Now What
by Synchronik

Now what? Buster thinks as the elevator doors slide shut between him and the lobby. He'd made a big promise to Lincecum during warm up--strike out ten and I'll do more than kiss you--but it wasn't until after the game that he realized that now he would have to live up to it.

Lincecum had nodded to him in the lobby as he'd come in. Tim'd been standing in a clump with some of the other guys and turned around specifically to catch Buster's eye. "Later," he'd said, but not in a sultry sexy way, just in a "later, man" way, the way he always said it.

Buster is still wondering what that means when the elevator opens and dumps him out on his floor. Is he supposed to call and invite him up? Or maybe just do nothing and see if the whole thing blows over the way so many of the things the guys say--jokes, bets, bullshit--blow over?

He drops his bag in his freshly cleaned suite and looks around. In the daylight, he can see the lake from the windows in the living room, but at night the view is even better, all twinkling lights and magic and promises. He's standing at the windows with his phone in his hand wondering if he should text when someone knocks on the door and Buster's heart leaps into his throat.


"Hey, man," he says when Buster opens the door.

He's wearing a plaid button down, and a baseball cap on backwards (not a Giants cap, of course, but a Red Bull one) and jeans, the same thing he was wearing in the lobby. He didn't change.

Of course he didn't change, Buster thinks. Is he supposed to put on lingerie?

"Come in," he says, even though Tim is already in. "You want something to drink?"

"Diet Coke?"

Buster pulls a couple of Diet Cokes out of the bar and hands one to Tim. They open the cans and sip and stare at their feet like kids at their junior prom.

"So, um. . . TV?" Buster says, practically leaping over to the couch. Anything to kill the awkward pause.

"Yeah, sure." Lincecum ambles over, his face neutral. Buster turns on ESPN, then clicks quickly over to Law & Order reruns. He doesn't like to watch fresh coverage--it's always so wrong.

"Cool," Timmy says, sitting on the couch and toeing his shoes off. Buster sits next to him, trying to find a distance that is close but not weird close.

"I love this one," Tim says. "This one's where they think the dad is abusing them, but it's actually the son."

"Oh," Buster says. He doesn't have feelings one way or the other about Law & Order, except that he likes that it's always on in every city they go to. It makes him feel at home.

They watch for a while. This is the worst seduction ever, Buster thinks, but that's not true. There's nothing awkward about sitting here with Tim, hanging, watching bad guys get caught. It's not sexy, at all, but it is relaxing.

About fifteen minutes in, Timmy tips over onto his side, away from Buster, his arms wrapped around a couch cushion, and pulls his sock feet onto the couch. He can't watch anything from a vertical position.

Buster, who's been in a long term relationship for a while now and knows what his next move should be, draws Tim's feet into his lap--his socks are perfectly white--and rests his hand on Tim's boney, hairy ankle under his jeans. Tim glances over at him and smiles.

They sit like that until the episode ends--Tim is right, it is the son--and when the credits start to play, Tim rolls onto his back and pokes Buster in the stomach with his toe. "Are we going to call for food or something?"

Buster looks over at him, sprawled on his back, his hair a mess around his head, and before he's even aware he's made a decision, he kneels up in between Tim's knees and looms over him, one hand braced on the back of the couch. The other hand brushes Tim's waist, then his cheek, and then they're kissing, Tim's mouth tilted up underneath his, Tim's arms reaching up to pull him down.

Buster is trying not to crush Tim, but he can only brace himself for so long before he collapses on top of him, their bodies pressed together. He feels Tim's hands come up under his shirt at the base of his spine.

"I'm not killing you, am I?" Buster murmurs.

"No," Tim says, and kisses him again.

Buster doesn't believe him. Tim seems even smaller than normal underneath him, buried in the squishy couch cushions, his body hardly a dent against Buster's, but then Tim hooks a leg around Buster's thigh and opens his mouth and Buster forgets all about crushing him.

Buster doesn't know how long they've been making out when his phone rings. He knows that his shirt is on the floor and that Tim's button down no longer has some of its buttons, which is what happens when Buster gets frustrated trying to undo them and just pulls. He knows that Tim's belt buckle is pressed into his stomach and that he's thinking that'll be the next to go, anticipating sitting back and pulling the leather out of Tim's belt loops, when he hears the familiar tones of his phone from the table near the window where he left it.


He pulls back and Tim moans, disappointed. "I have to get that," he says and gets off the couch.

He flips the phone open and says "hey, baby," while adjusting his dick with his free hand.

She doesn't want anything in particular, just to say hi and "good game" and he should have called her while he was waiting for Tim, but he was too freaked out to think of it, so it's his own fault, really.

"Listen, honey, Timmy's here, so. . . "

Tim has sat up on the couch and he's making moves like he's thinking about standing up. His shirt hangs off his shoulders. Buster's fingers itch, just looking at him.

"Timmy's there?" his wife says, affectionately. "Wait, Timmy Timmy?"

"What?" Buster feels himself blushing. "Yes, Timmy."

"Why, Buster Posey, I didn't know you had it in you. That's a first class pull, right there."

He laughs. "Thanks, babe." Tim is standing now, fiddling with the buttons that are left on his shirt. He's getting ready to leave, Buster realizes, and feels a flare of panic. He holds up a finger to Tim. Just one sec.

"I'm going to think about that one when I go to bed. Tim Lincecum." Her voice sounds dreamy and slow. "I don't suppose you could take any pictures."

"So you can sell them on the internet?" he teases.

"Is he as flexible as they say? Do you have his feet up over his head?"

Now she's just busting his chops. "Good night, honey," Buster says.

"Tim Lincecum," she sighs, just before he hangs up.

"Sorry," he says. Tim's twisting his Red Bull cap in his hands. "I think my wife has a thing for you."

"Oh, um." Tim glances around the room. "That's. . . um. I'm gonna go."

"What? Why?"

"It's just. . . yeah. I'm gonna go." Tim cuts around the couch and heads toward the door. His shirt is buttoned crooked. He has his shoes in his hand.

Buster follows, intercepting him just before he opens the door. "You don't have to. It's okay. She's okay." He goes to put a hand on Tim's shoulder, but Tim flinches away.

"That's cool," he says. "It's just. . . I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"

It's not all right, not at all. Buster's cock aches and his stomach aches and his hand aches where it wants to touch Tim, push his hair back, sooth away the anxiety that's crept into his expression.

"Yeah, sure," he says instead. "Of course."

"All right." Tim freezes for a moment. Then he lunges in and hugs Buster, an awkward bro hug, complete with a pat on the back. Buster tries to hang on to him, but he's gone like quicksilver. "Later, man."

"Later," Buster says, and watches as the door closes.

The End

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