on the dangers of self-analyzation
title: on the dangers of self-analyzation
rating: pg
pairings: AJ Burnett/Russell Martin
word count: ~1674
summary: aj really doesn't have good makeup. he knows it.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way reflects the ideas, characters, real lives, or proclivities of the characters mentioned. There are no connections or affiliations between these fictional stories and the people or organizations they mention. They were not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit is being made.
AJ was a bit of a masochist, but this was not a new fact for those who spent any time around him. There were few things he took greater sickening delight in than talking about how miserable he was doing at that particular time. Repeated therapy visits and self-help did not inspire any more confidence in him or improve his results. He just liked a good wallow and, as far as he was concerned, it was a perfectly average thing to do. He wasn't made out of the best stuff, after all.
He had, on this particular occasion on this rare off-day at home, compiled his list of favorite New York Post covers and was adding a new one to his collection. This one was a picture of him with his mouth open (he no longer knew what he was saying) and Russell on the mound next to him, his finger pointed in an emphasizing jab at the ground to express some point. Joe Girardi is also on the mound, his arms wide open and his face twisted in familiar frustration. Jeter had his hands up, palms wide, as if he is trying to settle them all down. An umpire - Tim Welke - is looking angry and his fist is in the air and he (and Russell) are being thrown out of the game. The familiar block letting on the cover says GET OUT OF HERE!
The subtitle text says, 'Burnett spoils gem with temper tantrum on mound.'
This was relatively truthful as far as New York Post covers went. He'd been called and seen worse in his time here. He placed it with the rest of the covers and put them neatly into the closet.
Him and Russell rarely fought and those fights did not usually coincide with his starts. Baseball as a grind made it hard to argue with the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. There was just too much effort and energy involved in playing baseball - even for a starting pitcher - that fighting essentially during a game was not in the cards.
He didn't even know what they'd been fighting about, which was par for the course. He or Russell would say something, or make some observation (Russell's stumpy arms being a good example), and when you had two highly competitive men, one of which was extremely self-conscious and knew he wasn't really all that, these things usually went moderately bad moderately quickly. Either way, he'd been pitching a gem, and Russell had come out to talk, and AJ hadn't been happy with this disruption of his rhythm, and he'd said something, and Derek had come out to try and calm him down, and that had made them all more heated - Derek was a great captain but a shit relationship counselor - and then him and Russ had both been tossed after not breaking up their meeting.
He had considered waiting around for the press to come down and ask him lopsided questions about his makeup, but that had seemed way less appealing than going home and playing Call of Duty. He was pretty sure he would have preferred jumping into the mouth of a volcano, for that matter. Ditching the reporters, he was sure, was also in the article. Beat writers were a self-important bunch, even more so than baseball players, AJ suspected.
So Russell was still steaming at him for getting them both tossed, because it had obviously been his fault, on top of whatever they'd been fighting over to begin with. So AJ, as he was wont to do, was bemoaning his usual inability to do things right. This was where the collection of Post covers was helpful. They loved covering his inadequacies.
A better person than he, he decided, would try to make things better.
He put his self-pity collection away and paced in his apartment to try and figure out how to resolve the situation. He could just appear naked in Russell's living room, but he did not want to make it seem like he was only there for sex. He did not want to send over something trite like flowers. He did not want to stew over this, or let Russell stew over it, until it exploded.
He'd discussed this at length with Nick over those greasy breakfast sandwiches they made in the bodega in the Bronx they liked. It doubled as a good breakfast place, and usually after bad losses they would eat there to get the gross feeling of losing out of their mouths. Nick suggested something Russell liked, an object - maybe a new drum set? or a mitt? or something about hockey? or music?
AJ had been considering this sort of thing for a while. He was not a terribly good boyfriend as far as he was concerned, and romantic gestures went mostly deaf on him. He had trouble remembering Russell's favorite food, color, and occasionally birthday if he was hyped up. But Swisher was a half-decent relationship coach and these were all good ideas from a guy that had good enough sense to get himself married.
He spent the day putzing around on the internet looking for the right thing. There were tickets to a concert that Russell would have liked (he hoped), and the kind of clothes and shoes and sunglasses he usually wore. He could get them both a vacation. Maybe he would just get the vacation for Russ? Or maybe he could just give him a card. Or maybe tickets to a hockey game? He knew Russ didn't really like the Rangers (or the Islanders or.. uh, the Devils, right?), but maybe this would be the right choice.
He'd texted Phil about the matter. Hughes was Russell's hockey buddy, and much better for these kind of answers than Swisher would have been. If he was going to go the hockey route - and in early September, Russell was a little hockey-crazy, for the end of their short offseason and the beginning of preseason and regular season. The catcher ached adorably for his precious Canadiens to return to the ice. It was entertaining, really. Baseball players pined for baseball to return in an entirely different way than fans did, but in this case Russell was all fan and no professional at all.
He clicked helplessly around the Canadiens website, looking at their jumbled Scandanavian names, their endless confusing vocabulary.
They were auctioning off a signed, game-used Patrick Roy jersey.
Russell, he was sure, liked Patrick Roy. A better boyfriend would have known Russell's favorite player, but he knew the man at least liked Patrick Roy, even if he wasn't his favorite. He would like the jersey. There was a space, near Russell's Silver Slugger, where the jersey would look good framed. Or they could put it on AJ's wall because they spent a lot of time here. Maybe Russell would wear it. AJ was not a very good boyfriend, but he had a strong hunch this was something he would do if he was one.
The auction, however, did not end for another two weeks.
Well.
There were some plusses about being a decent baseball player, one of which was the money. And one of the plusses of having a lot of money was that you could call up the Canadiens PR and ask, quite desperately, if he could have the jersey today. He would pay a lot of money for it. The auction was well over $800. He could double or triple that for the jersey now, if they wanted. Quadruple? They could name their price. But he needed the jersey, he explained. He had a friend who was a very big Canadiens fan.
Suffice to say, the Canadiens then received a substantial donation to their foundation for the jersey. AJ even paid for it to be overnighted to him. He called Nick to develop a plan. He, Nick and Joanna then ate together and talked about the whole argument, the jersey, Russell, how bad a boyfriend AJ was without a lot of help from his friends, and so forth.
The next day they played and won. Nova dug himself into a hole early but got it together and the team took advantage of some shoddy bullpen crap from Toronto. Russell went 3-for-4 with two dingers, leading to AJ being able to escape before Russell could, as the catcher ended up trapped talking to the media. Nick dragged him to the club afterwards.
Russell's doorman was a nice guy, a casual Yankees fan but not real serious. AJ bribed him into silence with a giant coffee from Starbucks. He was not, he explained, carrying a giant framed thing on his back. No siree.
He decided, then, to leave it on the coffee table, still wrapped, and left.
Russell called him around 1:30 that the morning.
He really liked the jersey, he said, his voice soft with appreciation. He talked about how great Patrick Roy was as a goalie, how unfortunate the event that ended his career with the Habs had gone. He explained how he was going to hang it on the wall on his room.
AJ listened, like a good boyfriend probably would have.
Sorry about everything, Russell said. AJ told him it wasn't his fault, because he was kind of a screwed up guy himself. He wasn't too good at this relationship stuff. Never had been, never would be
Russell laughed softly into the phone and insisted only a great boyfriend would do something like this. AJ thought about this for a couple of moments and peered at his reflection in the window.
Maybe he was made of okay stuff.
Maybe.
rating: pg
pairings: AJ Burnett/Russell Martin
word count: ~1674
summary: aj really doesn't have good makeup. he knows it.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way reflects the ideas, characters, real lives, or proclivities of the characters mentioned. There are no connections or affiliations between these fictional stories and the people or organizations they mention. They were not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit is being made.
AJ was a bit of a masochist, but this was not a new fact for those who spent any time around him. There were few things he took greater sickening delight in than talking about how miserable he was doing at that particular time. Repeated therapy visits and self-help did not inspire any more confidence in him or improve his results. He just liked a good wallow and, as far as he was concerned, it was a perfectly average thing to do. He wasn't made out of the best stuff, after all.
He had, on this particular occasion on this rare off-day at home, compiled his list of favorite New York Post covers and was adding a new one to his collection. This one was a picture of him with his mouth open (he no longer knew what he was saying) and Russell on the mound next to him, his finger pointed in an emphasizing jab at the ground to express some point. Joe Girardi is also on the mound, his arms wide open and his face twisted in familiar frustration. Jeter had his hands up, palms wide, as if he is trying to settle them all down. An umpire - Tim Welke - is looking angry and his fist is in the air and he (and Russell) are being thrown out of the game. The familiar block letting on the cover says GET OUT OF HERE!
The subtitle text says, 'Burnett spoils gem with temper tantrum on mound.'
This was relatively truthful as far as New York Post covers went. He'd been called and seen worse in his time here. He placed it with the rest of the covers and put them neatly into the closet.
Him and Russell rarely fought and those fights did not usually coincide with his starts. Baseball as a grind made it hard to argue with the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. There was just too much effort and energy involved in playing baseball - even for a starting pitcher - that fighting essentially during a game was not in the cards.
He didn't even know what they'd been fighting about, which was par for the course. He or Russell would say something, or make some observation (Russell's stumpy arms being a good example), and when you had two highly competitive men, one of which was extremely self-conscious and knew he wasn't really all that, these things usually went moderately bad moderately quickly. Either way, he'd been pitching a gem, and Russell had come out to talk, and AJ hadn't been happy with this disruption of his rhythm, and he'd said something, and Derek had come out to try and calm him down, and that had made them all more heated - Derek was a great captain but a shit relationship counselor - and then him and Russ had both been tossed after not breaking up their meeting.
He had considered waiting around for the press to come down and ask him lopsided questions about his makeup, but that had seemed way less appealing than going home and playing Call of Duty. He was pretty sure he would have preferred jumping into the mouth of a volcano, for that matter. Ditching the reporters, he was sure, was also in the article. Beat writers were a self-important bunch, even more so than baseball players, AJ suspected.
So Russell was still steaming at him for getting them both tossed, because it had obviously been his fault, on top of whatever they'd been fighting over to begin with. So AJ, as he was wont to do, was bemoaning his usual inability to do things right. This was where the collection of Post covers was helpful. They loved covering his inadequacies.
A better person than he, he decided, would try to make things better.
He put his self-pity collection away and paced in his apartment to try and figure out how to resolve the situation. He could just appear naked in Russell's living room, but he did not want to make it seem like he was only there for sex. He did not want to send over something trite like flowers. He did not want to stew over this, or let Russell stew over it, until it exploded.
He'd discussed this at length with Nick over those greasy breakfast sandwiches they made in the bodega in the Bronx they liked. It doubled as a good breakfast place, and usually after bad losses they would eat there to get the gross feeling of losing out of their mouths. Nick suggested something Russell liked, an object - maybe a new drum set? or a mitt? or something about hockey? or music?
AJ had been considering this sort of thing for a while. He was not a terribly good boyfriend as far as he was concerned, and romantic gestures went mostly deaf on him. He had trouble remembering Russell's favorite food, color, and occasionally birthday if he was hyped up. But Swisher was a half-decent relationship coach and these were all good ideas from a guy that had good enough sense to get himself married.
He spent the day putzing around on the internet looking for the right thing. There were tickets to a concert that Russell would have liked (he hoped), and the kind of clothes and shoes and sunglasses he usually wore. He could get them both a vacation. Maybe he would just get the vacation for Russ? Or maybe he could just give him a card. Or maybe tickets to a hockey game? He knew Russ didn't really like the Rangers (or the Islanders or.. uh, the Devils, right?), but maybe this would be the right choice.
He'd texted Phil about the matter. Hughes was Russell's hockey buddy, and much better for these kind of answers than Swisher would have been. If he was going to go the hockey route - and in early September, Russell was a little hockey-crazy, for the end of their short offseason and the beginning of preseason and regular season. The catcher ached adorably for his precious Canadiens to return to the ice. It was entertaining, really. Baseball players pined for baseball to return in an entirely different way than fans did, but in this case Russell was all fan and no professional at all.
He clicked helplessly around the Canadiens website, looking at their jumbled Scandanavian names, their endless confusing vocabulary.
They were auctioning off a signed, game-used Patrick Roy jersey.
Russell, he was sure, liked Patrick Roy. A better boyfriend would have known Russell's favorite player, but he knew the man at least liked Patrick Roy, even if he wasn't his favorite. He would like the jersey. There was a space, near Russell's Silver Slugger, where the jersey would look good framed. Or they could put it on AJ's wall because they spent a lot of time here. Maybe Russell would wear it. AJ was not a very good boyfriend, but he had a strong hunch this was something he would do if he was one.
The auction, however, did not end for another two weeks.
Well.
There were some plusses about being a decent baseball player, one of which was the money. And one of the plusses of having a lot of money was that you could call up the Canadiens PR and ask, quite desperately, if he could have the jersey today. He would pay a lot of money for it. The auction was well over $800. He could double or triple that for the jersey now, if they wanted. Quadruple? They could name their price. But he needed the jersey, he explained. He had a friend who was a very big Canadiens fan.
Suffice to say, the Canadiens then received a substantial donation to their foundation for the jersey. AJ even paid for it to be overnighted to him. He called Nick to develop a plan. He, Nick and Joanna then ate together and talked about the whole argument, the jersey, Russell, how bad a boyfriend AJ was without a lot of help from his friends, and so forth.
The next day they played and won. Nova dug himself into a hole early but got it together and the team took advantage of some shoddy bullpen crap from Toronto. Russell went 3-for-4 with two dingers, leading to AJ being able to escape before Russell could, as the catcher ended up trapped talking to the media. Nick dragged him to the club afterwards.
Russell's doorman was a nice guy, a casual Yankees fan but not real serious. AJ bribed him into silence with a giant coffee from Starbucks. He was not, he explained, carrying a giant framed thing on his back. No siree.
He decided, then, to leave it on the coffee table, still wrapped, and left.
Russell called him around 1:30 that the morning.
He really liked the jersey, he said, his voice soft with appreciation. He talked about how great Patrick Roy was as a goalie, how unfortunate the event that ended his career with the Habs had gone. He explained how he was going to hang it on the wall on his room.
AJ listened, like a good boyfriend probably would have.
Sorry about everything, Russell said. AJ told him it wasn't his fault, because he was kind of a screwed up guy himself. He wasn't too good at this relationship stuff. Never had been, never would be
Russell laughed softly into the phone and insisted only a great boyfriend would do something like this. AJ thought about this for a couple of moments and peered at his reflection in the window.
Maybe he was made of okay stuff.
Maybe.