Within you, without you
Title: Within you, without you
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Josh Beckett; Jon Lester; Justin Masterson, George Kottaras
Rating: PG13
Time: Spring training 2009
Summary: After avoiding each other all spring, Lester and Beckett finally have it out.
Disclaimer: A work of fiction, written only for entertainment purposes.
Clay Buchholz stepped out of the dugout onto the green grass of City of Palms Park and smiled to himself. It was the best time of day. The Florida sun was still fairly low in the sky, high enough to burn off most of the dew, but not so high as to start its relentless baking. A hint of coolness hung in the air as he started to trot down the first base line, loosening his muscles.
He jogged the perimeter of the park a couple of times, enjoying the quiet, dropping into an easy rhythm. He paused at the left field field foul line, turned, then sprinted across the outfield, seeing in his mind's eye a football lofting through the sky, dropping softly into his outstretched hands. Touchdown, Buchholz! And the crowd goes wild!
He trotted back across the outfield, took his place at the line, and exploded again, relishing the feel of pure speed, the almost forgotten sound of creaking shoulder pads echoing in his mind. Damn, he missed football, the sheer mindlessness of it compared to pitching. Sometimes mindlessness was what he craved.
Finally he tucked the football fantasies away on a shelf in the back of his mind and resumed jogging, sweat beading on his face and running down his neck. Other pitchers started to trot across the field, and Clay watched as Josh Beckett detached himself from a group including Brad Penny and Tim Wakefield and came over to join him.
"You're looking good," Beckett said, falling into pace beside him.
"You mean my pitchin' or my ass?" Clay replied.
Beckett snorted laughter. "Both, since you're askin'," he said. "Seriously, though, you look fuckin' great. That two-seamer workin' for you?"
Buchholz grinned. "Sure is. Thanks for the help. It's working great."
"Hey guys," Justin Masterson joined them, eliciting a smile of greeting from Clay and a grunt from Josh. They fell into a conversation about the relative merits of the sinker, Buchholz opining that his six-inch drop couldn't begin to measure up to Masterson's 60 inches, Beckett noting he couldn't get a fuckin' ball to sink like that if his fuckin' life depended on it. Justin, disregarding the language as he always did (though for some strange reason it always made Clay wince when Josh used fuck around Justin, even though it was ridiculous; if Justin didn't care, why should he?) and laughing as he always did.
Beckett suddenly shut his mouth with a snap and veered away from the two young pitchers. "What's the matter with him?" Masterson asked, puzzled, and Buchholz, looking around, spotted Jon Lester trotting their way.
Well, you see, Justin, it's like this: Beckett's pissed at Jon for getting married this winter and spending every night with the little woman now instead letting Josh fuck his ass. I'd say that about covers it, in a nutshell, you might say.
Buchholz shrugged. "Dunno," he said, watching as Lester ran past them after the retreating Beckett.
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"Hey! HEY!" Lester shouted. Beckett halted, his chest heaving. Lester finally caught up to him.
"This is gettin pretty fucking ridiculous, Josh," Lester said, bending over, hands on his knees. "This isn't fucking high school, you know. How long is this gonna go on?"
Beckett glared. "How long is what gonna go on?"
"You avoiding me like this. It's stupid."
"I didn't think I was the one avoiding you. Looks the other way around to me."
"Jesus, Josh, you know I can't --"
"Can't what? Can't let yourself out of her sight for one minute? You that fuckin' whipped?"
Lester's eyes blazed. "I'm not fucking whipped. I do what I want."
Beckett rolled his eyes. "I'm not gonna listen to this." He started to walk off, only to halt in his tracks at Jon's next words.
"What the fuck do you need me for, anyway? I'm just one of your fucking collection. You never gave a shit about me."
Josh stood, silent, composing himself, then turned. "Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "Tell me the truth, Jon. No bullshit. Is that what you really think?"
"I... I...." Lester looked around helplessly. Was Clay right? Did Josh really love him? Did Josh love him the way Farrah loved him, unhesitating, no strings attached, unconditionally? No. Josh Beckett would never love anyone that way, ever.
He looked up at last and met Beckett's dark eyes. They were drilling into him. He was drowning, submitting, falling to his knees, opening his legs, holding up his wrists, begging, moaning, crying, hurting, please, oh please, don't stop, never stop, please, please...
Lester closed his eyes against the bright Florida sun and shuddered, opened them again to Beckett's glare, and dropped his own gaze to the ground. He said something, too quiet to hear.
"Speak up, boy!" Josh said sharply. Jon lifted his head, his own eyes blazing.
"I said...." he stopped and breathed hard through clenched teeth. "I... I... belong. To. You." His face flushed crimson, and he dropped his head once more.
Beckett, for once in his life, was nonplussed. "Jesus, Jon," he said at last.
I love you, dammit! Jon bit his lip. Can't you understand?
"I need her," Lester said, his voice pitched only slightly above a whisper. "I love her, Josh. But I... I...I still..."
"OK, Jon, OK," Beckett said quickly. "I got you."
Jon smiled slightly at the double entendre. "We got a road trip comin' up right off the bat, you know."
"West coast," Josh agreed. "First chance we got, your ass is so mine."
"Now I'm almost sorry you threw the box away."
"Oh, I kept a couple of things," Josh replied. "The plug, for one."
"No...." Jon started to laugh.
"And these," Beckett pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and tossed it at Lester, who caught it deftly. He ran his fingers over it and shook his head. "You bastard."
"But I'm your bastard, Jonny," Josh said. "And don't you forget it."
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George Kottaras came up the dugout steps as Justin and Clay approached, decked out in his catcher's gear. He and Masterson exchanged playful punches, then he stepped up next to Buchholz as Justin entered the tunnel. Clay was looking across the field at Lester and Beckett.
"Those two finally talking?" Kottaras asked, following his gaze.
"'Pears so," Buchholz said. He smiled at Kottaras. "Looks like you're ready for some work."
"I'm all yours, Buck," George said, smiling back and heading for the bullpen. Clay followed.
"Kinda ironic, isn't it?" he said, listening to the quiet clanking of George's equipment. "Now you'll be in Boston and I'll be in Pawtucket."
"Separated again," Kottaras replied. "Sucks."
"I have a feeling it won't be for long," Buchholz said. "In the meantime, you and Jacoby take care of each other, OK? I have a feeling Josh and Jon are going to be seeing a whole lot of each other."
George looked over his shoulder in time to see Josh flip something to Jon, sling an arm around his neck and say something into his ear. "I have a feeling you're right."
Characters: Clay Buchholz, Josh Beckett; Jon Lester; Justin Masterson, George Kottaras
Rating: PG13
Time: Spring training 2009
Summary: After avoiding each other all spring, Lester and Beckett finally have it out.
Disclaimer: A work of fiction, written only for entertainment purposes.
Clay Buchholz stepped out of the dugout onto the green grass of City of Palms Park and smiled to himself. It was the best time of day. The Florida sun was still fairly low in the sky, high enough to burn off most of the dew, but not so high as to start its relentless baking. A hint of coolness hung in the air as he started to trot down the first base line, loosening his muscles.
He jogged the perimeter of the park a couple of times, enjoying the quiet, dropping into an easy rhythm. He paused at the left field field foul line, turned, then sprinted across the outfield, seeing in his mind's eye a football lofting through the sky, dropping softly into his outstretched hands. Touchdown, Buchholz! And the crowd goes wild!
He trotted back across the outfield, took his place at the line, and exploded again, relishing the feel of pure speed, the almost forgotten sound of creaking shoulder pads echoing in his mind. Damn, he missed football, the sheer mindlessness of it compared to pitching. Sometimes mindlessness was what he craved.
Finally he tucked the football fantasies away on a shelf in the back of his mind and resumed jogging, sweat beading on his face and running down his neck. Other pitchers started to trot across the field, and Clay watched as Josh Beckett detached himself from a group including Brad Penny and Tim Wakefield and came over to join him.
"You're looking good," Beckett said, falling into pace beside him.
"You mean my pitchin' or my ass?" Clay replied.
Beckett snorted laughter. "Both, since you're askin'," he said. "Seriously, though, you look fuckin' great. That two-seamer workin' for you?"
Buchholz grinned. "Sure is. Thanks for the help. It's working great."
"Hey guys," Justin Masterson joined them, eliciting a smile of greeting from Clay and a grunt from Josh. They fell into a conversation about the relative merits of the sinker, Buchholz opining that his six-inch drop couldn't begin to measure up to Masterson's 60 inches, Beckett noting he couldn't get a fuckin' ball to sink like that if his fuckin' life depended on it. Justin, disregarding the language as he always did (though for some strange reason it always made Clay wince when Josh used fuck around Justin, even though it was ridiculous; if Justin didn't care, why should he?) and laughing as he always did.
Beckett suddenly shut his mouth with a snap and veered away from the two young pitchers. "What's the matter with him?" Masterson asked, puzzled, and Buchholz, looking around, spotted Jon Lester trotting their way.
Well, you see, Justin, it's like this: Beckett's pissed at Jon for getting married this winter and spending every night with the little woman now instead letting Josh fuck his ass. I'd say that about covers it, in a nutshell, you might say.
Buchholz shrugged. "Dunno," he said, watching as Lester ran past them after the retreating Beckett.
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"Hey! HEY!" Lester shouted. Beckett halted, his chest heaving. Lester finally caught up to him.
"This is gettin pretty fucking ridiculous, Josh," Lester said, bending over, hands on his knees. "This isn't fucking high school, you know. How long is this gonna go on?"
Beckett glared. "How long is what gonna go on?"
"You avoiding me like this. It's stupid."
"I didn't think I was the one avoiding you. Looks the other way around to me."
"Jesus, Josh, you know I can't --"
"Can't what? Can't let yourself out of her sight for one minute? You that fuckin' whipped?"
Lester's eyes blazed. "I'm not fucking whipped. I do what I want."
Beckett rolled his eyes. "I'm not gonna listen to this." He started to walk off, only to halt in his tracks at Jon's next words.
"What the fuck do you need me for, anyway? I'm just one of your fucking collection. You never gave a shit about me."
Josh stood, silent, composing himself, then turned. "Is that what you think?" he asked quietly. "Tell me the truth, Jon. No bullshit. Is that what you really think?"
"I... I...." Lester looked around helplessly. Was Clay right? Did Josh really love him? Did Josh love him the way Farrah loved him, unhesitating, no strings attached, unconditionally? No. Josh Beckett would never love anyone that way, ever.
He looked up at last and met Beckett's dark eyes. They were drilling into him. He was drowning, submitting, falling to his knees, opening his legs, holding up his wrists, begging, moaning, crying, hurting, please, oh please, don't stop, never stop, please, please...
Lester closed his eyes against the bright Florida sun and shuddered, opened them again to Beckett's glare, and dropped his own gaze to the ground. He said something, too quiet to hear.
"Speak up, boy!" Josh said sharply. Jon lifted his head, his own eyes blazing.
"I said...." he stopped and breathed hard through clenched teeth. "I... I... belong. To. You." His face flushed crimson, and he dropped his head once more.
Beckett, for once in his life, was nonplussed. "Jesus, Jon," he said at last.
I love you, dammit! Jon bit his lip. Can't you understand?
"I need her," Lester said, his voice pitched only slightly above a whisper. "I love her, Josh. But I... I...I still..."
"OK, Jon, OK," Beckett said quickly. "I got you."
Jon smiled slightly at the double entendre. "We got a road trip comin' up right off the bat, you know."
"West coast," Josh agreed. "First chance we got, your ass is so mine."
"Now I'm almost sorry you threw the box away."
"Oh, I kept a couple of things," Josh replied. "The plug, for one."
"No...." Jon started to laugh.
"And these," Beckett pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and tossed it at Lester, who caught it deftly. He ran his fingers over it and shook his head. "You bastard."
"But I'm your bastard, Jonny," Josh said. "And don't you forget it."
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George Kottaras came up the dugout steps as Justin and Clay approached, decked out in his catcher's gear. He and Masterson exchanged playful punches, then he stepped up next to Buchholz as Justin entered the tunnel. Clay was looking across the field at Lester and Beckett.
"Those two finally talking?" Kottaras asked, following his gaze.
"'Pears so," Buchholz said. He smiled at Kottaras. "Looks like you're ready for some work."
"I'm all yours, Buck," George said, smiling back and heading for the bullpen. Clay followed.
"Kinda ironic, isn't it?" he said, listening to the quiet clanking of George's equipment. "Now you'll be in Boston and I'll be in Pawtucket."
"Separated again," Kottaras replied. "Sucks."
"I have a feeling it won't be for long," Buchholz said. "In the meantime, you and Jacoby take care of each other, OK? I have a feeling Josh and Jon are going to be seeing a whole lot of each other."
George looked over his shoulder in time to see Josh flip something to Jon, sling an arm around his neck and say something into his ear. "I have a feeling you're right."