximation of a smile in response.
September:
The worst, in some ways, was not knowing how he would feel from one day to the next. Some mornings, he could barely get out of bed. He could barely move he was so stiff, and every stiff motion left him bright eyed and gasping in pain. Other mornings he was just a bit sore, a bit slow, a bit feeble and achy in a way that suggested it was due to inaction rather than anything actually physically wrong. Those days, he tried to make sure he got in swings and fielding drills and conditioning. When he got two of those days in a row, he felt like he might really do this, might make it back. It was funny in a way, because Beckett was finally better, he and J.D. seeming to trade off their time on the DL.
October:
He winced tiredly as the endorphins and adrenaline faded, and all he was left with was the dull, lingering pain and the bitterness of defeat. "Yeah," Beckett said softly, and he sounded how J.D. felt, raw and tired and strung out. J.D. looked up fully, and Beckett's expression matched his voice, drawn and tight, eyes bruised with weariness. J.D. slid over a little, wincing as the pain sharpened slightly. Now that he could afford to let his mind wander, he probably ought to take a muscle relaxant and some pain killers, but somehow that felt like cheating at the moment. Beckett eased onto the clubhouse sofa next to him stiffly, and they sat and stared into space for a long while. "I feel like shooting something," Beckett said after a while, voice low and dangerous, and J.D. barked out a sudden laugh, his foul mood disappearing in an instant.