fic graveyard
Enter at your own risk. (I don't think there are any ghosts, but I make no guarantees.)
At a time like this, Joe can't be held responsible for his actions.
"I can't be held responsible for my actions, mate!" He has to shout in Silva's ear to be heard. Silva is all smiles and when he speaks, Joe has to lean in even closer because Silva's voice sounds like a whisper amongst all the craziness.
"It is okay, Joe. We won!" The bells on the ends of his hat jingle merrily.
"I know!" Joe shouts. "I fucking know!" And he can't help himself - he scoops Silva up, an arm under his knees and the other around Silva's back, and parades him around. Silva squirms at first but Joe hangs onto him, because dropping Silva on his head in front of thousands of people would most likely earn him some stick. Silva laughs a lot and winds an arm around Joe's neck as Joe spins him around. Silva's medal thumps against his neck.
Joe doesn't keep him for too long, because Silva's trainer-clad feet are bumping into people and, all things considered, carrying dead weight around the celebration isn't as fun as Joe thought it would be. But before he plants Silva back on the ground, he shouts into his ear at close range, "I can't wait to have you all to myself; all these fucking people, fucking cheering for us, and I can't wait until you're all mine."
As he lets Silva's feet drop to the ground Silva looks up at him, face so open and honest that Joe's afraid someone will spot them and jus know. But then Silva is smiling again, laughing low in his throat and Joe can feel it in Silva's chest, arm still wrapped around him. Joe looks down at him and his eyes crinkle with a huge grin.
"Must wait, Joe!" Silva says, and Joe wants to pummel him for being so fucking cheeky. Silva leans into him for a second, digging his fingers into Joe's hair, and then pushes away, sliding Joe's arm off his shoulders. "Must wait!"
"Cheeky bastard!" he calls after Silva, but he's quickly being tackled by James and Silva has his arms around Kun and Joe is so happy that, goddammit, maybe he'll be able to wait after all.
But only for a little bit.
Mulder feels something weird in his stomach, watching Justin Verlander's curveball swoop through the zone. There's envy along with a hint of fear - for the sake of the hitters - but more than anything, there's a stubborn guilt.
It feels like a weight. Just as heavy as a World Series ring.
He thinks of that ring, and how the season was full of stale heat and disappointment. How, in the end, his nine year career ended (for all intents and purposes that was the end, whether he chooses to admit it or not) with a championship, while Verlander was still trudging along, throwing no-hitter after no-hitter, wasting away in Detroit. How Verlander took two loses in that series, and Mulder sat and watched.
How Mulder got himself a gig with Baseball Tonight because of his broad shoulders and strong face. Not because of no-hitters or World Series rings.
But then he watches Verlander’s fastball zip past another hitter, high in the zone, snapping into the catcher’s mitt, and the gun reads 101 and he can’t help but shake his head, smiling in disbelief.
//
Verlander comes in one day to do one of those stand-on-our-set-that-looks-like-a-field-and-throw-fake-pitches things. Mulder likes him because Verlander’s just as tall as he is, limbs just as long - if not, even a little longer, more gangly, which Mulder appreciates because he played with Barry Zito for five years, after all.
Mulder doesn’t think about Chicago, how Verlander could traverse the state of Michigan whenever he pleased, make it South Holland, Illinois faster than Mulder call up his most recent memory of his home.
Arizona is pretty far away, when he thinks about it like that.
He and Verlander shake hands, meeting officially for the first time. The fact that Mulder’s in a suit makes it weirdly formal. Regardless, Mulder enjoys being able to look him straight in the eye, not having to watch someone stare up at him like he’s an anomaly.
“I’m a big fan,” Mulder says, which is an understatement. He would sell an internal organ for a curveball like Verlander’s.
“’preciate it, man,” Verlander says, a small smirk on his lips. When he laughs, his mouth is wide and his moustache even wider. His teeth are big, but somehow look too small. He exudes a happiness that Mulder can feel seeping into him, slowly but surely.
They do the segment and Mulder coaxes Verlander into going over the curveball twice: the grip, the wrist action, the arm slot. Mulder is entranced by the idea of such perfection being produced by someone so like - and yet, so far from - himself. It’s interesting to watch.
In the back of his mind, he misses his golf clubs. And his family.
Afterwards, Verlander stops to talk to him, still holding a ball. “I hear you golf now,” he says casually.
“That I do,” Mulder replies. “I’m decent.”
“Shut up,” Verlander says, drawn out, and for a second Mulder is nervous. But Verlander is smiling again, and Mulder knows he knows the truth. “You’re fuckin’ good.”
Mulder just shrugs, throws up his hands awkwardly. “Eh.”
“Let’s get a drink,” Verlander says, like he knows Mulder will say yes. Mulder wonders if he knows everything. Little shit.
“Okay,” Mulder says.
The bar is dark and Mulder laughs a lot, because Verlander is really fucking funny in a way that Mulder never expected. He makes stupid jokes about 2006, about David Eckstein’s weird head and Adam Wainwright’s curveball that ended it all. “That’s what started the fuckin’ recession. You realize that, right? Ruined the auto industry,” he says flippantly, and Mulder says through a choking laugh, “Shut the fuck up your urve is perfect, fuckin beautiful.”
Verlander stills and Mulder doesn’t think he’s drunk enough to not be making sense, so he slowly raises an eyebrow. Verlander just looks at him. After a moment Mulder fully realizes what he said, because Verlander’s curve is a part of him, an extension of himself, and Mulder may or may not have just professed his undying love for it.
“My hotel’s like halfa block from here,” Verlander provides.
“Yeah” is all Mulder says, already standing up.
On the street, Mulder says, “You look taller, on TV.”
Verlander gives him a side-eyed look, but he’s smiling. “You’re better-looking. On TV.”
“Ouch,” Mulder says. "I was asking for that."
“Kidding,” Verlander says, barking out a laugh. “Obviously.”
They don’t really look at each other in the elevator, but as soon as Verlander keys open his room, Mulder has him pressed against the wall.
“Fuck,” Verlander says. He brings a hand up to Mulder’s face and it spans his entire cheek, palm against his chin and fingers playing at his ear. “Fuck.”
For a second Mulder thinks Verlander is going to kiss him, but he knows he can’t deal with that, so instead he drops to his knees.
“Fuck,” Verlander breathes.
Mulder slips Verlander’s belt open and off, pulls his pants down and mouths at his cock through his boxers. Mulder hears him breathing loudly, and the hand that was on his face is now in his hair. When Verlander says, “Com on,” all heavy and impatient and wanting, Mulder has to oblige him.
He gets a hand around Verlander’s cock first, but after a minute he opens his mouth and lets the hot weight of it settle on his tongue and down into his throat. He lets his fingers tease Verlander’s balls and Verlander either gasps or sighs as Mulder hollows out his cheeks.
Verlander fucks into his mouth shallowly. He’s pulling at Mulder’s hair now, pulling his face up so Verlander can look at him, so Mulder can watch him mouth the word fuck over and over. Mulder doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with a dirtier mouth, but then he remembers what he’s doing and pushes his jeans down over his hips, gets his own cock out.
Mulder hears Verlander ask, “Can I come on your face?” quietly, almost timidly, and for everything Mulder wants from him, for him, for everything Mulder owes him, that’s something he can’t give (gross). He widens his eyes and takes Verlander even deeper down his throat and hopes that’s enough.
It must be enough, Mulder thinks - hopes - because Verlander comes with a low moan only thirty seconds later. His hand slides down to the base of Mulder’s skull and Mulder works his jaw open even further, not wanting to taste it. He keeps Verlander in his mouth for a moment, licking at his oversensitive shaft as he softens. After a second he starts working his own cock mechanically, and Verlander watches him spurt all over the carpet.
Verlander huffs out a breath. He remains standing, but his upper body slumps forward, head hanging against his chest.
He hopes Verlander doesn’t sense it, but as Mulder zips up his own fly, he’s thinking You can have my ring and I won’t even ask for your curveball I’ll let you keep it.
I’m sorry you didn’t deserve that you didn’t deserve those losses you deserve so much more.
What he says is, “So.”
“So,” Verlander says, still breathless, lifting his head.
Mulder stands up and his knees pop. He chuckles.
Verlander looks at him. “So when are we going golfing?”
At a time like this, Joe can't be held responsible for his actions.
"I can't be held responsible for my actions, mate!" He has to shout in Silva's ear to be heard. Silva is all smiles and when he speaks, Joe has to lean in even closer because Silva's voice sounds like a whisper amongst all the craziness.
"It is okay, Joe. We won!" The bells on the ends of his hat jingle merrily.
"I know!" Joe shouts. "I fucking know!" And he can't help himself - he scoops Silva up, an arm under his knees and the other around Silva's back, and parades him around. Silva squirms at first but Joe hangs onto him, because dropping Silva on his head in front of thousands of people would most likely earn him some stick. Silva laughs a lot and winds an arm around Joe's neck as Joe spins him around. Silva's medal thumps against his neck.
Joe doesn't keep him for too long, because Silva's trainer-clad feet are bumping into people and, all things considered, carrying dead weight around the celebration isn't as fun as Joe thought it would be. But before he plants Silva back on the ground, he shouts into his ear at close range, "I can't wait to have you all to myself; all these fucking people, fucking cheering for us, and I can't wait until you're all mine."
As he lets Silva's feet drop to the ground Silva looks up at him, face so open and honest that Joe's afraid someone will spot them and jus know. But then Silva is smiling again, laughing low in his throat and Joe can feel it in Silva's chest, arm still wrapped around him. Joe looks down at him and his eyes crinkle with a huge grin.
"Must wait, Joe!" Silva says, and Joe wants to pummel him for being so fucking cheeky. Silva leans into him for a second, digging his fingers into Joe's hair, and then pushes away, sliding Joe's arm off his shoulders. "Must wait!"
"Cheeky bastard!" he calls after Silva, but he's quickly being tackled by James and Silva has his arms around Kun and Joe is so happy that, goddammit, maybe he'll be able to wait after all.
But only for a little bit.
Mulder feels something weird in his stomach, watching Justin Verlander's curveball swoop through the zone. There's envy along with a hint of fear - for the sake of the hitters - but more than anything, there's a stubborn guilt.
It feels like a weight. Just as heavy as a World Series ring.
He thinks of that ring, and how the season was full of stale heat and disappointment. How, in the end, his nine year career ended (for all intents and purposes that was the end, whether he chooses to admit it or not) with a championship, while Verlander was still trudging along, throwing no-hitter after no-hitter, wasting away in Detroit. How Verlander took two loses in that series, and Mulder sat and watched.
How Mulder got himself a gig with Baseball Tonight because of his broad shoulders and strong face. Not because of no-hitters or World Series rings.
But then he watches Verlander’s fastball zip past another hitter, high in the zone, snapping into the catcher’s mitt, and the gun reads 101 and he can’t help but shake his head, smiling in disbelief.
//
Verlander comes in one day to do one of those stand-on-our-set-that-looks-like-a-field-and-throw-fake-pitches things. Mulder likes him because Verlander’s just as tall as he is, limbs just as long - if not, even a little longer, more gangly, which Mulder appreciates because he played with Barry Zito for five years, after all.
Mulder doesn’t think about Chicago, how Verlander could traverse the state of Michigan whenever he pleased, make it South Holland, Illinois faster than Mulder call up his most recent memory of his home.
Arizona is pretty far away, when he thinks about it like that.
He and Verlander shake hands, meeting officially for the first time. The fact that Mulder’s in a suit makes it weirdly formal. Regardless, Mulder enjoys being able to look him straight in the eye, not having to watch someone stare up at him like he’s an anomaly.
“I’m a big fan,” Mulder says, which is an understatement. He would sell an internal organ for a curveball like Verlander’s.
“’preciate it, man,” Verlander says, a small smirk on his lips. When he laughs, his mouth is wide and his moustache even wider. His teeth are big, but somehow look too small. He exudes a happiness that Mulder can feel seeping into him, slowly but surely.
They do the segment and Mulder coaxes Verlander into going over the curveball twice: the grip, the wrist action, the arm slot. Mulder is entranced by the idea of such perfection being produced by someone so like - and yet, so far from - himself. It’s interesting to watch.
In the back of his mind, he misses his golf clubs. And his family.
Afterwards, Verlander stops to talk to him, still holding a ball. “I hear you golf now,” he says casually.
“That I do,” Mulder replies. “I’m decent.”
“Shut up,” Verlander says, drawn out, and for a second Mulder is nervous. But Verlander is smiling again, and Mulder knows he knows the truth. “You’re fuckin’ good.”
Mulder just shrugs, throws up his hands awkwardly. “Eh.”
“Let’s get a drink,” Verlander says, like he knows Mulder will say yes. Mulder wonders if he knows everything. Little shit.
“Okay,” Mulder says.
The bar is dark and Mulder laughs a lot, because Verlander is really fucking funny in a way that Mulder never expected. He makes stupid jokes about 2006, about David Eckstein’s weird head and Adam Wainwright’s curveball that ended it all. “That’s what started the fuckin’ recession. You realize that, right? Ruined the auto industry,” he says flippantly, and Mulder says through a choking laugh, “Shut the fuck up your urve is perfect, fuckin beautiful.”
Verlander stills and Mulder doesn’t think he’s drunk enough to not be making sense, so he slowly raises an eyebrow. Verlander just looks at him. After a moment Mulder fully realizes what he said, because Verlander’s curve is a part of him, an extension of himself, and Mulder may or may not have just professed his undying love for it.
“My hotel’s like halfa block from here,” Verlander provides.
“Yeah” is all Mulder says, already standing up.
On the street, Mulder says, “You look taller, on TV.”
Verlander gives him a side-eyed look, but he’s smiling. “You’re better-looking. On TV.”
“Ouch,” Mulder says. "I was asking for that."
“Kidding,” Verlander says, barking out a laugh. “Obviously.”
They don’t really look at each other in the elevator, but as soon as Verlander keys open his room, Mulder has him pressed against the wall.
“Fuck,” Verlander says. He brings a hand up to Mulder’s face and it spans his entire cheek, palm against his chin and fingers playing at his ear. “Fuck.”
For a second Mulder thinks Verlander is going to kiss him, but he knows he can’t deal with that, so instead he drops to his knees.
“Fuck,” Verlander breathes.
Mulder slips Verlander’s belt open and off, pulls his pants down and mouths at his cock through his boxers. Mulder hears him breathing loudly, and the hand that was on his face is now in his hair. When Verlander says, “Com on,” all heavy and impatient and wanting, Mulder has to oblige him.
He gets a hand around Verlander’s cock first, but after a minute he opens his mouth and lets the hot weight of it settle on his tongue and down into his throat. He lets his fingers tease Verlander’s balls and Verlander either gasps or sighs as Mulder hollows out his cheeks.
Verlander fucks into his mouth shallowly. He’s pulling at Mulder’s hair now, pulling his face up so Verlander can look at him, so Mulder can watch him mouth the word fuck over and over. Mulder doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with a dirtier mouth, but then he remembers what he’s doing and pushes his jeans down over his hips, gets his own cock out.
Mulder hears Verlander ask, “Can I come on your face?” quietly, almost timidly, and for everything Mulder wants from him, for him, for everything Mulder owes him, that’s something he can’t give (gross). He widens his eyes and takes Verlander even deeper down his throat and hopes that’s enough.
It must be enough, Mulder thinks - hopes - because Verlander comes with a low moan only thirty seconds later. His hand slides down to the base of Mulder’s skull and Mulder works his jaw open even further, not wanting to taste it. He keeps Verlander in his mouth for a moment, licking at his oversensitive shaft as he softens. After a second he starts working his own cock mechanically, and Verlander watches him spurt all over the carpet.
Verlander huffs out a breath. He remains standing, but his upper body slumps forward, head hanging against his chest.
He hopes Verlander doesn’t sense it, but as Mulder zips up his own fly, he’s thinking You can have my ring and I won’t even ask for your curveball I’ll let you keep it.
I’m sorry you didn’t deserve that you didn’t deserve those losses you deserve so much more.
What he says is, “So.”
“So,” Verlander says, still breathless, lifting his head.
Mulder stands up and his knees pop. He chuckles.
Verlander looks at him. “So when are we going golfing?”