Chapter Text
“Just like this, see Wyatt? If you tense up before the impact, your muscles resist the force.” Annie explained, his stomach tensing whenever one of Glover’s spectral hands thumped into it through his thin tank top. “Only, a ball will usually be hitting much harder.”
Glover could still remember thinking Annie would've been taller. She was supposed to be this great legend on the team by now, but in the afternoon sun, she looked almost human. Their pale skin contrasted the patches of brown fuzz at their chest and forearms.
Glover pulled their hands back, gesturing with them in their best approximation of sign language. “Well, I’m made of sand, but it’s the thought that counts right?” They signed, raising one eyebrow, and shrugging with their pinky and index finger.
“I would offer to make you armor, but I don’t believe you would prefer a gauntlet over your normal glove.” Annie continued, unabashed by the hole poked in their logic. “And it wouldn’t be ready in time for the next season, which I think will be your most tumultuous.”
Two fingers rubbed the knuckle of Glover’s thumb. “I think I would like armor, or perhaps some kind of magical ward? I don’t know if you do those.” Their eyes scanned the tree line idly, looking for any elk or other wildlife. During the (brief) offseason, they tended to explore a bit more, though few animals spent too much time near the geyser fields.
“I’m going to throw this ball at you.”
Glover looked where Annie had been, startled to realize she had strolled about 20 feet away. Glover had just enough time to sign, “Hold on!” as Annie wound up before the ball whizzed through the air at them. Annie was no great shakes as a pitcher, having pretty much one pitch they knew how to do with any consistency. Unfortunately for Glover, that pitch was a solidly 95 mph fastball.
It slammed hard against their solid palm, their eyes squeezed shut in a flinch (no, not that kind of flinch) that had defined their batting career for the last three seasons no matter how many drills Alf put them through.
Wyatt drifted down to pick up the ball with two fingers, a third rubbing the spot where it had impacted idly. Annie came back, arms folded.
“Glover, don’t make me say it.” He sighed.
“If I’d closed my hand, it would’ve been a ground out.” Glover held up a finger, doing their best to remain optimistic. It was pretty clear what her point was, but Glover was better at playing dumb than they seemed.
“I-“ Annie sighed, one hand starting towards Glover’s first knuckle, then faltering. Instead, their hand found a flap on their cargo shorts to button and unbutton a few times. “Wyatt- Neither of us is particularly fast. I am heavy and you simply do not ambulate at speed. We will have better… coverage if we coordinate.”
Glover raised a mage hand, trying to think of what to say. Annie waited.
Glover knew what being a fire-eater meant, or at least implied. The election had been a week ago, and Glover could still remember the strange feeling of stitching threading itself into their glove, heavy and raised, glowing a dull orange with power. Protection. Duty. Like a lot of things in their life, it wasn’t something they had asked for. Heck, to some extent, they still felt like a stranger on the team. Then again, Annie was only a few weeks their senior in that regard.
Slowly, they gestured their reply: “I will try. It does not come easily to me, so please be patient.”
Annie nodded, holding out a hand for the ball.
-
They practiced like that back and forth for about two hours, progressing from just hitting and tossing back and forth to running body-blocks. It was difficult to gauge where Glover’s shots were going, from the way they angled their thumb and forefinger to flick instead of throwing properly. It gave Annie plenty of practice diving in a given direction, that was for sure. They didn’t have dummies or anything, so it was a point if either of them let a tree or one of the more polite geysers take a hit for them. Not that either was particularly inclined to keep score in this kind of scrimmage.
The sun was a dull orange glow between the mountains by the time they stopped, and Annie shrugged back into an olive NPS issue jacket just in time for the thunderheads in brazen relief overhead to rumble threateningly. Anne’s back and wings were cramped, and a speckling of bruises was starting to emerge across their shoulders and chest under the jacket as Glover helped them pack their gear into the back of the Jeep.
Annie whispered an apology to it as she hopped inside, muddy shoes and all, while Glover politely pulled their seatbelt into place.
The drive back to Sutton’s place began in silence – not an uncomfortable one, by Annie’s estimation, but contemplative, perhaps. Annie had been a protector since he’d been summoned, armor glistening and the sword at his hip an implicit threat; by comparison, Glover was simply too gentle, too quiet. She suspected Glover didn’t like the attention, between that and Credit to the Team the most recent election seemed to have thrust them into an uncomfortable spotlight.
Fortunately, it didn’t end in silence. They stopped to allow a bison to cross the street, and Glover tapped their shoulder.
“Can we turn on the radio?” They pointed.
“I don’t see why not. You’re on dial duty, though.”
The radio in an (amicably) haunted 1996 Jeep Wrangler is not known to be a cooperative thing, but Annie had begun to suspect that it had a soft spot for Wyatt. Perhaps they helped with the tuning, or whatever affinity Wyatts formerly-Mason (and Masons formerly-Wyatt) had for audio technology. Annie turned on the (thankfully, relatively new) radio and accelerated now that the wildlife had passed.
“With the forecast set to blooddrain, eclipses, and birds, it’s looking to be an especially uncomfortable season for players this year. What’s more, journalists still haven’t been able to locate the Shelled One’s-“ Annie was about halfway through the motion of thumping dashboard when the radio switched from AM to FM, a spectral finger tapping at the display politely.
“I swear, I’ve been driving this car for two years and it still likes you more.”
As if to contradict her, the headlights flicked on by themselves in the gathering twilight, illuminating the light mist of rain that had begun to fall. Now on the highway (helpfully quiet this time of year, lining up nicely with the offseason for once), Annie felt more comfortable taking his eyes off the road periodically to hold a conversation. with his oversized glove companion.
This was convenient because Wyatt opened like they’d been waiting for an opening. “Are you scared?”
“What, you mean in general?” They chuckled, then grimaced at the radio, which had helpfully switched to a recent Garages release, the controversial track Hotdogs and Beans. At the threat of another bang on the dashboard from an instability-scarred arm, it hopped instead to a Jazz Hands song Annie didn’t recognize. “I’m confident in my ability to handle most things. For now, the nut isn’t our problem, outside of the whole allergy situation. Mic seems to have a plan.”
Glover nodded their fingers, looking out the window. “I don’t really understand the Mic. I think they’re a good person. Or thing. But it’s strange considering how I was caught in the splash zone of their inception. I hope the plan works anyway.”
“It’ll be alright, Glover. It’s not really our- whoop, damn, that’s the turn off.”
By now the rain was getting heavier, and conversation turned to more pedestrian matters as they drove the surface streets.
-
Radio still blasting, they pulled up to Sutton’s cabin in the now-torrential rain; the beat-up vehicle was even periodically pelted with a brief salvo of graupel as they rolled to a stop.
Annie let the engine idle, turning to look at Glover properly as they undid their seatbelt and smirking. “I’m a little stiff, but I can do umbrella duty if you don’t feel like getting soaked. I probably dry easier than you.”
“That’s fine, Annie. I need to wash this glove anyway.”
“Your loss.”
The drive back to her place was quieter, and involved a lot more grumbling, attempted stretching, quiet swearing, and uncooperative AM radio switching. When you’re a ghost, he supposed, whatever dial is easiest to play with is the one you’re going to vent your emotions with. Perhaps they should get a radio scanner and try and have a conversation. Then again, that would require a lot of fiddling and also be really annoying to listen to, so maybe not.
Annie pulled into his garage with little fanfare, sighing and deciding to leave the gear in the back of the jeep for the night and go make food instead. They did not expect, upon stepping into their kitchen, to hear the soft hiss of an opening canned beverage, nor did they expect the soft, slightly smug, and ever so gently creaking elderly man’s voice that greeted them as they shucked their jacket.
“Roland, we have a plan to propose to you. You will be required to swear yourself to secrecy should you be involved.”
Least of all did she expect the second voice to join the first, younger and with an indeterminate European accent: “As I’m sure you know, this season’s election ballot will become public in a few days. We have it early. Democracy waits for no-one. Under normal circumstances, anyway. These are extraordinary times.”