Cathryn (formerly catslash) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
remindmeofthe) wrote2005-01-14 12:14 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2005-01-14 12:14 pm
Not only is it RPS, but it's Yankeeslash. ohgodwhyyyyy?
I finally did it. I hate my brain forever, but I did it. It's been brewing since October, I guess it was kind of inevitable, but still. Damn Yankees.
Crossposted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre; this post linked in sports_slash and theboysofsummer.
TITLE: "Parallel Universe"
AUTHOR: Cathryn (catslash33@yahoo.com)
FANDOM: Major League Baseball RPS
PAIRING: Alex Rodriguez/Derek Jeter
RATIG: PG-13 for language
SUMMARY: Alex can only push so far. Takes place after Game Six of the 2004 ALCS.
NOTE: Maybe now they'll move out of my head and let me concentrate on my Red Sox. But somehow I doubt it.
NOTE THE SECOND: This fic was written for thecontrelamontre perfection challenge in forty-four minutes.
DISCLAIMER: The ball-slapping (*coughcough*) incident really happened. Everything else is the product of extreme ALCS sleep deprivation on my part and, as far as I know, never happened. Although I'd bet money that Torre really did chew A-Rod out, 'cos stupid he ain't.
~~~~
Alex stares sullenly at the floor as Torre raves on and on at him. He silently defends himself:
It was a brain fart.
Someone had to do something.
It's not my fault the umps won't stick to their damn calls anymore.
". . . Are you even listening to me, Rodriguez?"
"Yes." No.
He can feel Joe glaring, then, "Jesus. Get the fuck out of my office and don't come back until you're feeling a little more mature than four fucking years old."
Alex tries to leave with injured dignity, but he's so relieved to be out of there that he practically flees instead.
What a night. He feels like he's been dumped into a parallel universe. Like he fell asleep in one place after Game Three and woke up in a different place. One where the Red Sox are on top and the Yankees are the cursed ones. Everyone's trying to stay positive - We're the goddamned Yankees! - but they all know the series is over. Tomorrow is just a final detail. Alex kind of wishes they could skip past it.
He goes into the locker room to get his stuff, wondering absently whether he should go home to get some badly-needed sleep or go out to have some badly-needed drinks, and he sees something that finally makes him smile.
Derek is waiting for him by his locker.
Derek has easily been the best part of being a Yankee this year. Things should have been awkward between them, but somehow they weren't. Difficult at times, maybe, but generally smooth and comfortable. It's nice to have someone to celebrate with, or commiserate with, after a game.
And not having to worry about getting found out is a nice perk, too. The other guys on the team know, yeah, but they're not gonna talk. Making the team and its captain look bad to a homophobic fanbase is not high on anyone's list of priorities. Regardless of how many dirty looks Alex might get when they think Derek isn't looking. All they have to do is resist the urge to make out in the dugout and they couldn't be safer.
Things have been strained and weird for the past few days, but why not? They've gotten about five minutes of sleep in the past three days, and there's that whole parallel universe thing. That'll make things awkward for any relationship.
But it looks like Derek wants to reconnect, and Alex is glad. He could use the comfort after tonight's unfairness. He still remembers the night they had after the July twenty-fourth game, and - his eyes sparkle - he bets Derek does, too. Maybe he's looking for a re-enactment.
He dismisses the look on Derek's face as built-up series frustration.
"Hey," he says, and leans in for a kiss.
Derek stops him, putting a hand to his chest, and pushing just enough to make himself clear.
"You really are that fucking stupid, aren't you?"
Alex gapes, staring at Derek as he tries to catch up. ". . . what?"
"You really thought you were gonna get laid after tonight. Unbelievable."
Now he can see the anger in Derek's eyes, coming through loud and clear. He starts to get angry himself. "That's really nice, Derek. What, my humiliation on national television wasn't enough for you? I don't remember you talking like this after the brawl."
"That was different. That was Varitek's bullshit as much as yours. But this one you did all by yourself, so don't even give me that poor-pitiful-me crap."
"Why are you being such an asshole?"
"Because you killed the fucking game. We could've come back, I would've had that run, but you had to get all clever." Derek pokes him in the chest for emphasis. "We could have had the series tonight, Alex, but we don't. And now it looks like I'm the only one thinks we can win tomorrow. You need more than one guy to win a series, but it looks like it just takes one to lose it. You think hard about that, and you better show up ready to fucking play tomorrow."
"Fine. Okay." Alex finds himself staring at the floor again as he resists the urge to rub the sore spot.
Derek grabs his chin, forces Alex to meet his eyes. "I'm not kidding."
"Obviously." Alex tries to meet him glare for glare. "You wanna win so bad, it wouldn't kill you to be a little nicer about it."
It's Derek's turn to stare as he takes in Alex's meaning. Alex takes his silence as a cue to continue.
"Getting laid, as you put it, might help my concentration tomorrow."
Derek narrows his eyes; Alex suppresses a smirk. Even through his anger, Derek's got that look. Alex can always give him that look, no matter how pissed he is. Things will be fine with them. They always are.
"You really think you still have it all going your way, don't you? Amazing. You're just fucking amazing." Derek shakes his head, lets go of Alex. "Let me see if I can put this in real small words for you." His glare takes on shades of sarcasm. "Go to hell." He shoves past Alex and stalks out of the locker room.
Alex stands there for some time before he remembers why he came in here in the first place. He opens his locker and gathers his stuff.
Derek's just angry over the series, that's all. Losing to the Red Sox stings like hell. If the Yankees win tomorrow, all will be forgiven and he'll practically trip over himself running to Alex. If not, well, he'll have the whole offseason to loosen up, and they can just pick up where they left off next April.
Things will be fine with them. They always are.
Crossposted to
contrelamontre; this post linked in sports_slash and theboysofsummer.TITLE: "Parallel Universe"
AUTHOR: Cathryn (catslash33@yahoo.com)
FANDOM: Major League Baseball RPS
PAIRING: Alex Rodriguez/Derek Jeter
RATIG: PG-13 for language
SUMMARY: Alex can only push so far. Takes place after Game Six of the 2004 ALCS.
NOTE: Maybe now they'll move out of my head and let me concentrate on my Red Sox. But somehow I doubt it.
NOTE THE SECOND: This fic was written for the
contrelamontre perfection challenge in forty-four minutes.DISCLAIMER: The ball-slapping (*coughcough*) incident really happened. Everything else is the product of extreme ALCS sleep deprivation on my part and, as far as I know, never happened. Although I'd bet money that Torre really did chew A-Rod out, 'cos stupid he ain't.
~~~~
Alex stares sullenly at the floor as Torre raves on and on at him. He silently defends himself:
It was a brain fart.
Someone had to do something.
It's not my fault the umps won't stick to their damn calls anymore.
". . . Are you even listening to me, Rodriguez?"
"Yes." No.
He can feel Joe glaring, then, "Jesus. Get the fuck out of my office and don't come back until you're feeling a little more mature than four fucking years old."
Alex tries to leave with injured dignity, but he's so relieved to be out of there that he practically flees instead.
What a night. He feels like he's been dumped into a parallel universe. Like he fell asleep in one place after Game Three and woke up in a different place. One where the Red Sox are on top and the Yankees are the cursed ones. Everyone's trying to stay positive - We're the goddamned Yankees! - but they all know the series is over. Tomorrow is just a final detail. Alex kind of wishes they could skip past it.
He goes into the locker room to get his stuff, wondering absently whether he should go home to get some badly-needed sleep or go out to have some badly-needed drinks, and he sees something that finally makes him smile.
Derek is waiting for him by his locker.
Derek has easily been the best part of being a Yankee this year. Things should have been awkward between them, but somehow they weren't. Difficult at times, maybe, but generally smooth and comfortable. It's nice to have someone to celebrate with, or commiserate with, after a game.
And not having to worry about getting found out is a nice perk, too. The other guys on the team know, yeah, but they're not gonna talk. Making the team and its captain look bad to a homophobic fanbase is not high on anyone's list of priorities. Regardless of how many dirty looks Alex might get when they think Derek isn't looking. All they have to do is resist the urge to make out in the dugout and they couldn't be safer.
Things have been strained and weird for the past few days, but why not? They've gotten about five minutes of sleep in the past three days, and there's that whole parallel universe thing. That'll make things awkward for any relationship.
But it looks like Derek wants to reconnect, and Alex is glad. He could use the comfort after tonight's unfairness. He still remembers the night they had after the July twenty-fourth game, and - his eyes sparkle - he bets Derek does, too. Maybe he's looking for a re-enactment.
He dismisses the look on Derek's face as built-up series frustration.
"Hey," he says, and leans in for a kiss.
Derek stops him, putting a hand to his chest, and pushing just enough to make himself clear.
"You really are that fucking stupid, aren't you?"
Alex gapes, staring at Derek as he tries to catch up. ". . . what?"
"You really thought you were gonna get laid after tonight. Unbelievable."
Now he can see the anger in Derek's eyes, coming through loud and clear. He starts to get angry himself. "That's really nice, Derek. What, my humiliation on national television wasn't enough for you? I don't remember you talking like this after the brawl."
"That was different. That was Varitek's bullshit as much as yours. But this one you did all by yourself, so don't even give me that poor-pitiful-me crap."
"Why are you being such an asshole?"
"Because you killed the fucking game. We could've come back, I would've had that run, but you had to get all clever." Derek pokes him in the chest for emphasis. "We could have had the series tonight, Alex, but we don't. And now it looks like I'm the only one thinks we can win tomorrow. You need more than one guy to win a series, but it looks like it just takes one to lose it. You think hard about that, and you better show up ready to fucking play tomorrow."
"Fine. Okay." Alex finds himself staring at the floor again as he resists the urge to rub the sore spot.
Derek grabs his chin, forces Alex to meet his eyes. "I'm not kidding."
"Obviously." Alex tries to meet him glare for glare. "You wanna win so bad, it wouldn't kill you to be a little nicer about it."
It's Derek's turn to stare as he takes in Alex's meaning. Alex takes his silence as a cue to continue.
"Getting laid, as you put it, might help my concentration tomorrow."
Derek narrows his eyes; Alex suppresses a smirk. Even through his anger, Derek's got that look. Alex can always give him that look, no matter how pissed he is. Things will be fine with them. They always are.
"You really think you still have it all going your way, don't you? Amazing. You're just fucking amazing." Derek shakes his head, lets go of Alex. "Let me see if I can put this in real small words for you." His glare takes on shades of sarcasm. "Go to hell." He shoves past Alex and stalks out of the locker room.
Alex stands there for some time before he remembers why he came in here in the first place. He opens his locker and gathers his stuff.
Derek's just angry over the series, that's all. Losing to the Red Sox stings like hell. If the Yankees win tomorrow, all will be forgiven and he'll practically trip over himself running to Alex. If not, well, he'll have the whole offseason to loosen up, and they can just pick up where they left off next April.
Things will be fine with them. They always are.
no subject
I likey. And that icon is hysterical.
no subject
I wanted the ending to be kind of sad, but a) no time left, and b) Alex obviously didn't get it anyway. Angst needs some level of self-awareness, and the boy is just too wrapped up in himself.
And the icon, which I have gotten many comments on today, was made by Icon King
Thanks for your comment, and also thanks for the community links in your user info that caused me to spend my day reading baseball slash. =D
no subject
(Anonymous) 2005-01-17 04:13 am (UTC)(link)~Hoedogg