Title: Five Times Buster Posey Didn't Kiss Tim Lincecum (and the One Time Tim Kissed Buster)
Fandom: Baseball RPF (SF Giants)
Pairing: Tim Lincecum/Buster Posey
Rating: teen
Length: 4,800
Content notes: contains very mild drug use
Author notes: Not much to say about this one; I saw the challenge, had the idea and wrote it. Thank you to darkrose for looking it over; any mistakes are mine alone.
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.




I
August 2010

Buster's caught Tim all of two times and both games were losses. It's already clear that they aren't on the same page and it's already clear that Lincecum doesn't like Buster. At first Buster assumed that Lincecum was just having difficulty adjusting to a new catcher. Buster gets that, he really does, but he's making the effort to learn what Lincecum expects from a catcher and Lincecum's giving him nothing. Buster feels like an idiot, because who the hell is he to criticize the two time Cy Young winning face of the franchise?

No one, apparently. Buster''s a rookie; he expects to take a certain amount of shit. It's complicated by the fact that everyone knows he was brought up to help a flailing team. Buster expected resentment and he's gotten some. But he didn't expect this.

He didn't expect Lincecum to tease him.

It's a little scary at first. Buster's not exactly out--where not exactly means not at all--and he's not sure how Lincecum guessed. It doesn't take long for Buster to realize that Tim thinks Buster's straight. That he's leaning against things--all slinky and loose limbed--and making eyes at Buster because he thinks it'll freak Buster out. It does freak Buster out, but mostly because Lincecum's really fucking hot.

"Hey," Lincecum says. Buster almost jumps out of his skin; Lincecum leaning on the wall just outside the clubhouse bathroom.

"Hi," Buster says.

Tim stretches a little, somehow angling his hips forward while his shoulders remain in contact with the wall. Buster can't help but imagine how that would look in bed, how it would look if Buster's dick was buried balls deep in Lincecum's ass. It's clear from Tim's expression that Buster's supposed to think just that and be completely floored by it.

Buster's suddenly furious. He takes a step toward, determined to return the favor, determined to freak Lincecum out by kissing him. Not just a peck on the lips, but a real kiss. With tongue. And maybe some teeth.

It's an incredibly stupid idea.

"What do you want?" Buster says instead. He can hear the anger in his voice and apparently Lincecum can too. He stops slumping and gives Buster an odd look.

"To go over the scouting reports?"

"I've got them in the clubhouse."


II
October 2010

By the time they make it to October and the postseason, they're on the same page. Buster goes from dreading Lincecum Day to looking forward to it. Buster likes catching all the starters, but catching Lincecum is special. He's heard about the rapport and chemistry that happen between a good battery, but this is the first time he's felt it. It's the first time he's really believed that he's communicating with his pitcher in some unspoken deep way that has nothing to do with the signs he throws down. It's an incredible feeling.

They're getting along together better off the field too. They're not friends by any stretch of the imagination, but as the team starts to pull together, they seem to be able to tolerate each other's idiosyncrasies. That doesn't mean that Lincecum stops flirting with Buster, but Buster's realized that it's just the way Lincecum is. He flirts with everyone; it doesn't matter if the guy is married or dating someone or single, at some point Lincecum will lean against him and make suggestive comments. Buster's not sure if it goes further than that. He doesn't think it does; but if so, everyone involved is pretty discreet.

They fly to Atlanta with a day to spare and so the night of the sixth finds them in Buster's hotel room going over the scouting reports. They've played Atlanta plenty of times during the regular season, but Buster's been told over and over that the postseason is a different thing altogether.

In spite of their new rapport, Lincecum still has a certain disregard for scouting reports. Or at least for going over them in the kind of detail Buster prefers. At times like this, faced with their totally opposing approaches, Buster wonders how it is that they work so well together. Synergy he supposes; he grounds Lincecum and Lincecum brings the spontaneity that Buster lacks.

Tonight, however, Lincecum is even less focused, pacing around Buster's room and asking Buster to repeat himself more than once. At first Buster wonders if Lincecum's high, but, in Buster's admittedly limited experience, this kind of jittery behavior isn't the way stoned people act. It's nerves, Buster finally realizes. He'd feel a little foolish for not guessing sooner, but he's not used to this kind of thing from Lincecum.

"It'll be okay," he finally says.

Lincecum's staring out over the skyline of downtown Atlanta and he doesn't turn.

"You're gonna go out there and kick ass," Buster adds, and then winces. This is fucking high school stuff; he's got to sound like the wet behind the ears rook he is.

But when Lincecum answers, it's not with the scorn Buster probably deserves. "Do you really think that?"

Buster pauses to think it over. "Yeah," he finally says, meaning it this time. "I do."

Lincecum turns around and for a moment he looks lost and a little afraid. "I don't."

Buster's breath catches in his throat and he wants to get up, cross the room and give Lincecum a hug. He wants to let Lincecum lean on him, wants to kiss him on his temple, his cheek, his mouth. He wants to be the rock Lincecum can hang onto until he comes back to his usual self.

"I do," he says again. "So maybe you should just take my word for it."

Lincecum looks down at the floor for a long moment and when he looks up, his smile is back. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

Buster doesn't feel like a rookie anymore.

III
May 2011

Lincecum visits Buster in the hospital, but only once. He's not a restful visitor and Buster's still in the sulky, self-pitying stage he'd really rather no one saw. He's pretty sure Lincecum visited out of duty rather than friendship, even though they're in the process of becoming friends. They were, he tells himself. His season's over and even when he can go back to the clubhouse, he'll be there to work out and get better, not make friends.

Buster's theory is shot down when, about three weeks after he's been released from the hospital, Tim shows up at his front door. Buster hears him chatting with the caregiver who's working with Buster until Buster can get around a little better and then he heads into the kitchen. "What are you doing here?" Buster calls after him from his spot on the living room sofa.

"Cheering you up," Lincecum yells back.

Other guys have come over, schedule permitting, but they're mostly members of everyone calls the redneck crew and, even if they aren't, they're all much less energetic than Lincecum. Buster just feels tired watching him bring bags and boxes into the apartment.

Five minute after Lincecum knocked on the door, Buster finds himself staring at Lincecum's ass while Lincecum hooks the brand new PS3 he brought over up to Buster's TV. "You didn't have to," Buster says.

"All you have is that stupid DS lite and your iPhone." Lincecum backs up and shoves his hair out of his face. "That's not real gaming."

Buster wants to say that they're good enough for him, but Lincecum's wandered back into the kitchen.

"Can you drink?"

"No."

"Okay." Lincecum comes out with Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper. Buster's a little surprised that Lincecum remembered Buster's love of Dr. Pepper, but the Mountain Dew doesn't surprise him at all.

"You're such a cliche," he says as Lincecum loads Army of Two.

"Coming from you," Lincecum says and shakes his head.

Buster might not have a gaming system, but he's done enough gaming to be good at it. Lincecum's better than good and all of a sudden three hours have gone by without Buster even noticing.

"Hey," Buster says, pausing the game. "Gotta take a leak."

"You need help?"

"With what, pissing?"

"No, you asshole. I mean getting off the couch."

"Naw, I've got it down." He's not being completely honest; getting up still feels like a major production number. He manages it though and even makes it look, if not easy, then routine. Or maybe not; Lincecum's watching him with real concern on his face.

By the time he makes his way back to the living room, Lincecum's made sandwiches and there are chips too. "Um...thanks," Buster says as he sits back down. "Really you didn't...."

"Stop saying that." Lincecum takes a big bite of sandwich. "Jesus, Posey, can't a guy be nice?"

"Buster," Buster says. Because it seems like they are friends after all.

"Buster's a stupid name," Lincecum says, but he's grinning.

"So's Timmy. Makes it sound like you're five or something."

He meant it to come out lightly but he's surprised when he sounds a little angry. He is, he realizes. Sometimes he thinks the fans and media don't want Lincecum to grow up. He doesn't think they're doing him any favors.

"Yeah well, you better stick to Tim, then."

When Buster turns to look at Tim, Tim's looking down, picking at his sandwich. It would be easy to just slide over, wrap an arm around Tim's shoulder and kiss him, just like Buster did with Jerry Collins back at FSU. But this time, Buster can't. There's too much at stake and, flirting aside, he has no real evidence that Tim's gay or even bi.

This new friendship, Buster thinks, is too important to fuck up.

IV
March 2012

Spring Training is brutal. Not physically; Buster's in incredible shape. He never stopped working out during the off season; first the physical therapy and then his regular conditioning. The press doesn't care about that; with everyone assuming that his absence kept the team from the playoffs, he's a Story. He tried not to believe it last year and he's trying not to believe it this year.

It's too much to put on him. Buster knows his limitations and he knows his team and he knows one guy can't do it alone. If he loads that on himself, he'll come out of the gate already pressing. And really it's not fair to the rest of the team. In spite of all their struggles last year, they were in it until the stretch. Ignoring that to focus on him annoys the hell out of him.

He's gracious, of course. His mama didn't raise him in a barn and while he blames the media in general, it's not the fault of individual correspondents. As long as they keep the distractions to a minimum, he can deal with it.

It's a new team and he's got to learn who the new guys are and guess which ones will make it and which won't. It's always a crapshoot, but there are some good guys, guys Buster wants to play with.

And then there's Tim.

They sort of kind of kept in touch during the off season. Buster got the occasional email, many of which insulted his nickname, his home town ("seriously? less than three thousand people?") and his gaming ability. Buster answered with painfully sincere updates about his condition and how he was taking the time to watch all kinds of film and the minute details of life in a small town. There were gaps; at one point, Tim made reference to a brief affair with someone of unspecified gender and Buster spent a couple weeks fishing and just hanging out with the Cains. After things didn't work with Kristen, he's pretty much resigned himself to not having kids for a while if ever. He loves Hartley and since he knows damn well he and Cain will be with the Giants for a long time, he's happy to be Uncle Buster.

Matt and Chelsea feel enough like family that Buster finally opens his mouth and says it--comes out one night after dinner. Matt's a little surprised but Chelsea just nods and hugs him hard. That night he and Matt sit out on the porch and drink beer and talk about everything and nothing and it's okay because he knows that Matt's still his friend.

He almost tells Matt about Tim and then pulls up short because...what the hell? It's kind of stupid really because Buster should have figured it out long ago and maybe he did. It doesn't matter because it's not like Buster plans on doing anything about it. Ever.

But Spring Training is different. Tim's a little ragged around the edges and Buster's buried in the media and there's so much going on that Buster begins to think he was wrong about Tim. That maybe he was just feeling lonely and sorry for himself.

And then they have a good game where everything comes together and they just click. Even though it's just three innings in March, it feels like November in Texas all over again. After the game, Tim fist bumps him and they sort of stare at each other for a moment and no, Buster wasn't wrong at all. He feels the smile fade from his face because this is serious and scary and God, he wants Tim so much that he has to turn away to keep from kissing him right then and there.

V
November 2012

Buster tells the press he understands and appreciates this World Series win more than he did in 2010. He cites his injury and gives them good copy when he talks about how you can't just count on things falling into your lap because anything can happen. But really, he appreciates the win more because of Tim.

Watching Tim all year has hurt Buster more than Scott Cousins did. Tim's so messed up and lost out on the mound and there's absolutely nothing Buster can do to fix it. They throw solutions at him and when that doesn't work they throw something else at him until Buster's pretty Tim's head is reeling. Buster's sure is, but he still resents the hell out of it when everyone suddenly fixates on the Sanchez idea.

Part of it is personal. It's not that his feelings are hurt, only they are, a little. He's a grown man, not a kid, though and so his real irritation is the way the management makes it about his ankle. They're "resting" him but they want his bat in there and so he plays first. Buster doesn't like playing first, not that he'd ever complain. But while he gives it 100% every time he's out there, he's not the kind of defensive first baseman Belt is and he feels bad for the kid because what Belt needs is regular playing time and he's not getting it.

Every once in a while the irony of him thinking of a guy only a year younger than himself as a kid makes him shake his head. Buster hasn't felt like a kid since the day he lay there at home plate clawing at the dirt in a desperate attempt to crawl away from the pain. He still loves the game, still has fun, but he finds himself wondering how he became so jaded behind the persona he shows the world. Facing his mortality at twenty-four has something to do with it and he knows that being in the closet makes it worse.

He can't stand the media narrative either. The endless speculation as to what's wrong between himself and Tim infuriates him. First off, it's not their fucking business and secondly....

Secondly, something is wrong. The rapport isn't just gone, it's like it never existed. Tim is still friendly with Buster but there's hardly a moment during the whole season when it's anything like it was before, either on the mound or just in general. And what's worse is that Buster's pretty sure it's his fault. He's not stupid enough to blame himself for Tim's mechanical difficulties. Tim's lost his velocity and he's got to work to improve his command and that, sadly, is just going to take time. Buster would be more than happy to work with him, but Tim doesn't seem to want that. Buster knows he's too rigid, too methodical for someone whose process is so organic, but where he can accept it with Zito and just take what Zito throws him, Tim's another story.

The friendship, the loss of it, Buster can and does blame on himself. Somewhere along the line, Tim figured it out. Buster doesn't know if it was that moment back in spring training or any dozen other moments where he's had to hold himself back. At first he tells himself that he's just imagining things; that Tim really doesn't have the mental energy to maintain a friendship and deal with his pitching issues. But then, somewhere along the line Buster realizes something, and no, he wasn't wrong after all.

Tim doesn't flirt with him anymore.

And then, in the postseason, Buster comes to one more realization and wow, it's a big one. The big one.

He watches Tim go into the bullpen like it's no big deal, even though Buster knows damn well that is it. He watches as Tim, along with everyone else, starts believing what Hunter says. It's the same kind of thing every successful team says but in this case, it's nothing less than the truth. Tim goes into the bullpen and then comes out of it and pitches them out of jams like he'd always been a long reliever because it's not about him or Zito or any one individual.

And Buster?

Buster falls in love. Or maybe he's always been in love and he finally can't ignore it any more. It doesn't matter really. All he knows is that he's seeing the gutsiest, grittiest performance of all time, and that's saying a lot seeing as he's also catching Zito and Vogey. All he knows is that it's not about Tim being hot any more, it's about Tim being....

It's about Tim being Tim.

He makes it through each champagne soaked celebration along the way without losing it, without telling Tim how he feels. And he makes it through the big one, the final one too, although he has a serious "I love everyone in this bar" moment that should make him cringe later but instead just makes him smile more.

They're back home and getting ready for the parade when Buster smells it. At first he figures it's just the crowd; after all there are nights when you can smell it at AT&T and this is an Orange Friday multiplied to the nth degree. But then he hears giggling up ahead of him and he rounds a corner to see Tim and Kontos passing a small pipe back and forth. Kontos looks at him wide-eyed and nervous, but Tim's obviously a lot more stoned than Kontos and a lot less intimidated by Buster.

"Hey, want some?" he says, holding out the pipe. "Testing's over for the season," he adds like that's the only thing keeping Buster from joining them.

"Uh, no," Buster says, scowling a little. He hates to come off like a dick, but Tim's been busted before and while Buster's pretty sure there isn't a cop in all of San Francisco who would arrest a Giant today, he doesn't think it's worth the risk. There might be a couple of A's fans on the force; you never know.

He and Tim stare at one another for a long moment, during which Kontos mumbles something and makes his escape.

"C'mon," Tim says. "A drag or two won't hurt you. Might loosen you up a little."

Before Buster can answer, Tim's suddenly right in his space. "Wanna loosen you up a little," he says, sliding his arms around Buster's waist. "Want you to relax around me...."

"Tim," Buster says, trying to keep his voice steady. "This isn't a good time." And God, of all the times for Tim to start flirting with him again, this is the worst. Buster's revelation is a little too recent and his resolve is a little too shaky and God, he wants to kiss Tim. And...

And Tim doesn't mean it. Tim's never meant it; it's just a thing he does.

Tim pulls back and looks at Buster. "It never is with you."

Buster wants to ask what he means, but Tim just shakes his head and turns away. Buster takes a step or two after him, but then someone's calling his name and he's got this stupid parade to get through and he might have to say something once they reach City Hall.

VI -- And the One Time Tim Kissed Buster
July 2013

What with being hopelessly in love with someone who doesn't love him, Buster's long suspected that he's some kind of sick emotional masochist. And this, he thinks as he sits at the foot of his hotel bed staring at the TV, pretty much proves it. Sports Center can't talk about anything but the fucking no-hitter and Buster's already sick to death of it.

He was tired of it after his last at bat and tired of it as he watched Blanco ground out. And now he's watching a montage of the Giants striking out while the announcers talk about how it's Bailey's second no-hitter of the season and isn't he just an amazing guy on a team headed for the playoffs?

There's a little Giants bashing in there too. Well, not bashing, just the whole thing about how they're having such a bad year. It's not bashing if it's the truth, after all. Because they are bad this year. Every time Buster thinks things can't get worse, every time he thinks there's nowhere to go but up, the baseball gods laugh in his face.

And Buster can't fix it.

He should be able to. He's the reigning NL batting champion for God's sake, but what good does that do when half the time he can't get a hit and the other half the time no one else on the team is hitting? He's the second best catcher in the godamned game, but what good does that do when the vaunted Giants rotation is proving themselves to be all too human this year?

And then there are nights like this. Nights when Tim's showing flashes of his old brilliance, nights when he's showing signs that he's starting to figure things out. Nights when Buster can feel both of them reaching for that rapport again.

Nights when all that's happening and they can't get him four stinking hits.

Buster turns the TV off and thinks very seriously about drinking everything in the mini bar and then maybe trashing his room. He can't of course. He's better than that; he doesn't do self-pity. Except when he does. He looks at his laptop, thinks about the scouting reports.

"Fuck it," he says into the quiet of his room. He jerks open the door to the mini fridge and bypasses the beer for the bourbon. There are three of tiny bottles of it and he lines them up on his dresser. "We're just gonna lose again tomorrow."

He's halfway through his first drink when someone knocks on the door. For a moment, he thinks about just not answering it, but who knows. Zito usually waits until the day of the game to talk about the game plan, but maybe he's trying to do things differently. Not caring that he's shirtless and only wearing an old ratty pair of sweats, Buster opens the door.

"Hey," Tim says. Because of course it's Tim.

"It's late," Buster says.

"You weren't in bed." Tim gives the glass in Buster's hand a very pointed look as he pushes past Buster and into the room.

"No, but I should be."

"I got no hit tonight," Tim says.

"So what?" Buster says, a little surprised at the anger in his voice. "So you came up here to complain about run support? Because fuck you! I can't fucking do this by myself and right now I can't do it at all." He tosses back the rest of his drink and heads toward the dresser. "I can't fix it and the wheels are coming off and it's like a fucking train wreck and...and....

"And. I. Can't. Fix. It!"

Tim steps up behind him and takes the glass out of his hand.

"Actually, I came up here because I wanted to tell you that it's okay. That you're not letting anyone down. That tonight I was good, that we were good--you and I. That Bailey was just better." He puts a hand on Buster's shoulder. "You think I don't see what's going on? You think I don't see every guy on this team trying to win it with one swing of the bat, one perfect pitch?"

"I...."

"Shut up and listen to me." Tim grabs Buster's upper arm and pulls on it until Buster turns around and faces him. "This is what losing is like. This is what it feels like and this is baseball laughing at you. This is winning a Cy Young and losing the division. This is trying to be the face of the franchise after the last face left in a cloud of suspicion and steroids. This is what it's like when the numbers tell you you should win and you still go out there and lose."

He pauses to take a deep breath. "You think I'm so fragile, you think I'm so lost in my own misery that I can't understand what you're feeling?"

"I...don't know what to think."

"Everyone hears that story Kruk tells. The one about how you said 'why not' when he said that you can't win every year." Tim sighs. "This is why not, Buster. Because one year you come in and hit a grand slam off Mat fucking Latos and the next year Homer Bailey no-hits you. This is how baseball works. This is what losing is like."

"I don't know how to lose."

"I know," Tim says, his voice low and oddly gentle. "I know, Buster."

He steps in closer and reaches up to rest the palms of his hands against Buster's cheeks. "I know," he says again. "And you have to let it go. Because I can't do this any more. I can't watch you hide and pretend and put up walls around yourself. I can't watch you struggle to carry this team and I can't stand see you start to hate the game."

Buster wants to pull away, but the dresser is right behind him and there's nowhere to go.

"I thought I could do it," Tim says. "I thought I could wait for you to figure it out, but I can't because it turns out I can't stand seeing you hurting like this. Yes, this is losing and yes, it really fucking sucks, but there's nothing that says you have to go it alone."

"I can't...Tim, this isn't...I can't do this if it's just you feeling sorry for me." Buster swallows hard. "It needs...it needs to mean something more than that. I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry, but I can't just do a one night thing...I'm...I'm in love with you."

"I know," Tim says. "And this is anything but me offering a pity fuck. Like I said, I've been waiting for you to figure it out, for you to be able to say it. Well, now you have and the world hasn't ended, has it?"

Buster just stares at him, because Tim knows. Tim's known for a while and no, the world hasn't ended. "Tim," he finally says. "Tim, I...."

"Buster? I love you too. Now will you shut up and let me kiss you?"

It's all the kisses Buster's imagined and it's none of them. It's Tim and it's as real and as right as the thump of Tim's fastball landing in Buster's glove. It's winning and losing and hurting and recovering and it's better than anything, better than the game Buster's loved all his life. Right now, Buster would walk away from baseball and never play again as long as he could have this. But he doesn't have to.

They might lose it all this year, and Tim's right. It's baseball and you can't win it every year. But even if they do lose, Tim's right about something else too.

There's nothing that says they have to go it alone.

Buster pulls Tim in closer and finally, finally kisses him back.

-end-