Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 12/22
Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 12/22
Rating: R (swearing sailor-style)
Summary: Biologic medicine really is a thing and it's freaky. The rest is pretty much crack.
February 2018
Stevie knows that standing outside the office of the director of football of LFC, glaring at his innocent secretary, is perhaps (OK, definitely) not the best use of his time as the manager of LFC. He does… he just really doesn’t give a shit. All pretenses of casual stalking are dropped when Xabi emerges from his lair carrying an entire semester’s worth of course work packed neatly in red folders in one hand and the phone that’s surgically attached to his palm in the other.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
Stevie’s pace is still miles better than his so if Xabi’s planning to shake him off by powerwarlking through the office corridors he’s in for a shock.
“Depends. Is it about tactical periodization?” Xabi dusts off a piece of lint off his forest green cardigan and tries to speed up again. Stevie simply adjusts his step effortlessly. My legs are longer than yours, asshole. “I have a meeting with the sport science guys and our docs in… seven and a half minutes. So do you, by the way. Have you read Doc’s report?”
“Yes, I’ve read the fucking report. Wanna quiz me on The Four Pillars? How about anaerobic endurance drills?” Stevie realizes he’s going about it arse backwards, but goddamn it the man infuriates him sometimes and all the fucking time lately. He has the element of surprise on his side when he shoves Xabi inside the conference room, mumbling something about how just because they can’t figure out what Xabi’s job is, it doesn’t mean the rest of them can’t try to do theirs.
“… you know-it-all jackass!”
“What the fuck…”
The lock slides into place with a metallic click behind Stevie’s back and he leans against the door, feet planted firmly on the floor as if they’re in a bind and he’s been called to play at right back for the last ten minutes again.
They speak at the same time.
“What are you doing?
“Where the hell were you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You sure as fuck weren’t in Paris...”
Xabi drops the pile of folders onto the conference table.
“We’re not in the bloody military, I don’t report to you, Steven!” He rubs his jaw indignantly. “Open the door, our guests will be here any minute,” he adds in a more conciliatory tone, making a move for the exit. He thinks better of it when he sees Stevie’s back going rigid against the door. It makes him want to smile, even though he’s nowhere near in the mood for it.
“What, you’re going to tackle me?”
“If I have to.”
“Fine, be a child. I don’t have time for your neurosis and they’re waiting for us…”
“They’ll be fine, Rodolfo has some crackin’ drinking stories,” Stevie sounds more tired than his outrage would call for. “If it’s not this meeting there’ll be another meeting, or a conference or the next game or some shite you’d use an excuse to avoid me. Figured I’d rather keep them waiting than Newcastle United.”
Xabi closes his eyes for the duration of a long exhale, looks for something to do with his hands that would keep them from wrapping themselves around Stevie’s neck. He pours himself a glass of water he has no intention of drinking.
“Those people have traveled all the way from London. Do you have any idea how unprofessional this makes us look?”
“You mean like vanishing without a word for almost a week? Like letting me read off the club’s website that you were bailing on a charity match that was your idea and fucking lying to me about going to see Jon?”
The name lands like a slap to the face and for a couple of seconds Xabi can’t even focus his eyes.
“I did go to see Jon,” he says quietly. “Just not the whole week…”
Stevie knows he’s not getting anything else without a push.
“Someone from Switzerland called to reschedule your appointment. I thought… Fucking hell, I diagnosed you with half a dozen types of cancer trying to figure out why they could only be cured in goddamn Zurich and then you show up back here acting like a massive git… Are you all right?”
This time Xabi really does feel like smiling in earnest.
“I’m OK.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Stevie pleads, his hands sliding helplessly off the door knob he was clutching behind his back.
“I will be OK… Honest. I had to reschedule some tests so I can go see Jon. I… There is this experimental back pain treatment. It’s a therapy based on stem cells, not yet approved in the European Union, all the research’s being done in Switzerland for now.” He shrugs like there isn’t really a more articulate way to put it. “I volunteered as an... err… guinea pig.”
“And you couldn’t just fucking say so???” Stevie slumps against the door, his breath finally unhitched from his throat.
“There are still ways in which it could go wrong. The last thing Liverpool needs is more media speculation. I didn’t mean to…,” Xabi leans against the conference table, grips the edge to steady himself. “Just look at how you’re reacting.”
“What do you mean…wrong? Is it dangerous?”
“Nobody’s quite sure yet, we signed a release form so they can find out. You’d be surprised how many people would risk it all to be free from back pain, I practically had to audition. When we drew Basel I asked them to speed up some of the tests so I could have the first procedure after the game.”
Xabi looks at Stevie expectantly, but he’s obviously still processing it all.
“Is it going to get rid of the pain for good?”
“Eventually…” Xabi reconsiders the water afterall, his throat feels parched.
“But?”
“No but. Is just…” He studies his shoes for a while then says: “I’m writing a book.”
“Oh. I see,” Stevie breathes out in the way of people who really, really don’t. “What’s it about?”
Xabi shuffles off the table, the red folders and the locked door now long forgotten.
“It’s a crime story, but... not really. I suppose by now that's a pretext. It's about a man who tries to make peace with the past by trying to solve an old case from the 1950s."
"Is it depressing?"
"Sometimes..."
"Can I read it?"
"It's in Spanish. Well, most of it is, sometimes I think clearer in English now... It's not finished anyway and it drives me crazy many times, but... I've been writing it for a couple of years now, ever since I started to get cleaned up... I wrote plenty of my freelance articles when I was... not cleaned up, but this was different.” Xabi’s voice drops to a whisper and Stevie finally budges from his guard spot. “At first it helped at night with the insomnia, it helps to replace one frustration with another; I've been trying to find the perfect ending for a few months now and I've been thinking... "
"Yeah, that's always been your problem. It's still going to be great even if you don't suffer for your art."
"I'm going to run out of excuses for everything else though."
Stevie sees Xabi’s fingers drumming a slow pattern on the table and the way his heart thuds against his chest… it makes him hate himself for it, just a little.
"So... your detective guy... Does he catch his killer?"
"Yes, but he has to make a choice if he wants to have him punished and prevent him from hurting others in the future or stay in the past with the woman he loves."
As far as Xabi’s concerned, the look on Stevie’s face, complete with scrunched up nose, is worth all the aggravation that’s lead them up to this point.
"There's time travel?!?"
"There goes your vote of confidence,” Xabi laughs warmly, “It's not like that, no special effects, it's more... symbolic, like..."
He stops because he realizes it sounds terribly stupid, even to himself. Two sets of electronic chimes erupt simultaneously, saving Xabi from having to do any more back cover blurbs.
“Rodolfo’s threatening to strangle us both with the cables of the projector,” Xabi reads off his phone with a certain amount of poetic license.
Stevie's all ears during the meeting, has pertinent questions and takes notes frantically like a med student and by the end of the x-ray slideshow he is intimately acquainted with the soft tissues and hamstrings of every squad member and knows far more about Lucas' groins than anybody would have any legitimate business knowing. Halfway through the Q&A session though he discreetly reaches for his phone and Xabi's back pocket starts buzzing.
Im going with u.
Like hell you are, you have an away game at WestHam 3 days after Basel.
IM GOING WITH U.
TBC next year I guess. This story has been one of THE best things to have happened to me in an otherwise... complicated year so thank you to all (anonymous and non-LJ readers included) who've let me share it with you, I'm having lots of fun and you're contributing to it. Happy New Years and thanks for reading!
Rating: R (swearing sailor-style)
Summary: Biologic medicine really is a thing and it's freaky. The rest is pretty much crack.
February 2018
Stevie knows that standing outside the office of the director of football of LFC, glaring at his innocent secretary, is perhaps (OK, definitely) not the best use of his time as the manager of LFC. He does… he just really doesn’t give a shit. All pretenses of casual stalking are dropped when Xabi emerges from his lair carrying an entire semester’s worth of course work packed neatly in red folders in one hand and the phone that’s surgically attached to his palm in the other.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
Stevie’s pace is still miles better than his so if Xabi’s planning to shake him off by powerwarlking through the office corridors he’s in for a shock.
“Depends. Is it about tactical periodization?” Xabi dusts off a piece of lint off his forest green cardigan and tries to speed up again. Stevie simply adjusts his step effortlessly. My legs are longer than yours, asshole. “I have a meeting with the sport science guys and our docs in… seven and a half minutes. So do you, by the way. Have you read Doc’s report?”
“Yes, I’ve read the fucking report. Wanna quiz me on The Four Pillars? How about anaerobic endurance drills?” Stevie realizes he’s going about it arse backwards, but goddamn it the man infuriates him sometimes and all the fucking time lately. He has the element of surprise on his side when he shoves Xabi inside the conference room, mumbling something about how just because they can’t figure out what Xabi’s job is, it doesn’t mean the rest of them can’t try to do theirs.
“… you know-it-all jackass!”
“What the fuck…”
The lock slides into place with a metallic click behind Stevie’s back and he leans against the door, feet planted firmly on the floor as if they’re in a bind and he’s been called to play at right back for the last ten minutes again.
They speak at the same time.
“What are you doing?
“Where the hell were you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You sure as fuck weren’t in Paris...”
Xabi drops the pile of folders onto the conference table.
“We’re not in the bloody military, I don’t report to you, Steven!” He rubs his jaw indignantly. “Open the door, our guests will be here any minute,” he adds in a more conciliatory tone, making a move for the exit. He thinks better of it when he sees Stevie’s back going rigid against the door. It makes him want to smile, even though he’s nowhere near in the mood for it.
“What, you’re going to tackle me?”
“If I have to.”
“Fine, be a child. I don’t have time for your neurosis and they’re waiting for us…”
“They’ll be fine, Rodolfo has some crackin’ drinking stories,” Stevie sounds more tired than his outrage would call for. “If it’s not this meeting there’ll be another meeting, or a conference or the next game or some shite you’d use an excuse to avoid me. Figured I’d rather keep them waiting than Newcastle United.”
Xabi closes his eyes for the duration of a long exhale, looks for something to do with his hands that would keep them from wrapping themselves around Stevie’s neck. He pours himself a glass of water he has no intention of drinking.
“Those people have traveled all the way from London. Do you have any idea how unprofessional this makes us look?”
“You mean like vanishing without a word for almost a week? Like letting me read off the club’s website that you were bailing on a charity match that was your idea and fucking lying to me about going to see Jon?”
The name lands like a slap to the face and for a couple of seconds Xabi can’t even focus his eyes.
“I did go to see Jon,” he says quietly. “Just not the whole week…”
Stevie knows he’s not getting anything else without a push.
“Someone from Switzerland called to reschedule your appointment. I thought… Fucking hell, I diagnosed you with half a dozen types of cancer trying to figure out why they could only be cured in goddamn Zurich and then you show up back here acting like a massive git… Are you all right?”
This time Xabi really does feel like smiling in earnest.
“I’m OK.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Stevie pleads, his hands sliding helplessly off the door knob he was clutching behind his back.
“I will be OK… Honest. I had to reschedule some tests so I can go see Jon. I… There is this experimental back pain treatment. It’s a therapy based on stem cells, not yet approved in the European Union, all the research’s being done in Switzerland for now.” He shrugs like there isn’t really a more articulate way to put it. “I volunteered as an... err… guinea pig.”
“And you couldn’t just fucking say so???” Stevie slumps against the door, his breath finally unhitched from his throat.
“There are still ways in which it could go wrong. The last thing Liverpool needs is more media speculation. I didn’t mean to…,” Xabi leans against the conference table, grips the edge to steady himself. “Just look at how you’re reacting.”
“What do you mean…wrong? Is it dangerous?”
“Nobody’s quite sure yet, we signed a release form so they can find out. You’d be surprised how many people would risk it all to be free from back pain, I practically had to audition. When we drew Basel I asked them to speed up some of the tests so I could have the first procedure after the game.”
Xabi looks at Stevie expectantly, but he’s obviously still processing it all.
“Is it going to get rid of the pain for good?”
“Eventually…” Xabi reconsiders the water afterall, his throat feels parched.
“But?”
“No but. Is just…” He studies his shoes for a while then says: “I’m writing a book.”
“Oh. I see,” Stevie breathes out in the way of people who really, really don’t. “What’s it about?”
Xabi shuffles off the table, the red folders and the locked door now long forgotten.
“It’s a crime story, but... not really. I suppose by now that's a pretext. It's about a man who tries to make peace with the past by trying to solve an old case from the 1950s."
"Is it depressing?"
"Sometimes..."
"Can I read it?"
"It's in Spanish. Well, most of it is, sometimes I think clearer in English now... It's not finished anyway and it drives me crazy many times, but... I've been writing it for a couple of years now, ever since I started to get cleaned up... I wrote plenty of my freelance articles when I was... not cleaned up, but this was different.” Xabi’s voice drops to a whisper and Stevie finally budges from his guard spot. “At first it helped at night with the insomnia, it helps to replace one frustration with another; I've been trying to find the perfect ending for a few months now and I've been thinking... "
"Yeah, that's always been your problem. It's still going to be great even if you don't suffer for your art."
"I'm going to run out of excuses for everything else though."
Stevie sees Xabi’s fingers drumming a slow pattern on the table and the way his heart thuds against his chest… it makes him hate himself for it, just a little.
"So... your detective guy... Does he catch his killer?"
"Yes, but he has to make a choice if he wants to have him punished and prevent him from hurting others in the future or stay in the past with the woman he loves."
As far as Xabi’s concerned, the look on Stevie’s face, complete with scrunched up nose, is worth all the aggravation that’s lead them up to this point.
"There's time travel?!?"
"There goes your vote of confidence,” Xabi laughs warmly, “It's not like that, no special effects, it's more... symbolic, like..."
He stops because he realizes it sounds terribly stupid, even to himself. Two sets of electronic chimes erupt simultaneously, saving Xabi from having to do any more back cover blurbs.
“Rodolfo’s threatening to strangle us both with the cables of the projector,” Xabi reads off his phone with a certain amount of poetic license.
Stevie's all ears during the meeting, has pertinent questions and takes notes frantically like a med student and by the end of the x-ray slideshow he is intimately acquainted with the soft tissues and hamstrings of every squad member and knows far more about Lucas' groins than anybody would have any legitimate business knowing. Halfway through the Q&A session though he discreetly reaches for his phone and Xabi's back pocket starts buzzing.
Im going with u.
Like hell you are, you have an away game at WestHam 3 days after Basel.
IM GOING WITH U.
TBC next year I guess. This story has been one of THE best things to have happened to me in an otherwise... complicated year so thank you to all (anonymous and non-LJ readers included) who've let me share it with you, I'm having lots of fun and you're contributing to it. Happy New Years and thanks for reading!