Work Text:
The Vault does not like when Mike visits. He doesn’t care. He’s spent a lot of time being unwanted.
He imagines it must be a terrible thing to be alive but unable to move. Unable to operate on your own, relying on others to serve you. He wonders if he is like a mosquito on its back, creeping and crawling his way through the halls, leaving it with a nasty itch. He hopes he’s a knife being forced deeper in, drawing blood. For just a second, he feels pity for the Vault. He supposes it’s just as trapped as the rest of them, stuck in this game.
The sense of sympathy leaves as quickly as it comes. He is too tired to keep trying to find the best in things.
He knows the Vault can tell he’s there. He can't stop the feeling of being watched and it prys into him like it wants to pull him apart. To log every moment of his life in perfect, detached detail and add it to the rows and rows of scrolls holding records in the Vault.
He hates being Observed, the way people look at him like they know him now. The scrutiny in their eyes, the judgement. After spending so much time in the shadows, he’s used to being ignored, to people’s eyes rolling right off of him, looking through him. This is new; this is worse.
The eyes of the other vaulted players bore into him as he turns down a side hall, away from the center where Parker MacMillan used to be held along with the other more powerful and valuable players. He keeps going. He doesn’t look at anyone’s face as he moves past them. He’s not the hero. That’s not his job.
He used to dream about that sort of thing; being the star player pitching a shutout as the fans cheer, the martyr heroically bringing Jaylen back at the cost of his own life, the victor standing triumphant with the blood of the Gods drenching his sneakers.
He knows now he’s not any of those things. He doesn’t want to be any of those things. All he wants right now is Tillman back.
Mike never knows what state he’s going to find Tillman in when he goes to the Vault. He’s not sure which is worse: when he’s completely still, a glittering statue, unresponsive to Mike’s touch and words, or when he’s completely shiny and bright, his head empty and so filled with the Vault’s programming that he can’t even recognize him. Sometimes he’s almost there, fading in and out, his movements heavy as he clings to Mike in desperation, as he begs him to stay, his words coming out slow and sticky like honey. Rarely, he’s his, the way he was before.
It's always worse near Preservation time, like the Vault knows it’s when its influence should be weakest so, instead, it sinks its claws in more.
Tillman’s there in his room, turned away from the entrance, but Mike can see enough of his face to tell that he’s smiling, bright and empty with nothing behind it. He’s playing some sort of video game and Mike can tell from the way that his fingers are moving over the controller that he’s not really playing, just hitting random buttons. The screen still seems to be reacting though, displaying a winning score and perfectly executed gameplay.
For a moment Mike wishes Tillman was stone still instead, so he wouldn’t have to talk to him. He’s scared, so scared. Scared this’ll be the last time he gets to see him. Scared that Tillman will observe him and finally see him, see who he really is. That he’ll flinch away from him. That he’ll only be able to look at him in pity. That he’ll be what he’s always been, a disappointment.
It's why he put off visiting until the last moment. He knows he won’t have forever though and this might be his last chance to see him before he- he’s not going to think about that.
He wishes he came sooner so he could have spent more time with him. He wishes Tillman wasn't awake so he wouldn't have to see him, all of him, like this. He wishes he had said goodbye the first time he was shadowed. He wishes he had been watching when he was incinerated. He wishes he hadn't been watching when the Legends took him. He wishes he wouldn’t have to say goodbye at all. He wishes he hadn’t met him at all.
He wishes his brain would stop thinking for two seconds.
He taps on the doorframe of the room.
“Uh, hey, Tilly.”
No response.
He clears his throat and tries again.
“Hello, Tillman.”
Tillman doesn’t turn his head when he responds, his voice humming, faintly metallic. “I have no visitors scheduled today.”
“I’m not on the schedule.”
“Then you shouldn’t be here,” he says and Mike can practically hear him turning up his nose. “I’m a legend. I don’t see people without them making an appointment.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Right, of course, but, uh, the Vault sent me specially here, because you’re very special?”
Tillman cocks his head at this. “Okay then. Come in.”
He makes his way into the small, cube shaped room that Tillman now lives in and stands next to him.
Tillman doesn’t look away from the screen as he approaches and snaps his fingers. “So what are you here for?”
“You.”
“Uh, not interested. Why’d the Vault send me a weirdo like you anyway?”
“Stop playing that game and I’ll tell you.”
“No, L-O-L. I don’t have to do anything some nobody tells me to.”
Mike bites his tongue and the urge to smack Tillman on the back of his head.
“For fucks sake, just look at me. I promise I’ll leave after that.”
“See that’s a weird thing to say, but okay, if it’ll make you go-” Tillman turns and stands up to look at him.
Mike watches as the blankness fades out of his face and recognition sets in. Tillman doesn’t look away, and Mike wants to turn his face away but he doesn’t. He lets him Observe him.
Tillman looks at him. Like he’s looking at him for the first time ever. Like this is the last time he’ll get to see him and he has to drink it all in, memorize every piece of him. Like he looked at him when they would sneak away after games. Like he does when he’s onstage, everything blurred by the lights and sound. Like he looks at him in the morning when he’s half awake, the light barely shining in from the window, as he runs his hand over Mike’s face, his fingers sinking into his shadowed form.
He looks at Mike and sees him, like he always has.
Tillman grins.
“Hey nerd.”
Mike bursts into tears.
“Hey jerk.”
Mike feels a wave of relief crash through him and he nearly collapses onto Tillman as his legs begin to wobble from the adrenaline leaving his body. Tillman catches him and kisses him holding Mike’s face in his hands before burying his face into Mike’s chest. His lips taste metallic and he is warm to the touch and when Mike’s tears hit the metallic scars on his body they evaporate off. The warmth is different from the flickering campfire warmth of his burning heart when he was dead. Now it’s even, steady, radiating off of him.
“Still want me to leave?” Mike jokes.
“No way dude. You aren’t going anywhere,” Tillman responds, gripping him a little bit tighter.
“I missed you.”
“I,” Tillman pauses for just half a second too long, “missed you too.”
The silence hangs over them, the unspoken meaning behind the pause. You can’t miss someone you can’t remember.
“It’s okay,” Mike says, trying to sound firm, trying to sound like he believes it. He doesn’t know what else to say.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Tillman scoffs.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
They stay like that in silence for a bit with Tillman still holding him. It’s honestly a little bit of an awkward position but Tillman doesn’t seem to want to move so Mike’s not going to make him.
“It’s not your fault,” he says finally. This time he does believe it.
Tillman doesn’t say anything, just buries his face into Mike’s chest a little more.
“Tilly…”
“I’m sorry,” he says, as if he's trying to say it as fast as he possibly can.
Mike sighs. “You don’t have to be.”
“I’m not trying hard enough, I think,” Tillman says, his voice small but firm.
“What?”
“I mean, what if that’s why I keep forgetting, because ‘m not trying hard enough.”
“Tilly it’s not-”
“How many times?” he asks.
“What?”
“How many times have you come here and I didn’t even know? Couldn’t even recognize your voice?” he asks again.
“Tillman, please don’t do this. It doesn’t matter, it’s not your fault.”
Tillman pulls his face up to look up at him and his cheeks are stained with gold streaks. Mike cups his face in his hands and tries to wipe the gold on his face off, but the marks stubbornly remain.
Tillman presses the side of his face into Mike’s hand.“Why would you come back?”
Mike laughs and rolls his eyes, “Why do you think?”
This seems to catch Tillman off guard and he blinks rapidly at Mike before his expression changes to that of a little lopsided grin, “Because you looooooooove me, haha.”
“Yeah, yeah, I do” he says and he leans down and kisses him again.
“I worry I may have been a bad influence on you though,” Mike says when they finally pull apart.
“How's that?”
“Blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault. You definitely got that from me.”
Now it’s Tillman’s turn to roll his eyes at him as he takes his hand and guides him over to the cube shaped couch in his room.
They settle in on the couch, Tillman resting his head in Mike’s lap as he looks up at him, still drinking him in as he stares. Mike runs a hand through Tillman’s hair, tracing it down to his shoulders where he lets his fingers trace over his gilded scars.
“Does it hurt?”
He doesn’t mean to ask it, it just sort of tumbles out of his mouth. It’s something he’s wanted to know for a while, even though he knows there’s no answer to his question that he wants to hear.
Tillman shakes his head “No, not even when it burns. Even when it should. It's only ever soft and fuzzy,” he gives him a too wide grin, the kind he does when he’s trying to play something off. “It sucks dude, I am soooo bored. Loots is, like, totally ableist for locking my ADHD ass in here,” he says as he stretches out for emphasis.
Mike gives him a fond eye roll. “Yeah that's the real problem here,” he pauses, “I’m glad you’re safe, at least?”
“Am I?”
They both know the answer is no, that none of them are safe, not for as long as blaseball continues.
Mike feels a pang of guilt for the fact that part of him is glad Tillman is here, “Still. I’m just, I mean, I hope at least you being here...”.
“Yeah?” Tillman prompts him.
“I hope it means I can find my way back to you. After the redaction happens.”
“You don’t know it’s going to happen.” Tillman protests and part of Mike wants to lie and agree and say that there’s no point in giving up hope but Tillman is right; he is a terrible liar.
“Precogs.”
“Man, fuck precogs.”
“It’s not like they’re the ones making the future, Tillman.”
Tillman sticks out his tongue. “Fuck them anyway. You should be fine though right? I mean other players came back and they were mostly all okay, right?”
“Mostly. Ollie got hit with a pitch too so maybe we’ll be able to bust out of wherever together before anything bad happens.”
“Oh good to know.”
“What’s good to know?”
“That if anything bad happens to you I should go and kick his ass for letting it happen.”
“It’s not like he can stop anything bad from happening!”
“I don’t care!” Tillman says, dramatically bunching up his fist, “Tell him I have threatened him with violence anyway.”
“Okay, okay fine!”
“Hey,” Tillman takes his hand in his and squeezes it “I’m glad I got to see you before you went away this time.”
“Me too.”
“What do you think happens, with the redaction?”
“I mean, no one knows what really happens when you’re redacted because no one can remember what happened to them. Chorby Short said something like, ‘It’s soup.’ I don’t know what that means. What if I come back wrong and, uh. What if I come back as soup. Would you still love me if I was soup?”
“Are you like a little funny soup slime guy? Can you still talk to me?”
“No,” Mike says mournfully, “I’m just soup. I can’t even talk.”
“No bowl?”
He shakes his head sadly. “No, just soup.”
“Like in a puddle on the ground? They didn’t even put you in a can or anything?”
“Yeah...”
“What kind of soup are you, Mikey?”
“I dunno, uh, you can choose. What kind of soup do you think I am?”
Tillman scrunches up his face like he’s thinking extremely hard “Hm. I think you would be cereal.”
“Cereal?”
“Cereal. Probably Chleerios.”
Mike bites his lip and considers if he wants to take Tillman’s bait and argue with him about if cereal is a soup or not. He decides it's fine if cereal is a soup. It’s not like anything else fucking matters.
“Okay, would you still love me if I was a puddle of cereal on the ground?”
“I would scoop you up into a thermos and take you on daily walks so you could see new things in your little container.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, but,” he pauses,“would you just be doing that because you feel obligated to or?”
“No, I would do it because you’re my little soup guy and I love you, you idiot.”
“I love you too.”
“Even if I come back wrong?”
Tillman purses his lips in thought, “Might be kinda hot, not gonna lie. I mean the shadows had some benefits for you.”
“Eugh, gods, what's wrong with you?” Mike says, pushing his face away with his palm as Tillman laughs.
“Aren’t you the guy who loves hanging out with fucked up undead pitchers?”
“Yeah, yeah whatever,” he says grinning back at him.
They sit in silence for a bit more before Tillman breaks it.
“Do you think it’ll let me remember this time?” He asks and his voice sounds small again.
“Hmm?”
“The Vault. Do you think it will let me remember you this time?”
“It hasn’t before.”
“Yeah but. If you’re going to get redacted then. Maybe it doesn’t need to like,” he makes a motion over his face, “wipe me.”
There’s a desperate look in Tillman’s eyes, like he knows what he’s saying is completely ridiculous but he can’t stop himself.
“Or-or-or maybe the Vault and the redaction will cancel each other out. Like magnets or something.”
“Maybe…”
“Or maybe the Forgers will just fuck up this time.”
“Preservation is soon isn’t it?”
“Yeah, they gotta stick me in the fire and hammer me out again.”
“I’ll stay until they come, okay?”
“Don’t you have a game?”
“Or until I have a game.”
“Thank you,” Tillman says, squeezing his hand again, “You want to watch something or play some Vault exclusive video games and pretend the world doesn’t suck for a bit? I got some beers in the fridge, I think.”
“Yeah that sounds good,” he says with a smile.
“Pog.”
Tillman scampers off to go grab something for them and Mike closes his eyes and lets himself pretend for a moment that they’re back in his shitty apartment and that everything is fine.
+++
Hours later, Tillman wakes up in the Vault, right where he belongs. Everything anyone could ever need is here. He is shiny and flawless and glowing. A legend. There is a warmth in his chest and for a moment he worries he’s woken up too soon, that the metal hasn’t cooled yet. No, no the Forgers always do a perfect job, they wouldn’t leave him in such a state. Is it the warmth from knowing that he was chosen? That he is special. Sought out and preserved for the Gods to serve them? That sounds right, but it feels wrong.
There’s something else, he’s sure of it, but the thoughts drip out of his head like molten gold before he can make sense of them.
He closes his eyes, as if that will make it easier to recall the missing information. The darkness is so soft, like the shadows are wrapping around him to keep him safe. The fog in his brain feels different than before, more like static and less like a shimmering heat. Did the Forgers do that to him? It’s new, he’s sure of that, but something about it feels familiar. It feels good. It feels right. He thinks he’ll just keep his eyes closed until he can remember what it is that he’s missing.