Chapter Text
Heat tightening your face, smoke on your tongue, burning muscles. You open your eyes and the Chicago River is melting.
Fuckin’ Chicago.
It’s a dream. You know it’s a dream, because the river is aflame in a way you’ve never seen before—even when the whole city was collapsing into ash. You can tell, because the banks are blissfully quiet, silent besides flames and water and hiss of melting ice. You can see it, because none of this feels real as the Lady of the Hearth rises out of the sea.
She towers over you, imposing and omnipresent. This is not the first time you’ve stood in front of Mx Chicago, and it likely won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant. There’s smoke on her breath, too– there always has been, and tonight it fills your lungs like stardust and ash and immateria as mixed in one.
“It is good to see you once more, my child.” Her voice reverberates across the banks, vibrating against your ribs.
“Not anymore.”
“You’ll always be one of mine, little one. Even now.”
“And if I don’t care to be anymore?”
“I tried to save you. All of you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice!”
“I was between a rock and a hard place, child.”
“And we weren't?”
“Sometimes you make sacrifices.”
“Likes lambs to the fucking slaughter.”
“One way to put it, I suppose.”
“What do you want?”
“Reassurance, that you won't do anything foolish while you remain here. I know you, Baby Triumphant. I know what you're capable of. But I will not have you putting my new team at risk, do you hear me?”
“And how exactly would I do that?”
“It only takes a spark to start a blaze. You should know that better than most.”
“Fuck off.”
She stares at you, head tilting in a facsimile of confusion. Reaching, reaching, reaching towards you until her hand meets your chest, proportional to your own now. It tangles in your ribs, reaching even further until it's your heart in her hand, squeezing the fear out of you.
“You are part of the bones of this city, Baby Triumphant. You have bled for these streets, breathed in its corpses. It will not leave you, no matter how much you try to outrun it. Your duty does not leave because you do, do you understand me? Not this one. You will see this city survive, and so you will survive yourself.”
You shove her away, her hand leaving your chest with a gasping heave. “You don't know that.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Enough with your cryptic bullshit! I’m just– I'm done. If not with the city, then with you. Don't– I don't want to talk to you for a long fucking time, you got that? Do better for the team, sure, but do better for the city too.”
“I've learned from losing you all. I always do. I don't expect them to make the sacrifices you did.”
“You shouldn't have expected it from us, either.”
“You knew what you had signed up for, my child, you made that agreement. These players did not. I will not ask them the same because they are not the same, but fighting fires is what you came here for, was it not?”
“Fighting fires, sure. Not a bloodsport, though. You made that choice, you took it away from us! And it took so many of us away with it! Have you no shame for your greed, my lady?”
At that, she recoils, and for the first time in the many years you've known her, you see the city bleeding through. A thousand voices, sure, but a million people born and bred on stories of sacrifice would only lead to this creature before you, this desperate titan clinging onto the only things it knows: protection, loss and duty.
This is the most human you've ever seen her.
“Tomorrow, I'm going to leave, and I'm not going to come back for a long time, you got that? I'm done.”
The air floats between you like a rock; stagnant, heavy. If this was anything other than a dream, you'd be choking on the smoke, lungs full of tar ire, but it's not and you aren't.
You give her one last long look, and then do what you do best: run.
-
You lose the next couple hours. By the time you feel like you're back, you're sitting in Nerd's apartment, back against the stupid leather couch while Hank and Nerd's voices drift in from the kitchen.
“I had to talk Susan out of sending fucking gift baskets, I mean–”
“God, could you imagine Margo's reaction to that? We shouldn't be laughing, but–”
“I mean, you've been here as long as me; if we don't laugh we'll never stop crying.”
There's a mug in your hand, long cold. You feel like you should move, but the shock has turned to grief and exhaustion, and every inch of you feels heavy as lead. So you put the mug down, close your eyes, and listen.
“Oh god, there was one time—fuck, it must have been that one siesta between season 8 and 9? Anyway, Ruthless had invited me to a Chiclawgo party, did you ever go to one?”
“Can't say I had the pleasure.”
“Wild affairs, truly. But yeah, Rue had invited me and this was like, just when we had started hooking up and I hadn't been in the Firehouse much, and so when ve drags me into one of the bedrooms I just assume it's hir’s because like, why wouldn't I?”
“It wasn't???”
“It was fucking Rivers’ room. Came in making out with Sutton Dreamy, saw us on her bed, kicked us out, and said I could do better.”
“Holy shit?”
“I know, right?”
“Sounds like shit Ruthless would pull.”
“Eh, they've grown up since then. At least it seems like it.”
“I don't really have a comparison point.”
“Trust me.”
A laugh. “I do.”
“Did you know her at all?”
“Rivers? Not until the falls, and only because of Ruthless. Knew of her, for sure, but I mean– everyone knew the Twin fucking Roses, right? But personally? Not really.”
“She was brilliant. I mean, they both were, but Rivers… Maybe one of the bravest people I ever met. Defiant, even with the weight of the city on her back. Proud of everything she should be. And kind, even in her anger. Once you snuck under her wing, she had you. Can’t say I was lucky enough for that, but… We’re all worse off, for this one.”
“Yeah, we are.”
Somewhere in the mess of it all, your breath starts to even out, and you slowly drift off to the sounds of Hank and Nerd reminiscing; to the sounds of love.
-
When you finally wake up, it’s just past dawn. Your body doesn’t take as well to sleeping on the couch as it once did, so there’s a crick in your neck, and you can feel the dehydration that’s crept in from all the crying you did yesterday.
You check your phone. There’s over two dozen missed calls. Immediately overwhelmed, you throw it back against the cushion and take a deep breath.
“You should call Zack back, at least.” You jump at Hank's voice, whipping your head back towards the kitchen to see him standing there, two mugs in hand. “Want some coffee first?”
“Fuck, dude, you scared me.”
He flops down next to you after handing you a mug, looking about as tired as you feel. “How ya feeling, Rue?”
“Um…” A question you decidedly don't know how to answer. “A lot of things, and also nothing at all.”
He doesn't say anything for a minute, just nods. “Anything I can do?”
You shake your head. “Not right now. I feel like I shouldn't be this fucked up, like– Declan has already lost how many people this season and I'm over here going catatonic?”
His hand stills you. “Hey, no. We're not playing that game. You, out of everyone, should know that we all react to this shit in our own ways, and even then– I mean being here when it happened couldn't have helped.”
“It really, really didn't, Hank. God, I could feel it in the rafters before it even happened and like, even without the dispatch… It was fucking awful. I hate this place, even if part of me will always love it.”
You realize just how true it is as you say it– this is the city that built you, more than the Bay ever could, but it's also the one that broke you, that stripped you down to scraps for melting. It’s your home, but it’s not, anymore.
“Rue…”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Your voice feels small, coming out of your mouth. You run your hands through your hair; it’s tangled and dry, certainly not helped by the hours you spent in the cold yesterday.
Hank looks over at you, seeing the way you’re absentmindedly tearing at your hair now. “Want me to braid that out of your face?”
“I pitch today, right?” It’s a genuine question, because you’re second guessing most things right now. Thankfully, Hank nods. “Okay, so I should probably shower before then…”
His eyes trail to your hand, and yours follow to see more strands tangled between your fingers than there should be.
“You can still do that, just, here–” Hank pats the spot in front of him, motioning for you to sit down. You don’t have the energy to fight it, and so you slink down so your back’s against the couch and knees pulled up to your chest, arms around them too. “You’ll feel better with it out of the way.”
He’s right, of course. Your waves are knotted, but he slips through them with practiced ease, parting your locks down the middle and starting to weave them together with deft fingers. Your scalps stings a little from the hair you tore, but you can tell he’s avoiding it, trying to be as gentle as he can even as he tugs them together.
“Here,” he says, pausing to hand you your phone. “Even if you don't respond to anything else, you should at least call Zack– I had to talk her down from catching a round trip flight just to check on you.”
“Soon.” You toss your phone from one hand to another. “...have you talked to Bea today?”
He finishes one braid, tying it off cleanly before moving to the other one. “I did last night. Why?”
“...Did she say how Edric's doing?”
“Hardly any better than you, I'm sure.”
“I don't know, he's always been better with this stuff.”
“No one's better with this stuff, Ruthless. Not even me, and I can see ghosts, so…”
“This place must be hell, huh?”
“Only when I look too close.”
“You know, when Justice became an undertaker, she said she could see vestiges in the river– fuck, I forgot about Justice. She can't be…”
“This is going to be tough for all of you, Rue. You've just gotta hold it together best you can, and we'll white-knuckle it to the end of the season. Then all of you can fuck some shit up.”
“How are you so calm about this?”
“Well, I'd say just wait and see if something happens to Shaq or Der, but…”
“It already technically did?”
“Yeah.”
You drop your head down against your knees, pulling the braid out of his hand by accident.
“Shit! Sorry.”
You don't look but you can feel him pick it back up. “You're fine. There,” he says, finishing this side off with a flourish, “it's done. No harm, no foul, right?”
Your coffee’s gone cold, but you reach for it anyways and take a forlorn sip. “Yeah.”
Both of you turn at the sound of Nerd wheeling into the living room, and you scramble back onto the couch so you can see them.
“Morning, you two.” They're already dressed, uniform on, crisp and pressed. “How are you doing, Ruthless?”
“I'm here.”
“Well, that's all we can ask for, really. You want a shower before we head out? There's a shower cap in the cabinet if you don't want to get your hair wet.”
“That would be great. Thank you, Nerd. For everything.” You turn to Hank too, squeezing his hand. “You too.”
“It's okay. We're going to get through this together, all of us. We will.”
-
The sun’s high in the sky by the time you make it to the Firehouse the next day, and you couldn't be more relieved.
This was your plan, of course, waiting until everyone was at the game to make your way in. This needs to be private, needs to be personal– if there's one thing you're sick of, it's all the ways your life demands the publicization of your grief.
You left early this morning, making a detour at a shop you hadn't been to in years– hadn't had the need to be to in years- and picked up a dozen candles; short little votives not unlike Edric's yahrzeits, but dissimilar enough to be distinct. This is a ritual you haven't done in years, one you don't know if anyone has done in years, but on a day like today it only feels right.
Sneaking in through the garage doors, you head straight to Tyreek’s window first. Each step of the ladder feels like an act of repentance; for everything you’ve lost, for everything you’ll continue to lose, and everything you’ve forsaken on the path from here to there.
You pointedly don’t look at Rivers’ window as you do. That’s not something you can handle yet.
You wipe the glass down, make sure it’s shining. Wipe down the things left behind, too; half-century old suspenders of theirs and sunglasses Justice left that long ago too. Finally, place a candle where there hasn’t been in far too long and let it flicker alight.
“Lucky bastard,” you mutter under your breath. “Hope you’re happy out there. Even better, I hope you’re dead. Gotta take that peace, because god knows the rest of us can’t.”
You take a moment and a breath, and then slide down the ladder with practiced ease.
“I’ll be back for you, promise,” you say to the other portrait in the room and no one at all, “I haven’t forgotten about you. I just need some time.”
Goobie next.
He's in the kitchen, and after you place the votive above the sink, you can't help but notice all the subtle ways it's changed. New pans over the stove, new mugs with new chips in the open cupboards, new life in this old, old building. It's hard to shake the misplaced nostalgia, so instead you just turn back, light the candle, and move on.
You find Josh in the hallway, covered in a thin layer of trailing ash. You wipe down the glass and place a candle down, taking a moment to breathe before you light it.
You pause as you turn to leave. “You'd be proud of me these days, Josh. At least I'd like to think so.”
There's no answer. There never was going to be one, not now with dispatch just a distant memory, but still, you think you're right.
Plums is quick and easy. (You feel guilt for how easy it is, but that's for another day.) Atlas next, by the break room, and then it's time to make your way to the basement.
The door to Ken’s door creaks as you open it, and there's a thin coat of dust across the whole room. Things have moved enough to know it's seen use since the falls started, but if you had to guess, it certainly hasn't seen much in the past year.
You'd spent hours in here, once upon a time. When things got too chaotic or too loud and you just needed a break, or when Ken needed a hand from someone who knew a little about molten metal– you even spent a weekend or two helping him and Conrad put Ana together, back in the day.
It hurts that this isn't your place anymore. It hurts even more that you haven't found a new one yet. It hurts to be adrift.
Even with all the seconds you’ve spent looking at José’s window, the mid-afternoon light streaming through hits differently today. You take a minute to bask in it, the different colours refracting onto your skin as you strike the match, and another candle is lit.
Anastasia is harder; a fresher wound. You probably had less than three conversations with her between her birth and her death but you were family– you spent time soldering her wires so she could speak, and that’s something she may never know. You saw her death coming—nearly everyone did—but it doesn’t sting any less. Didn’t fail to devastate any of you less.
(It’s complicated, this sense of guilt you feel. You couldn’t save her, or Rivers, or Josh or any other window that stains these walls. You don’t even know if you would have tried—self sacrifice isn’t in your blood the way it was for others—but you could have.
Edric’s supposed to be the one stuck in what-ifs. But now you’re drowning in them, and there’s no sign of air.)
Another light, another candle. Time to head back to the garage, and then get the hell out of dodge.
It isn’t that easy, because why would it be– you run into Ji-eun just as you’re leaving the workshop.
“Oh, sorry! Wait a sec…” His eyes travel over to the door you just left, until he shakes it, looking back. “Sorry, it’s just that– well, that door’s been stuck since the end of last season.”
You curse under your breath, at the city and yourself. “Doesn’t surprise me, this building likes to keep its secrets. Now, I really have to–”
You move to leave, but he spots the bag you’re holding before you can pass him.
“Wait, Ruthless– are those candles around yours? I’ve been tracking them down, worried about the fire hazard, you know–”
Your heart stops for a second. “You didn’t blow them out, did you?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Good, don’t. The city won’t let anything happen, just– ask Nerd about it sometime if you’re curious, okay? They can explain it.” You know this, because you explained it to them. “Now, I really do have to go…”
Ji-eun seems distracted by what you’ve said, waving you on. “Yeah, of course. Sorry for interrupting.”
You nearly sprint down the hallway in your haste to leave. By the time you make it back to the garage you’re almost out of breath, between the stairs and that. Still, there’s one more thing to do.
If the ladder to Tyreek’s window felt like repentance, each step to Rivers’ feels like unadulterated grief. If you hadn’t seemed to excise every tear from your body at this point, you’d be crying, you’re sure, but as is your hands quake as you place the candle down, and it takes three tries to light it. Next to it goes a patch you had picked up last week, meaning to give it to her the next time you saw each other.
It’s going to take time, you know, to readjust to this. To wrap your mind around her not being at the other end of a phone line, to erase the nebulous brunch dates from the calendar in your mind. You’ve done shit like this before, but you didn’t– you never wanted to have to do it again, even if you know you might.
“I’m sorry,” you say, barely a whisper. You lean into the glass to touch her forehead to yours, and let heat rising from the flame sting your cheeks. “That it took this for you to get out in the end. That you never got your break, and for all the times I was a dick.”
Another beat as the flame really starts to sting, and then you back away. It's time.
As you leave the building, you give it one last look. It'll be the last for the foreseeable future, you think.
-
Your flight back to Seattle is rough– you're in and out of restless sleep as the cabin shakes with turbulence, and by the time you land you couldn't be more grateful.
(Not that it stops you from losing your stomach in the airport bathroom, mind you, but that's better than the plane, at least. You'd think it wouldn't happen after all these years but in a time like this… Well.)
That just means you're all the more unprepared for the sight of Zack asleep on your couch as you step into your apartment.
Hank, who stumbles into you where you froze, looks over your shoulder to spot her too, and sneaks past you.
“I’m just…” He tries to whisper, unsuccessfully, “I’m just going to go to my room, actually,” before beelining it down the hall.
Even from here, you can see the bags under Zack’s eyes. She looks about as tired as you feel. But you make your way over, putting your bags down gently before leaning over the edge of the couch. She stirs as you brush her hair out of her face, and you sit down on the arm of the couch, letting her head rest in your lap.
“Hey.”
“Hey. How long have you been waiting?”
She glances over at your stove. “Barely an hour. I…” She takes a deep breath, “You’ve been scaring me, Rue.”
“I didn’t–”
“I get it, I do, it’s just– we promised not to run, right? And I’ve barely heard from you, and what I have heard has been… I’m just worried.”
“And so you’re here?”
She gives you a look. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come the second I was able?”
Siggy has given you both a gift, but even his boons have their limitations. A set of doors between each of your places is more than you could ask for, but missing it has made these past few weeks of away games all the more painful.
“Okay, fair.”
“Now, I'd ask how you're doing but I'm guessing the answer is not very good?”
“Bit of an understatement.”
She straightens up. “Oh, babe…”
You swallow, mouth feeling like static. “Maybe it wouldn't have been as bad if I wasn't in Chicago, but…”
You can see the recognition in her eyes. Zack knows, more than most, what it's like to be stuck in the sentience that's apart of you.
“I'm sorry. She was brilliant.”
“She was.”
Zack sits up fully. “I can't stay past the morning, obviously, but I figured I'd spend the night if you want?”
“Please.” If there's one thing you know, it's that you'll sleep better when she's here. “I'm absolutely fucking beat. Let me shower and we'll pass out?”
“Perfect. Hey,” she grabs your hand, tugging you back, “One step in front of the other, yeah? We'll get through this.”
“She didn't.”
Her mouth tightens. “Doesn't mean you can't.”
There's a million things you could say, but you don't. She's trying her best—you're all trying your best—and that has to be enough.
-
“Let’s go for a walk, Ruthless.”
Ace’s voice snaps you out of your fog. The stands are empty—the crowd has managed to fully disperse during your stupor—and your hands are bloodied, the skin around your nails torn to shreds in your absent fretting.
“Did we win?”
“Does it matter?” He sighs, edging on annoyance when you make no sign to move. “No. We lost eleven to one. Now will you please get up? I have places to be later that aren’t just talking to your sorry ass.”
“You’re just assuming I’m going along with this, you realize?” Though, to his credit, you’re already standing up as you say it. “Fine. Where are we off to?”
“I’ll say it again, does it matter?”
“Apparently not…” You think you should feel affronted, but you don’t have it in you at this point. “Lead the way then, Chambers.”
“Don't call me that.”
“Sure, Simmons.”
He's led you out of the stadium, and you continue on through the Big Garage, letting your feet follow him without purpose. “You're such a little shit, you know that?”
“I certainly try.”
He laughs, gruff and sharp, and then sobers slightly. “I– Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn’t grab you for a reason.”
“I mean, clearly.”
“Again with the sass! Listen, it's just… Well, fuck. I might as well call it as it is. You're drowning out there, kid.”
It's your turn to laugh. “And you care why?”
He has the gall to look affronted. “Rude.”
You shove your hands in your pockets, petulant. “It's a fair question.”
“I don't think it is, actually.” He shakes his head.”We're getting off track.”
“And what track was that? Some kind of misguided intervention?”
“Well, no one else was going to do it.”
“Ace, Rivers died five days ago. I think I'm well within my rights to be fucked up right now.”
He puts up his hand, stilling you, and you realize you've arrived at the half-forgotten remains of the shadow co-op. It's eerie, this underground market that hasn't seen patrons in years, and a foreign chill runs up your spine as a breeze blows through.
Ace grimaces at the dust-covered shutters. “Jesus Christ, this place is a dump.”
“Gives me the creeps.”
(There was life here once, lived by people who will probably never come back– or if they do, it won't be here. There's a life you once lived that's been forgotten too, parts of the firehouse you're sure no one's found. This game does that, tears people apart and apart and apart until all that's left is the scattered pieces, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.)
A silence hangs between you as you both look out at the abandoned storefronts, until finally Ace shakes his head and turns for you to follow.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’ve all been through this before.”
“Are you insinuating it shouldn’t be affecting me this hard?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just–”
“What was the Garden like, when someone got incinerated?”
He blinks at the non sequitur. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you were what, fucking the Moss Woman–”
“I was not fucking her–”
“I mean, I have to assume the Garden would react to one of its own dying, right?”
A pause. “Of course it did. It was– is it’s own living breathing feeling thing, of course it reacted to losing it’s own. When Hurley died– when Cali– it grieved just as much as the rest of us.”
“Okay, so imagine that, but instead of just the Garden, it's the entire city. And not only that, but you lived fifty years with that city in your fucking head, and even though it's not there anymore, even though you're not there anymore, you can still feel it, you know how it reacts. You've seen how it mourns. You can't hear it, but you can still feel the grief. And so maybe you're drowning in it, maybe that's all you can do, because you couldn't save the city when you needed to, and you couldn't save your friend either.”
You force yourself to look at Ace, and his eyes are filled with pity. “Oh, kid…”
“I don't want–” Your voice breaks. “I knew she was dead before they ever announced it, Ace. I could feel it in the walls of the stadium. It's one of the worst things I've ever felt, and that includes watching Josh burn trying to save her.”
He shakes his head. “You firefighters and your damn martyr complexes.”
“That's not–” A sigh. “It's more complicated than that.”
“Is it?”
“Listen, anything you might think about us– them, well… we’ve already thought and talked about it. And everyone has different… It’s just more complicated than that. And Rivers was one of the first people to start that conversation, so like–”
“Look, I’m sorry I asked, then. Clearly this is a touchy subject, no need to go into it to prove an old man wrong–”
“But there is, though! There is a need, because people just don’t get it. They don’t get the responsibility being a Firefighter holds, what it means to– they think we’re throwing ourselves away for nothing but it’s a fucking duty we chose to take, right? We chose to put ourselves in front of fire, on and off the field. It’s not for nothing when it’s part of being something!”
Chambers stretches a hand across his face, looking almost as tired as he actually should. “I'm not going to tell you I know better than your lived experience, but jesus kid, I don't think anything you just said actually helped your argument.”
At this point, your frustration turns into exasperation. “Okay, well who's not listening now–”
He switches abruptly. “Did you know Moses?”
You didn't, but you know people who knew people who loved him. You say as much.
“I don't know how much difference there is between watching a sister and a son burn, kid. Family is family, and death is death.”
“You're really bad at this, you know that?”
“You're just not listening.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to be hearing?”
“You know, there's a reason Moses and I didn't talk much, by the end. I was an old man, even then, and I had driven him out of the nest by my own expectations. But she learned as much as I did that you can't outrun your past; the only difference is that she found a way out.”
“I'm not following.”
“He was supposed to be the next groundskeeper after me– family job, I'm sure Zack's said –and didn't want to. Ran away because I pushed too hard, still ended up there all the same. Sounding a bit familiar?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Like I said: can't outrun your past, Triumphant. It'll always find you in the end. Accept it and move on.”
“I don't know how.”
“Not my problem.”
“Great talk, Ace.”
“You've gotta get your shit together, kid. Sooner rather than later.”
“Noted.” The two of you come to a stop, having reached the front of the stadium once again. “...I fucking hate the west coast.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
-
Two days later, he's gone too.
(A quest sounds innocuous, sure, but Knight went on one and came back worse. You know better than to trust anything in this game, this included, and somehow you don't think that's about to change.)
-
Pedro falls, and it takes you three full days to figure out how to reach him in his stupid fucking mech.
(It's silly, because in the end all you had to do was call him. Whatever works, right?)
First thing he says is: “Ruthless? Where am I?”
It's with deep regret that you have to respond, “...Seattle.”
“Are you here too, or is this just a visit?”
“Not in the ground, but yeah, I'm here too. Certified Seattle Garage at your service, unless you mean the band, which in that case: good fucking luck.”
“You know, I always thought you'd look good sulking behind a bass.”
“Ha ha.”
“What's it like out there?”
“Better, in some ways. Mostly worse.”
“Okay, well now I'm scared to ask further.”
“You missed–'' You swallow, because every time is only going to be harder from here on out, “Rivers got incinerated, ‘bout three weeks back. It hasn't exactly been an easy season.”
“Shit.”
“Sorry you had to find out like this.”
“What, stuck in a mech lodged three feet into the astroturf?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, half of that's my own fault. The other half… well, what are you going to do, really? What else?” He presses.
“I mean, what do you want to know?”
“...Anything, really.”
“Um… Well, they opened the book again, for one.”
“Who got– well, got got?”
“Oh, uh. Anastasia.”
“Fucking hell.”
“And K-Rod isn’t down, so…”
“God.”
“Yeah, it’s not great.”
“Who is down?”
“Oh, uh… let’s see. Ken is in Mexico City, buried like you. Josh is in San Francisco, and Parker is on the Firefighters– both of them, actually. Edric’s in Miami, Justice is in Hawaii, Mullen and Caleb are in LA, Declan and Gabe are in Baltimore, and I’m… here.”
“Never thought I’d see you decked out in flannel.”
“You’re assuming I’ve let them come anywhere near me with it.”
“Maybe whenever I get out of here, we can find some that match, huh?”
“That I could get behind.” Your back is starting to ache from sitting on the ground. You lie back onto the grass, and look up at the sky, moon bright and starless. “Did you ever find her?”
“Val?” A pause, long enough you think that he’s gone for a second. “Yes and no. I’ll leave it at that.”
“I’m sorry?” That’s not enough of an answer to know if you really are.
“It’s fine. Listen, Ruthless, I appreciate the catch-up, and I’m sure we can again soon, but I’m really tired, so…”
You know a dismissal when you hear one, so you pick up your things and go. Maybe you pushed too hard, maybe you didn’t push hard enough, maybe he’s just overwhelmed. Not your place to figure out, not these days.
After all, there’s a game to play, isn’t there?
-
Something to reflect on, perhaps; Baltimore feels different these days.
(It’s not a bad thing. Baltimore, for a long time, meant bitter nostalgia, reminiscing about glory days and ignoring the absent spaces left behind. For an even longer time, it meant regret; drunken moments and words you spit that you never meant. Now, it just means Declan and Gabe, and that’s a lot easier to handle, these days.)
She meets you at the stadium, and you eye the new pearl around her neck but don’t say anything. Instead, she sees your bloodshot eyes and says: “You didn't answer my texts.”
“You didn’t answer mine either. Have any idea what Edric wants to talk to us about?”
“No clue, he didn't answer my texts.”
“Okay, so clearly none of us are that good at this…”
Edric had texted two days before, saying he had something to show the both of you and saying you should call when you arrived. You didn’t question it, in the way you're not questioning most things these days; agreeing because it's simply easiest.
Declan snaps you out of your thoughts. “Come on, I know somewhere quiet we can go.”
You let her lead the way, barely noticing your surroundings as you try and take in how she's doing. It's a cane day, and her breaths are more laboured than usual– you know from decades of sharing an apartment that it's a sign that stress and grief are taking its toll.
“I know you're helping with the pearls and stuff right now, you're not taking on too much, right?”
She turns back, shooting you a look. “Don't condescend, Ruthless. It doesn't suit you.”
You hurry to catch up with her. “I'm not allowed to worry?”
“I'm not the one who had a complete mental breakdown two weeks ago.” She stops. “Apparently.”
“Not fair.”
“I know my limits, Ruth. I question if you know yours, most days.”
There are times where despite everything, Edric and Declan can make you feel like you've been left behind; like you looked away for just a second, and they grew up without you just before your eyes. This is one of those times.
(You spent so long with your head and feet buried in the sand. Now you’re playing catch-up because you have to– there’s not exactly much of a choice when you’re alone in a new city, is there?)
The two of you walk in silence for a moment, until Declan pipes up again. “So what exactly happened, huh? Nerd just said you kinda freaked the fuck out when Rivers–”
“Do you remember when Josh died, Dec?”
You think it would be hard for any of you to forget how the rafters shook when that happened, and you’re proven right.
Declan responds quietly, “Yeah, of course I do.”
“It was like that but worse, so much worse because I was the only one that knew what it meant, and I couldn’t hear the dispatch but I could hear her, and just– I just knew. I knew and no one else around me did and I just had this ungodly need to run and it might have been the worst thing I’ve ever felt.”
She’s silent for a second, almost meditative. “You know, I felt it too, I think. Obviously not in the same way, but– something felt wrong. Even cities away, something felt wrong.”
“Yeah.” You swallow. “I mean, of course the fucking thing is, if it’s not us it’s someone else mourning another person they loved with all their heart and it’s just– we knew what would happen, and they chose to do it again, and I don’t know if there was a better choice to make, you know?”
“I don’t know, we could have gone without the Firefighters…” It’s a bitter joke, steeped in years of ire and regret. “...And we’re here.”
She pulls you into an empty office, lonely walls lined with chitin, and plops down on the couch perpendicular to the door. You slide in next to, just in time for her phone to start ringing.
Edric doesn’t even bother saying hello. “Put me on video!”
Declan fumbles with the phone but eventually gets it going, leaning it up on its side on the coffee table so he can see you both. Edric himself is at a ten, frantic and flustered, fiddling with some sort of notebook as he starts:
“So, I had an idea.”
You and Declan share a bemused look.
“Oh?”
“Okay, so obviously this will have to wait until the end of the season, but I’ve been sketching and–” He turns the notebook around to reveal a sketch of a rosebush. “I was thinking… What if we got a matching tattoo, you know? Just… we all had different relationships with Rivers, sure, but they were all important and all mattered and I don’t know… I just want to honour her, and I want to do it with you guys.”
“I–” Declan chokes, and when you glance at her, there’s tears in her eyes. You slip your hand into hers, and she squeezes back.
“It’s beautiful, Eds.” You lean in to get a closer look, and notice the thorns twisting into something, “Is that–”
“Her jersey number? Yeah. Actually, I–” He flips the page over to a nearly identical sketch, “I did one with Staj’s number too, if either of you want. I won’t, but I thought you might… I don’t know. I thought it could be nice?”
“It’s perfect, Edric. Genuinely. I–” Declan swallows wetly, fully crying now. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”
“Sorry I didn’t answer your text, I just got the idea and I couldn’t focus on anything else until it was done, I was even sketching in the dugout.”
You laugh. “I was just saying to Declan before this that none of us are that great at staying on top of things right now.
“So, what do you think? Do we do it?”
“Yes!”
“Obviously yes.”
Edric grins. “Okay, I’m glad. It’s almost game time here so I’ll let y’all go but– love you both, okay?”
“Love you, Eds.”
“Love you.”
He hangs up, and you turn to look at Declan, who’s tears have quieted down but face is still wet. If the sting on your cheeks is anything to go by, you’re probably matching. It’s time to just take in this moment, and let yourself feel it, so you do.
-
The season only keeps getting tougher.
Yesterday, two people were incinerated in Houston. You spent most of last night calling with Declan and Edric and texting with Zack as she did the same with Esme, because that's all you can do these days.
(It's so much worse now, all of you scattered across the globe. Not that it used to be easy, but when José died, the three of you got drunk on the roof of the firehouse. Not exactly an option anymore.)
That's all to say, you're certainly not prepared when you find Timmy sobbing in the green room, Deion keeping watch with eagle eyes.
You stumble back, thoroughly unready to deal with this. Unfortunately, you happen to stumble directly back into Brisket—seemingly manifesting out of nowhere behind you—and that draws everyone’s eyes to you.
“I’m sorry, I’m just gonna–” Brisket slips past you carrying tissues, and you take it as your opportunity to bolt out the door before Timmy starts crying even harder.
You’re nearly halfway down the hall when Deion calls out.
“Ruthless, wait!”
Ve’s still by the door, and you don't move towards vim. Two years in, you can count the conversations you’ve had one hand and it’s just–
(You know the rumors as well as anyone else– parents in high places who wanted to see their child shine. Their child just wanted to play Blaseball. It worked out in the end, you guess.)
Seeing you make no indication to move, ve jogs over to you. “Listen, I know you don’t like Timmy–”
You wince, “You know, I thought I was being subtler than that.”
Vir lips quirk, a half-there smile peeking out. “I know she’s not everyone’s cup of tea. It’s just… Well, you saw what happened yesterday.”
It takes you a second to piece it together, but then you remember that both Timmy and Rameriz Winters started on the Mills, and given that one of them died yesterday, everything slots into place.
“...Shit.”
“Yeah. So just like… don’t be a dick right now, okay?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“I don’t think you often are, no offense.”
“Offense very much taken, actually.”
“Not helpful.”
“Sorry, cap,” you say, popping the p. You're still not quite sure how Deion ended up captain, but they're clueless enough at the administrative stuff that you and Hank have been picking up the slack. This season, mostly Hank. Still, ve’s trying, so you'll give them that. “Seriously though, I wouldn't be an ass, not about something like this.”
Ve nods, moving to turn back, but stops virself just before ve does. “Does it ever get easier? All of this, I mean.”
(For just a second, you feel all your many years, and ve looks all of twenty-five. You've been doing this far too long.)
“Not really. You don't get used to it, either. You just get through it.”
“How?”
“You have no choice. We have no choice. You're a part of this game now, and the only way through is to accept that there is no way out.”
“Fuck, that's depressing.”
“It's true, and for what it's worth? There's good parts too.” You cough. “Give Timmy my condolences, Deion. I'll give him a wide berth.”
You don't wait for a response, and Deion doesn't give one. Like most other things this season, it is what it is.
-
“So, that’s it, then?”
This afternoon, the Seattle Garages played their last game of the season. Now, you and Hank are packing up your apartment, getting ready to head to opposite ends of the east coast.
“Perishables are out of the kitchen.” You stand up from where you were kneeling at the fridge, knees creaking. “Looking forward to Miami?”
“Looking forward to getting out of the city, more like.”
“Fair enough.” You watch as he reaches up to grab some things from the top of the bookshelf– you’re not giving up this place, but you’re not planning on coming back any time soon, either. “Hey, listen…”
“Oh no, not that tone…”
You can’t help but feel affronted. “What tone?”
“You know…” He gestures broadly, “The one that says you’re about to either come out swinging or think you’ve fucked something up.”
“Jesus Christ, we’ve really been spending too much time together, huh.”
“I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.” He finishes dumping the last of his stuff into his suitcase, sitting it up before looking at you. “So, what’s up? I’ve only got a couple minutes before I have to leave for my flight.”
Your hands are wringing, and you take a deep breath. “Just… wanted to say thanks, you know? Don’t think I would have gotten through this season without you.”
He shrugs. “I know you would have done the same.” You’re not as sure as him, but in this moment, you swear you will be. “Besides, it’s just what we do, right?”
“That’s one way to look at it, yeah.”
There’s a knock at the door. Hank is closer, so he goes to open it.
“Sorry, I just wanted to talk to Ruthless…” You hear Jo’s voice bleed in behind him.
(Most of the time, the two of them are awkward at best. Things are getting better, though, slowly but surely.)
“Oh yeah, come in! I need to head to the airport actually, just let me grab my bag…” He reaches for his suitcase and then throws you a wave. “Okay man, I’m off! I’ll text you when I land.”
You wave him off. “Safe flight, dude.”
Jo watches him go and then turns to you, looking just as nervous as you were five minutes ago. You guide hir over to the kitchen table and gesture for hir to sit.
“What’s up, Jo? Not that I mind the visit, but I wasn’t expecting you.” You hold up a hand as ze moves to apologize. “Not a problem, just like I said, unexpected.”
“Okay, it’s just…” You watch as ze picks at hir cuticles. “What’s it like, seeing another player? How do you deal with… everything?”
You raise a brow. “I mean, well… Okay, when you’ve been here as long as I have, it’s kinda your only choice? I mean, other people do—especially if they were dating before they joined—but I never could. At this point, that would mean dating someone far younger than me, or someone who doesn’t… I’ve been a part of this world so damn long, I need someone who knows it too?”
“And?”
“And it’s hard, and I’ve seen this game tear people apart again and again. I’m not going to say I haven’t. But that would happen regardless, and if you– if you have a connection with someone, you should just go for it, I think. Can I ask, or…”
“Oh,” ze blushes, “Um, I’ve just been talking to Mags a lot, on the Fridays? And I know about you and Zack, and there’s no one else on the team I would talk to, you know, it’s just– I wanted some reassurance, I think.”
“Fair enough. Did I help?”
Ze nods. “I think so.”
“Glad to help, then.”
“One last thing…”
“What’s up?”
“Is it worth it?”
You smile. “Almost always.”
“I’ll take it, then.”
-
You don’t know if you’re going to make it in before Zack leaves for her first playoff, and there's a certain sort of trepidation in your stomach as you reach the door that stands between you and the rest of your life.
(Theo always called you dramatic as a kid. You can see it a lot clearer now as an adult looking into the way he must have seen you; a scared, lonely child who would only be heard when they were loud enough, and you never were. So perhaps dramatic comes with the territory.)
Hand against the door, you're just about to turn the knob when it swings out, and you almost fall right into Zack's arms. For a second it's picturesque; a cinematic moment frozen in time as she steadies your elbows and you look into each other's eyes for the first time in far too many weeks.
(You never said you were the only dramatic one, did you?)
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
She pulls you into a kiss that tastes like soot and relief, cupping her hands ‘round the sides of your face. It lasts just long enough for you to get out of breath, and when she pulls away she doesn’t fully, just enough to rest her forehead against yours.
“We got through it,” she says, grin slowly growing.
“We did.” You lean in for one more kiss and then straighten up, preparing yourself to ask the question you’ve been holding onto all season. “So, Sanders? What’s the verdict?”
Here’s the thing: the season isn’t over. She could very well say no, or something—anything—could happen. The Flowers could take it all, or spin out in the first round, and Zack could easily change her mind.
She doesn’t, though.
One hand on your shoulder, the other around your hip. “Welcome home, baby.”
It’s all you could ask for, really.