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General Derek Jeter exudes confidence from every pore. He is absolutely and utterly sure of himself, from every hair on his head to the sweat dripping down his neck. The man doesn’t look like there is absolutely anything in the world that could bother him. He has twinkling eyes and a small, pleased smirk on his lips. He’s in formal dress, and Andy doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many damn medals in one place before.
Posada, of course, doesn’t bother to button his jacket, just strides right up to Derek and says, “Hey, kid.”
Several of the other members of the camp all shoot each other nervous looks (“The general! The colonel just....”), but Jeter just turns that pleased smirk to Posada and shakes his head. Rank-and-file disrespect must be below him.
“Let’s go to your cabin and discuss your reports,” Jeter says, and makes a flicking motion, not entirely unlike if Posada was a fly hovering around his face. The gesture makes Posada quirk a sharp, annoyed eyebrow.
Posada and Jeter are in the cabin for a while. Andy sits outside, near one of their fire pits, and thinks about being had. I have superiors and underlings and you. He thinks about what that other category might entail. He’s never been someone’s before.
When he looks over into Posada’s cabin window, he sees the general’s cool green eyes looking at him. They’re unsettling enough to make him turn away and try to forget about it, but it’s not an easy thing to do when the alternative is thinking about what you mean to a person you will probably be spending the (very short) rest of your life with. When Posada and Jeter exit to go examine the various different facilities at the camp, they have to pass by him sitting there, absorbed in his own thoughts. Posada gives him a greeting of a nod, his expression warm even if it’s hidden under his usual scowl. Jeter quirks his head to the side, his smirk inching up just a bit.
“He doesn’t look anything like Moose,” Derek says.
The utter rage on Posada’s face is there and gone so fast Andy isn’t even sure it was there to begin with. To be honest, though, the absolutely toneless expression the colonel settles on is probably equally as frightening.
*
Activity at the camp picks up significantly and Andy sees less and less of Posada. He has his own jobs: make sure his equipment is in order, check in with every other person who he takes orders from, remind himself how to use his weapons, and so forth. Posada is everywhere, yelling at people to do their tasks, all authority. Sometimes - most of the time, really - it seems that Jeter is at his side, nodding approvingly at whatever it is Posada points out to him.
Andy finds himself oddly empty without Posada’s presence. There were hours in the day consumed almost entirely by Posada rolling his eyes and telling him he’s naive, and now instead it’s the critical looks or half-hearted compliments of his other superiors. It’s not that he doesn’t like them, or that they don’t like him, he thinks - just that Posada has this way, this vibe about him that Andy just can’t get enough of. It makes him likable.
More than anything, it makes Andy ache inside. It’s not just the time but hell if he could explain what else feels wrong without Posada’s presence. Everything is just off.
So he has all these new tasks to do without thinking, and even when he factors them in, he finds himself ending up in front of unlit fire pits thinking about the stories he could be telling Posada, stealing drinks from his flask and watching the firelight flicker against his skin. Around this time he would normally be setting in for a long watch wondering what Posada was thinking with that distant expression. He would start on a story and stop mid-sentence just to see if Posada was listening, and the colonel always would be, always tilts his head towards him and says hey, your voice stopped, as if his talking is more important than the story itself.
He might finish one story and pause thoughtfully to just look at him, wonder at length about his thoughts. Posada might be all grump but he reads like a children’s book when you know what you’re looking for, and Andy certainly does. Andy can read Posada and he just itches to ask what the longing in his expression means, where he picked up the long crow’s feet around his eyes (certainly not from laughing), how he got from no fake knees to one fake knee to a fake knee and a half. He’d like to ask about Mussina and learn about how great a guy he must have been. He’d like to ask how he grew the guts to talk to the greatest general - the leader of the whole damn army! - with his coat half-unbuttoned and without even something resembling a salute.
Andy has a sneaking suspicion those stories about war and people who aren’t around anymore are the best stories, too.
But Posada will tell him when it’s time, he knows.
*
He catches a glance of the colonel a few nights later while making a quick trip to the quartermaster and stops mid-step to watch.
Posada looks to be doing at least eight things at once. His aide, Cervelli, is talking nonstop into his ear and waving papers. Raburn, from the Tigers camp, is trying to explain something into the other ear. At least two other people are following him calling his name and trying to get his attention. Posada doesn’t seem to have noticed any of them, instead shouting at a third or fourth party in front of all of them.
Then Posada notices Andy.
“Hey,” he says to Andy, turning from Cervelli, Raburn, and the assorted crowd trying to get his attention.
“Colonel, the supplies aren’t--”
“Handle it, Frankie,” he snaps, with a dismissive gesture. “You’ve got at least half a brain and all these fucking things you keep bringing to me could be dealt with by at least seven other people that aren’t drowning under preparations right now. Why don’t you talk to Granderson? Or how about you bring this up to Sabathia, he could do this. Just leave me alone. Five minute time-out for me.”
“But--”
Posada tenses his shoulder in a way that makes everything in his mechanical arm click together, and the aide startles. “Frankie, if you say two more words to me, I will deck you. Raburn, I assume Verlander has failed to package all his tactics into one nice little neat package because he never, in the history of his commanding life, has done that, so you should run back and check to see if he forgot something.”
Raburn looks like he knows better than to argue.
Posada looks at Andy and his eyes twinkle in the way they do when Andy meets his gaze.
“Hey, Andy,” he says. He glances over his shoulder (“What the fuck are you still doing there, Frankie?! Sabathia. Now!”), rubs his eyes, and glances back to Pettitte. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. Want to talk?”
“Yeah,” Andy answers, even though perhaps it’s not the best answer. Perhaps he should suggest Posada go back to working on the army mobilization. Perhaps he should go to the quartermaster’s. Or he could concentrate on that weird ache in his stomach that intensifies, then settles, when Posada looks at him. “If you’ve got time.”
“Course I’ve got time for you,” Posada replies, and he brushes his fingers against Andy’s hip.
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