you were right about the stars
for myr, ever-brilliant in her ways.
3228 words which stand alone, but if you're interested, there was an original, which is not the top story in that post but instead the second one called heal our losses.
Bystander
By Candle Beck
Zito called from across the clubhouse, "Hey, cabrón!" and Tim Hudson looked up pretty irritated because he'd been stuck on the same crossword clue for ten minutes and Zito's lack of an indoor voice wasn't helping.
Zito, sweaty and dirty-faced and oblivious, was hollering for Chavez, the only one who got the honor of the name. Hudson was pretty sure that they both knew it meant 'asshole,' the way Zito smirked and Chavez flinched every time, but he didn't try to understand what the fuck went on in those guys' heads.
A suffocating weariness visibly blanketed Chavez as he rose, tottered on his feet. Mulder steadied him with a hand on his side and Chavez blinked up at him as if through a veil. Mulder's mouth was curved in a smile but there was something not right about it, tilted and dark.
Hudson dropped his gaze back down to the newspaper, rubbing hard at the center of his forehead. Goddamn Will Shortz and his motherfucking puns.
*
It was eight o'clock in the morning on a Sunday and Hudson drove to the stadium hungover and in a foul mood. He uncharitably wove in and out of the slow-going church traffic, cutting close enough to set off sparks. He was coming in early to look at tape in advance of his start tomorrow, and expected to have the place to himself for an hour at least, but there Eric Chavez was in the little kitchenette, slumped in a chair staring at nothing in particular.
Hudson bee-lined for the coffee, the pot half-full but lukewarm, and Hudson grimaced, made the best of it, threw a mug in the microwave and turned to face his third baseman.
"How long have you been here, Chavvy?"
Chavez's head snagged vaguely to the side. His eyes struggled to come into focus. "What?"
Hudson went over and smacked him upside the head, squawking a cry out of Chavez and he woke up a little bit, swung back blindly at Hudson. Chavez glared balefully, pale skin and jet-black hair and his face thinned attractively; the whole damaged look worked pretty well for him.
"Did you even go home last night?" Hudson asked, not really expecting an answer because Chavez had gotten good at dodging those kinds of questions recently.
Sure enough, Chavez was shaking his head, getting to his feet so he could change the subject, leave the room, but instead his eyes rolled back in his head and he tipped forward, crashed to the floor already unconscious, unable to even get his hands up. Chavez lay with his face mashed, legs splayed.
"Son of a bitch," Hudson said, feeling too sore to get very worked up. The microwave beeped and he blew his coffee cool, drank half of it and then dragged Chavez into the clubhouse, rolled him onto the couch.
Chavez didn't remember any of it when he woke up, plainly lost as to how he'd ended up there. Hudson didn't say anything. He wasn't interested in hearing Chavez's excuses.
*
Hudson hadn't really noticed at the time, but it had started back when Chavez got divorced and moved in with Mulder. He'd figured it was the divorce that was fucking him up so bad, not his new roommate, but he knew better than to take shit for granted.
Mulder was always inviting people over to their house for impromptu parties, dragging Chavez out of his room for "just one beer, you fuckin' pussy, c'mon," ridiculous after school special about peer pressure going on in the hallway while the rest of them played flip-cup. Chavez always came in, even when it seemed the noise and pressure of interactions was causing him physical pain, little winces mostly hidden behind his beer.
Chavez had been so guarded and quiet back then, couple weeks after his wife had left him, something fundamental shaken in him even though Hudson could have told him that everybody fell in love in that crushing all-enveloping manner at twenty years old, and everybody wanted to run off and marry that person and prove the whole world wrong, but not everybody had the stones to actually pull it off. That it hadn't worked out, well, that was just the gamble. Don't bet what you can't pay, etc, etc.
Chavez hadn't asked, or at least, hadn't asked Hudson. Hudson didn't go around butting into his teammates' business unless they started fucking up on the field.
Mulder had hung an arm around Chavez's shoulders, tucked Chavez against his side and an expression of baffled relief flashed across Chavez's face as he sagged slightly to fit. Chavez hadn't even wanted to come out of his room, but trust Mulder to find the one thing that would make him unable to leave.
All kinds of fucked-up shit had been happening with Chavez after his divorce, and Hudson had been happy to stay well-clear of the whole mess.
*
In the hotel in Baltimore, Hudson dreamt of desert golf courses and woke up parched in the middle of the night. Distrustful of the tap water, he went to the vending machines for a ginger ale, and ran into Zito slipping out of Chavez's room with his sneakers in his hand, chest bare with his T-shirt hanging limp from his belt.
Zito was off in his own little world, smiling at nothing, and he didn't notice Hudson until Hudson was almost on top of him. Jerking, Zito colored a bit, met Hudson's eyes kinda defiantly and tugged his mouth into a smile.
"Hey, Timmy, what's goin' on?"
Hudson shook his head, faintly disappointed without really knowing why. Both Zito and Chavez should be smarter than this.
"Just gettin' a drink." Hudson held up the champagne-green can, hesitated and then heard himself saying, "You should let him get more sleep. He's been draggin' ass for weeks now."
Zito didn't react, face smooth as marble. His eyes scanned dark and unreadable. "You think so?"
Hudson shrugged, yawning. "Eh, could just be the heat."
Zito's lips twisted and became a mild sneer. He clapped Hudson on the shoulder, digging into his pocket with his free hand for the keycard. "Sweet of you to worry, Huddy, but fuck off. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Whatever. Dick."
Zito only grinned rakishly and flicked him off, and Hudson rolled his eyes. He went back into his room, lay down and pressed the cold soda to his eye socket, the rasped plane of his face. He fell asleep before he could even get it open, the can nestling into the hollow of his throat, slowly numbing his whole body.
*
They went out to the bar, half the pitching staff and the whole infield, and Hudson was content to take up the corner of the booth, maintaining an easy buzz and keeping an eye on the proceedings.
Zito and Mulder were playing darts, trash-talk cursing back and forth between them a little too viciously for so early in the night, but that wasn't unusual for the two of them. People were always talking about the chemistry in the Oakland clubhouse and how they were all like brothers, and Hudson thought that was mostly just a bad definition of it. As a general rule, they were pretty good friends, but then there was Mulder and Zito, bickering and shoving and doing their best to infuriate the other, and that was more like the brotherhood Hudson remembered.
Eric Chavez was leaning into the pinball table at an angle that indicated he wasn't wholly able to stand under his own power. The lights chased and the bells rang, and Chavez played like he'd been hypnotized deaf dumb and blind. Hudson studied the slant of his shoulders, figured Chavez was tired from going three-for-five tonight, that line-shot double wrenched out of his shoulders in the ninth inning.
Mulder won under protest from Zito, and then they split, Zito heading to the bar and Mulder to the bathroom. Hudson watched Mulder look back over his shoulder, followed his gaze to find Chavez staring back, hands clenched on the edges of the table.
After a minute, Chavez followed Mulder into the back hallway. Hudson sipped his beer, filing that away absently. Zito came over with a fresh pitcher and a shiny track licked on his neck from a girl who'd accosted him for body shot purposes, and he told Hudson all about it, gleeful and wicked-looking in the low light.
After too long had passed, Mulder came back, flushed with triumph. They didn't see Chavez again that night.
*
Between the lines, everyone was okay.
Hudson had a no-hitter going into the sixth inning one brilliant afternoon, and the infielders gathered at the mound for no particular reason, kicking at the dirt and talking about where they should go for dinner afterwards. Chavez jostled his shoulder into Miguel Tejada's and grinned without anything behind it, looking his age for once and not the weary man he'd mutated into off the field.
Hudson lost his bid when Terrence Long dived full-out and saw the ball sneak past inches from his glove, a born triple. Something snapped sharp and clear in Hudson's chest, seeing that speck of white skip to the wall, and then he was running to back up third and not thinking about it anymore. They still won the game, so it was a good day.
They had long workout sessions before night games a couple times a week, slicing the game into parts and playing blissfully before the thousands of empty seats, and Hudson thought that this was like meditation for ballplayers, bodies in motion and minds at rest.
Out in right field, Zito and Mulder were playing keep-away with Chavez's glove, and all three of them were laughing.
*
Chavez kept showing up with circles etched deeper around his eyes, falling asleep in uneven snatches on planes and buses and once in the dugout, slumping against Hudson and feeling feverish, too-warm. Hudson allowed it because he liked having a semi-functional third baseman during his starts and he assumed Ted Lilly felt the same. It probably wasn't long enough to actually do Chavez any good, but anyway.
Mulder came over sucking on sunflower seeds, and gave Chavez a derisive look that overlapped some onto Hudson. Hudson scowled back.
"After his nap, does he get a juice box?" Mulder asked with snide good humor.
Hudson let his lip curl up, let his contempt show for a moment. Mulder was supposed to be one of Chavez's best friends.
"Doesn't he ever fucking sleep at your house?" Hudson asked, wanting to effortlessly list all the ways he would take better care of a teammate shunted by heartbreak into his custody.
Mulder's eyes flicked side to side, one shoulder lifting in a careless shrug. "How the fuck should I know?"
"That's just great, Mark."
Mulder put on a fantastic injured face, eyebrows up and blue eyes innocently bright. "What can I do? I tell him to sleep, I make him pancakes that he doesn't eat. He's responsible for his own damn self."
Hudson shook his head, but he couldn't really think of anything to counter that. Chavez had never asked for help. He'd never told Zito to stop, never moved out on Mulder when Mulder was treating his grief like a pesky habit he needed to shake for social reasons. Hudson had always been of the opinion that people's lives were entirely self-made.
Hernandez struck out and ended the inning, and Hudson elbowed Chavez awake, reminded him of the inning and the score and the opponent, sent him stumbling up to the field.
*
Zito lifted his voice and said Chavez's name just to make sure that Chavez would come when he was called.
Mulder took them to his high school bar on the south side of Chicago, and fed Chavez shots until his eyes were glassy and he couldn't walk without hanging on to Mulder for balance.
Zito was definitely still fucking him physically as well as emotionally, and Hudson was beginning to have his suspicions about Mulder too, distantly appalled and just as far away, grudgingly impressed at the dedication Chavez was putting into this whole self-destruction kick.
The days went faster as August wound down and the final stretch loomed before them. Hudson focused on his game, the things he could control, and tried to ignore the twisted soap opera going on at his right hand. He'd never had teammates like this before.
He caught Mulder slipping out of the video room looking distinctly mussed, collar pulled askew, and Hudson waited ten seconds for him to get down the hall, then went in.
Chavez was sitting on the floor looking shell-shocked and coarsely used, his mouth swollen and his shirt hanging open. He blinked at Hudson without recognition, and Hudson wondered how much of this was actually getting through to Chavez, if he understood half of how fucked-up he'd gotten.
Hudson leaned back against the door. "You look like hell, Chavvy."
Chavez nodded, tried to smile and it was terrible, stomach-turning. "Been a long season."
Hudson's head wanted to shake sadly but he didn't let it. "C'mon, I'll buy you a Coke."
He offered Chavez a hand up, didn't say anything about his open shirt or the mark sucked onto his collarbone. Chavez fiddled with his buttons as they walked, dazed and drifting towards wrong turns, and Hudson took his shoulders, steered him back.
*
They went on the road, eastern cities where it was humid and overcast, and Hudson basked in it, right at home. He'd never trusted the way it was perfect and sunny every day of the summer in Oakland.
They lost track of Chavez somewhere between dinner and the bars. When they got back to the hotel Mulder and Zito took turns banging on his door and hollering insults at him through the wood, but it was to no avail. Chavez's cell was turned off and his room phone was off the hook and Hudson would have been more worried if he weren't so drunk.
The hallway yawned, a quarter-mile long at least and the team sprawled around in clusters, ran races up and down until the night manager came up and told them to knock it the hell off. Staggering to his room, Hudson checked back down the hall and saw Zito kicking at Chavez's door, his face pinched. A few doors down, Mulder was watching Zito with a similar expression.
The handle was too loose under Hudson's hand, and he fell forward into the room, laughing as his head spun. They were so fucked-up. Hudson wished he could hear how Mulder and Zito were justifying it to themselves, or maybe they just didn't care. Maybe Chavez was pathetic to the point of being beyond sympathy, but who the fuck wanted to fuck that?
It wouldn't hold much longer, Hudson decided as he wrestled out of his shirt and messily drank three glasses of water. Mulder and Zito had both called tonight, and Chavez hadn't answered.
"Good on ya, Chav," Hudson slurred into his pillow, and then he was asleep.
*
The next day, Hudson was playing cards with some of the recent call-ups, casually taking them for all they were worth, when Chavez came in the room looking like he'd just survived being shot in the chest. He wasn't walking steady, kinda listing and lurching.
Hudson folded, tossing his cards and shoving his chair back. He caught Chavez's elbow before he could trip over any more air, led him towards the lockers.
"You all right?" Hudson asked in a low voice, trying to tacitly convey that he understood the various reasons Chavez might not be all right.
Chavez flicked his eyes at Hudson, mouth slack. Chavez was stunned, shaken, but he said, "Possibly."
"Did they-" Hudson stopped. He took his hand off Chavez's arm, set it on the locker shelf instead. "Did something happen?"
Nodding carefully, eyeing Hudson and gauging his loyalty, Chavez told him, "Got them tearing into each other, for once."
Hudson smiled. "Attaboy."
A quick blush lit Chavez's face, and he pulled his eyes down, staring at his shoes. His hands were trembling, Hudson noticed, his back drawn up tense and straight. Chavez was keeping it together through sheer force of will, and Hudson could see the scope of it now, the deep reserves, and he was altogether really glad to have Chavez on the team.
"It's gonna be okay, you know," Hudson said.
Chavez looked up, the fluorescents falling sickly over his face, sinking his eyes even farther back. He half-smiled. "Possibly."
Hudson figured that was probably about as good as they could have hoped for, anyway.
THE END
hee, huddy's so smart. just steer clear, nothing to see here.
i realized in writing this that the only things i've ever written from tim hudson's perspective were parts of other stories, e.g. 'broken up,' like two paragraphs in 'timeline,' and um, 'more funny-looking than usual' tried really hard to have a successful dual-POV. that crafty alabaman! difficult to pin down.
also i don't think i can write in the present tense anymore! i tried and lapsed back into the past tense every three sentences, finally gave in to it. gonna have to try some present tense second person or something to get it back.