One-shot: Lucky Socks (PG, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Lucky Socks Rating: PG Pairing: Andy Roddick/Roger Federer Summary: Andy and Roger have a tradition for every time they both make it through a round at Wimbledon. Notes: For astonish, as bribery for more On the Road which I love beyond words. I’m working on one that includes Marat and Mirka, I promise. This plotbunny just wanted to be used as bribery. Set the night of Wednesday June 29th 2005, after they both made it through the quarter finals. Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been and it's very likely they never will be. Not claiming this happened - the plot bunnies made me do it. Crafty little critters that they are.
Lucky Socks
They giggled the first few times they did this. It’s hard to climb a wall carrying a bottle of Wimbledon’s finest champagne while fighting down laughter but they’ve done it, Roger remembering last year with Andy catching him as he lost his laughter-weakened grip, both of them tumbling to the grass in a tangle of limbs and wine glasses, still giggling.
Last year it was a game to play, Andy drawing Roger aside after his first round win and whispering a dare, 'meet me on court two at midnight' and Roger had gone, resisting curiosity never his strong point, but then they reached the final and it became more than that. On the bright clay of the French or the hard smoothness of Flushing Meadows, superstition seems a little silly and false, at least to Roger. There’s too much surrounding him, too much press, too much noise and too much of modern life, reminding him he’s just a tennis player and what does it matter if he wears the same socks or smiles at the concierge in the same way every morning? Superstition becomes just another word, something to smile over at dinner and dismiss as a silly game the juniors play.
But at Wimbledon, it’s different. There’s the finest of lines drawn between superstition and tradition; at Wimbledon, with so much of the latter all around him, he finds separating the two close to impossible. He has to warm up on the same court, using the same balls, and yes, even wearing his lucky damn socks. Last year he’d kissed Mirka soundly before every match and won; this year he’s kissed her every match and counting – and he hasn’t lost yet.
He has to believe in superstition at Wimbledon. It’s impossible not to.
“Careful Rog.” A hand takes the bottle of champagne from him and steadies him on the wall, Andy’s voice still filled with laughter even though his feet are firmly on the court. “I can’t promise I’ll catch you this year. You’ve got the weight of all that ego now.”
It’s superstition that has him out here now, at midnight, on court two with Andy Roddick. Every round they made it through last year, they did this and they’d reached the final. Roger knows nothing on earth could stop him doing this now, not when they’re both so close again, close and yet so far. He knows he’d lose his next match without this.
And that’s starting to scare him more than he’ll admit.
“Whoa!” Despite Andy’s joking, the American catches him as he slides down to the court, staggering a little until Roger gets his feet under him and they lean against each other for a moment before pulling apart. They’re both laughing as they wander across the court to the net - that it’s still there and the court cover is off, a subtle hint that someone at least knows their little ritual and approves. Andy’s betting on the cute blond line judge he went on a date with last year but Roger’s more inclined towards a friendly security guard. They couldn’t have done this as often as they have without at least one guard keeping a sympathetic eye out for them.
One day Roger knows they’ll get caught but as Andy pointed out, the Wimbledon directors aren’t exactly going to kick their defending champion out the tournament. They might kick me out was left unsaid but Roger had hugged him anyway, a little tentative because he’s still aware of how close Andy came last year, how it was almost him sitting here, wondering if he’ll be the one thrown out the tournament if they’re caught while Andy gets to stay in honour of his name on the board of champions. It had been enough to give him second thoughts about coming out here when they both survived their first round matches last week, wondering if Andy would have changed his mind or forgotten but the American had been waiting, champagne in hand, at the gate to court two. Roger had never been so relieved to see him and from Andy’s quick, tight hug, the American was thinking the same.
“Thought you might not come,” he’d murmured, pulling back and smiling in the faint light. Roger had smiled back.
“I couldn’t not come,” he’d said and it had been the truth.
Sitting by the net now, clouds overhead promising rain for the ladies’ semi-finals tomorrow and dulling the faint glow from the night-lights around Centre Court, Roger leans comfortably against Andy’s shoulder and accepts a full glass of champagne. Andy pours his own and they clink the edges together automatically, the same movements and the same tilt of the glasses as they let a little liquid spill onto the grass. Roger’s often wondered if the Wimbledon groundskeepers know why a tiny patch of grass on court two turns yellow every Wimbledon but he thinks probably not. The head groundkeeper almost cries for every blade of grass dying under the player’s shoes on Centre; Roger doubts either he or Andy would be fit to play tennis today if the man knew they were pouring champagne on one of his courts.
“Are you getting sick of them asking us about each other yet?” Andy asks lazily, the ritual completed for another night leaving them free to lean against the net and talk. Sipping his champagne, Roger tilts his head back to stare at the clouds as he thinks over the question, Andy’s warmth comforting against his side.
“Not quite.” He contemplates his press conferences from the last few days for a moment. “It’s natural that they’re curious, after we played an unbelievable match last year. They want us to build up the final for them again.”
“Always after a better goddamn story.” There’s only weary sarcasm in Andy’s voice, no anger or resentment at the ever-hungry journalists stalking their every move because it’s just life on tour, what they signed up for when they first started playing and both of them know it. “Damn press.” He takes a mouthful of champagne and leans back beside Roger as he swallows, curling an arm loosely around his knees. Roger lets his head rest on the American’s shoulder and smiles at the wordlessly pleased murmur from Andy. They’d both be happy to sit here all night in silence, Roger’s impassive mask relaxing as Andy’s hyperactivity fades, both of them just enjoying the company of the other. Roger lets his eyes slide closed, sighs in contentment and hears Andy echo it with a chuckle.
Roger loves moments like this, away from the press, away from the tour. Just sitting beside someone who understands everything he’s been, and still is going through, living and dying every round with him until… well, until one of them loses.
Which is of course the catch; one of them has to lose in the end and there’s still that tiny frisson of tension whenever Roger thinks of Sunday, knowing at least one of them won’t be happy by the end of it. It’s not even like last year, not like Andy’s still number two and Roger’s already won a Slam. This one means more to both of them, both of them needing it like air, needing it to reaffirm their worth and ability. Each needing to prove to themselves and to everyone that they’re still worthy of walking out there every day, to play tennis. Roger goes through the motions and the words for everyone around him but with Andy, out here where no one will see, he can let the walls slip. Needs to perhaps, to let someone know he’s just a little desperate.
“Andy,” he says softly and Andy shifts slightly. Warm breath ghosts across Roger’s hair as the American turns his head, lips brushing softly against the dark curls.
“Yeah?”
“What do we do? If we’re both in the final and have to, you know…?”
“Exactly what we did last year.” Andy shifts again and this time curls an arm around Roger’s waist, tucking cold fingers under the Swiss’ jacket. The air’s far from cold in the June night but it’s not exactly warm either, both of them shivering a little and sharing their warmth makes sense. “We both want it and we’ve got to play Rog. I’m not exactly going to walk out on court and say ‘Sorry, I think I like you too much to try my best to beat you. In the Wimbledon final. Again.’”
The edge of tension relaxes as Roger does, tapping the rim of his wine glass thoughtfully against his lip. “I know.” Quiet again for a moment. “Besides, the press would never leave us alone if you said that.”
The startled laugh from Andy echoes around the empty court. “Yeah, it’d almost be worth it just to see their faces. Totally confused do you think or shocked speechless?”
“Journalists are never shocked speechless.” Roger sips another mouthful of champagne, letting it sit sharp and sweet on his tongue for a moment before he swallows, licks splashes of it from his lips. “But they’d be close.”
“They’d never believe the mutual respect angle either.” Draining his own glass, Andy slides his thumb along the rim and raises a faint, ringing note that sends shivers pleasantly down Roger’s spine. “How many steamy love affairs do you think they’d get in there?”
“The British press? At least three.” Roger frowns in mock-serious thought. “Possibly four.”
“You and me, me and Mirka-“
“You and Mardy.”
“Me and Mardy?” Andy pulls back a little and stares at him, the quirk of a grin at the corners of his mouth. “Where’d you get that from?”
“Your press conference today.” Roger sits up straighter, turning his head to return Andy’s grin. “‘Maybe the only person it affects me a little bit with is Mardy’? That sounds like a steamy love affair to me, you know. Or at least it would to them.”
“Huh,” Andy comments, sounding unconvinced. “And the fourth one? Oh,” he cuts Roger’s answer off before the Swiss can even open his mouth, realising it for himself. “All four of us.”
“The press would love us forever for a story like that.” Roger puts his almost-empty glass down, reaching for the bottle but Andy beats him too it, upending the bottle to refill both their glasses. “If it was true or not.”
“Then what are we waiting for? I’ll give Mardy a call to get on a plane, Mirka’s back at your hotel, let’s go make the press love us,” Andy teases and gets Roger’s elbow in his ribs, causing him to flinch away with a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. It would take a lot of energy we should use for playing.”
“Ja, it would.”
Andy waits a beat, watching for Roger’s guard dropping. “So it’s a date for Sunday night then?”
“Andy!”
The American leans back into the net, satisfied, mirth still audible in his voice. “Just thought I’d ask.”
With a roll of his eyes Roger shakes his head, shifting closer to Andy’s warmth as the breeze ruffles cold fingers through his hair. They’re almost tangled together in the middle of the court, Wimbledon stretching out in every direction, the lightest rustling of the breeze in the distant trees the only sound to break the silence. It’s nice, peaceful Roger thinks. About as far from his everyday life as he can get and he likes that it’s Andy sitting beside him, sharing the moment.
Loves it, if he’s honest with himself.
He knows Mirka’s waiting for him back in their rented house while Tony dreams of ways to improve his game in the guest room. He knows his sister is expecting him to call home in the morning and knows he’s meant to have breakfast with his parents, but he wants it all not to matter. He wants to be able to sit here with Andy for the rest of the night, for the rest of the week. Till next year perhaps. Even though sitting out here, it’s harder to remember that he loves tennis, that he wants to win Wimbledon again.
Harder to remember that for all their touching and joking, he and Andy are nothing more than friends and come the morning they’ll be back to merely exchanging ‘hellos’ and moving on.
“Rog?” The teasing is gone from Andy’s voice, leaving soft seriousness and Roger glances at him, catching the glint of brown eyes and a worried frown. There’s a brief pause while the American seems to think about his next words but they still come out slow, a little shaky. “Do you think I’ll make it?”
“Yes.” Roger doesn’t need to ask what he means. “I think we both will.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Andy says and the teasing edge is back for a moment, fading quickly. “But Rog, I don’t know if I—“
“Andy.” Roger sits up, turning to the American and he’s close enough for Roger to feel his breath, warm against the Swiss’ mouth. “You can make it to the final. You’ve done it before, you know. We’ll walk out on court on Sunday and I’ll get to say I told you so.”
“Before or after you beat me?” If there’s a hint of relief in Andy’s laugh, it’s almost hidden by amusement. Roger shakes his head, smiles.
“Before. After that I’ll be too busy trying to beat you to remember.”
Andy laughs again but it’s distracted and Roger waits patiently, knowing the American’s struggling with something. “See Rog, the thing is… I’m kinda thinking of messing with tradition here.”
“You don’t want to wear all white for the final?” Roger guesses on a whim. When Andy chuckles, his breath brushes warmly against the Swiss’ lips.
“Nothing that drastic.”
“You’ve lost your lucky socks and want to borrow mine?” This time Roger’s teasing but Andy’s serious, shaking his head with a sigh.
“No. I’ve got my socks. I was thinking more of our tradition.”
“Coming out here?”
“Yeah.” The note of worry in Andy’s voice makes Roger shiver, suddenly cold. “Do you think that’s pushing my luck?”
“It depends.” Roger slides backwards an inch, dismay mingling with a spark of anger. This is their tradition, their superstition – Andy can’t ruin Roger’s luck because he suddenly wants to give it up. “What do you want to change?”
“Not change so much. More adding something I guess.” Andy pauses and Roger can feel the American’s eyes on him through the darkness. “Would you risk it for me?”
Once Roger would have had to think about it, last year when they were still working each other out and this was an expendable tradition, something for fun rather than a necessity but it’s been too long. They’ve done this too many times, he needs it, and he won’t risk Andy deciding he doesn’t because Roger isn’t willing to flex it a little. “Yes. What is it?”
Pure relief in Andy’s sigh. “This.”
The kiss is awkward at first, a little desperate. The darkness makes it hard to judge distance and there’s the grate of teeth before Andy gets his mouth in the right place, wet lips trembling against each other with the tentative slide of tongue behind. Roger can hardly breathe, eyes fluttering shut as he leans into it and Andy’s kissing him, the thought enough to have him moving forward, champagne discarded to one side in his haste and there’s going to be one furious groundskeeper tomorrow when he sees the ruin of his court. Roger doesn’t care, can’t even think about it. All he can think and feel is Andy’s warm, wet mouth on his.
Nothing this good could be bad luck.
It’s too soon when Andy breaks it, even though Roger realises they must have been kissing for some minutes when he has to gasp in air. Andy’s no better, fighting to catch his breath as he curls his hands around Roger’s, rubbing the Swiss’ cold fingers through his.
“You don’t think I’ve jinxed us?” he asks and the worry in his voice is so genuine that Roger has to smile. “I’ve wanted to do it for two weeks and I thought, in case this is my last chance-”
“Andy.” Roger’s voice is soft, still breathless. “You haven’t jinxed us. Just invented a new tradition, I think.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Yes.” Roger has to laugh because it seems such an inane question when he’s so much more than okay. “Very okay.”
“Good.” Relief and satisfaction mingle in Andy’s tone. “You think- you think we could do it again? For luck?”
“How can I argue against luck?” Roger asks, teasing but there’s nothing teasing in the way he leans quickly forward, arms sliding around the American to pull him into a second, harder kiss. Andy makes a small sound, almost a moan as their mouths meet and Roger closes his eyes blissfully, everything he thought was perfect made better. He knows with this at the back of his mind, there’s nothing on earth that could make him lose to Lleyton on Friday.
And he can’t help thinking as Andy’s tongue slides over his that he’d take this over lucky socks any day.