Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Season 2 Day 24

Justice Spoon wakes up and it’s a normal day. She wakes up and she helps Butt make breakfast in the kitchen and she goes and does her normal pre-game day training with Tyreek and even though the solar eclipse in the sky feels a little ominous, it must be fine, so it’s still just a normal day. She’s in the dugout for the first half of the game, but has to sub in at the top of the 5th inning when Edric manages to sprain his ankle. It’s not the first time one of them has had to do this though, so it’s really just another day.

Bottom of 7, the Ump looks a little… off. The air around them keeps shifting, almost like she’s seeing them through a fire. They turn to look at her, bright red eyes flaring and locking into hers, and lift their arm. Her mind flashes back to the story Atlas had heard from her sister about the game they played against the Fridays last week, about Fitzgerald Massey being hit by a ball and going up in smoke, and she knows what’s about to happen. Tyreek clearly does too, because he’s already sprinting over to cover her, but she knows what it means to hear the call, can feel it running through her veins, so when he reaches her, she tugs his arm and pulls him behind her. She’s facing him as the ball hits her between her shoulder blades and it’s white hot as everything goes bright and-

Justice Spoon wakes up and it’s a normal day.

-----

It must have been a dream, she thinks, a truly awful dream. So she gets up, ignores the twinge of pain in her back, and keeps going. The sense of deja-vu is overwhelming, like she’s seeing double, but it was just a dream. So she heads to the kitchen and helps Butt, but this time sticks behind as everyone leaves and gives Atlas a hand drying the dishes.

“Hey, so I overheard you talking to your sister last week about that Fridays game.”

Atlas side-eyes her for a second before turning back to the sink. “Yeah, I was. Why do you bring it up?”

Justice tries to play it cool, giving a little shrug. “I don’t know, the weather got me thinking. Wasn’t that one during a solar eclipse?”

“Oh. Yeah, I think it was. Eizabeth said it was nuts.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was saying how the Ump’s eyes went bright red and the next thing they knew, Massey was just gone. No trace at all, except for some ash floating in the air. Everyone was screaming. I mean, we all heard about what happened to Jaylen, but something like that happening in the middle of a game? It’s so brutal. I signed up to play blaseball, not to die.”

A shiver runs down Justice’s spine. Atlas is pretty much describing exactly what happened last night, and even though it has to have been a dream, it all seems so real. Anxiety stabs in the pit of her stomach, because it can’t- it can’t have been real. And she knows that even if it was somehow, she would take that hit a thousand times before letting it ever hit Tyreek.

Chapter Text

“It’s the Tyreek he met as a fresh faced 19 year old, standing tall over a fire with a vicious smile and flames glinting in all six of their eyes, their halo a bright, burning red.

...Tyreek was the epitome of everything he wanted to be. Confident, so sure of themself and who they were, and an unparalleled ability to take control of a situation. They extended their hand over a fire and Edric was so convinced his life was about to change for the better.”

It’s dark outside.

Too dark for his liking. Even with all six of his eyes, the stars barely illuminate the field below him. It’s too quiet too, the distant sound of crickets and the quiet static hum aren’t enough to fill his ears, instead leaving space for things he can’t quite discern; a bit of wind rustling through the trees, the faraway groans of cars on the highway.

He takes a sharp inhale on his cigarette, letting the smoke fill and coat his lungs like a comfort blanket, and with his right hand takes the bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket and starts to drench the large pile of wood in front of him. After, he takes a few minutes to admire it, the way the stars glisten in the fluid dripping from the logs, how beautifully it’s all built up.

With a grin on his face, Tyreek Olive lights a match.

------

He sees the crowd Chicago has gathered for him and immediately turns back around, sending a glare to the sky and whispering under his breath.

“Really, this is what you have for me to work with?”

The response is immediate, hot in his ear.

“You’re questioning me on this, Tyreek? Really? I thought you’d learned better than that, my child.”

“They’re going to be useless!”

“Now, now...” She drawls. “I would hope you’d at least trust my vision, wouldn’t you? Or is someone getting too high on their britches all of a sudden? Remember your place, child.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He takes a deep sigh before turning back around with a tight smile plastered on his face.

“Hello!” He knows how he looks right now, standing atop a mountain of wood. Regal, taller

He looks out all of them.

“Now, we are here to do two things: set some fires, and play some motherfucking BLASEBALL!”

Chapter Text

i.

You meet her, in all the clicheness of it, in a coffee shop. Your hands brush as you each reach for your drinks, and it’s electric enough to shock you out of your static routine. She has eyes like amber; they trace your lips as you offer up your phone number, fumbling and awkward. Her smile is brilliant: shining bright and wide, and her laugh is like the violin that sits at the back of your closet; melodic and precious. You feel butterflies in your chest, bumping against your lungs and brushing against your ribs, enough to fill a garden.

ii.

You and hir move into a small apartment probably too soon, exposed brick and a leaky roof but at least the building has an elevator. You make bread every friday, pounding the dough onto the counter until it’s shiny and smooth, braiding in smooth quick motions like your grandmother did. Ze makes you coffee every morning, passing you a mug while you’re still in bed before having a smoke on the fire escape. Ze grin at you through the window, signing with one hand, coffee and cigarette in the other. It’s hard but it’s home, until it isn’t.

iii. You quit your job in a fit of frustration and tears when a director calls you by the wrong name one too many times. It’s okay, you tell yourself, because even though your heart is caught in your throat, your shoulders start to relax as soon as you leave the theatre. You and her pop champagne that night, and when you dream, you dream of a massive figure out of smoke and rebar, calling out to you like a siren. The next day, a pamphlet for the fire academy shows up in your mail, and it feels like a second chance.

iv.

You love your job, love the kids that mess with your shelves of books, that run around during storytime, but when you get an offer to work as a city archivist, you find yourself saying yes without a second thought. It’s intimidating, because you’re put in charge of a whole section yourself, charting the history of the fire department through hundreds of scorched papers and documents. You bring hir lunch to the academy, sharing sandwiches while sitting on the curb. It’s cold, your joints aching and breath hanging in the air, like rumbling thunder and smoke on your tongue. v.

You don’t get married, but you do wear matching rings, ones made out of tarnished old silver that you polished up to perfection. Her voice is in your head when you enter your first burning building, strong and certain and enough to keep you grounded when you can’t see more than a foot in front of your face. Despite your doubts, you are, in fact, cut out for this; cut out for a life of smoke and chaos, of heat and precision. It’s her voice in your head at every fire you go to, that calls you back to shore.

vi.

You’re sitting together on your couch when the announcement comes through, and the next day there’s letters for both of you sitting in your mailbox. “Conscripted to the shadows” they say. What that entails; neither of you know. There’s no warning, no instructions, just the ominousness of words stark against the paper.

That last night, ze takes hir violin out of the closet where it’s buried. It’s muffled against your ears, as most things are, and by the look on hir face there’s some mistakes. But the vibrations sing a song from hir legs to your head, and that’s enough.

vii.

The shadows are dark: cold and unforgiving and harsh. You continue on in your work, her with her papers too, but it’s like there’s a filter over everything; muted colours and shades of grey.

The warmth is never fully there; you catch her shivering far more than you should, and the tips of her fingers stay bone white year round. That doesn’t stop you from taking them in yours, placing kisses gently against her shaking knuckles.

Even in the depths of the worst, you find yourself grateful for one thing: you have her hand to hold to brave this storm.

Chapter Text

This, Edric Tosser is beginning to realize, may be the day things tip over his boiling point.

If he was being critical about it, he could recognize that he might be equally to blame as Declan for the mess that they’ve found themselves in at this point, but that’s something he’ll never admit. Conceding defeat is a cardinal sin on this team.

If it wasn’t for the complete disregard of anything resembling kindness or like, a soul, he probably would continue like this, letting Declan take and take and take and take while giving nothing back, but it turns out what it takes for him to snap is one misplaced word about his sister. And a torn up letter.

------

“Where the hell is Dec? We were supposed to start this stream 15 minutes ago.”

Atlas’s voice crackles over the speaker. “It’s election day, Edric.”

“So? When was the last time that actually mattered for any of us?” The bitterness on the tip of his tongue is acidic, and he can tell Atlas is pointedly ignoring it even over the phone.

“Have you checked the results yet?”

“Come on, Atlas. You know I didn’t even look to see the options. I never have, and there’s even less of a reason to now, so why would I?”

“I know, but you should really consider–”

His phone vibrates: incoming call.

“Hey listen Atlas, I gotta grab this. Talk to you in a little bit, yeah?”

“Edric–”

The line clicks before she can finish. It barely takes a second for Edric to return the missed call.

“Dec, what the hell? You gotta keep me in the loop when you’re running late, you know this.”

The voice on the other end is still the one of his best friend, but the cadence is one he never thought he’d hear again, haunting in a way that makes him sick to his stomach.

“Hey there, Eddie. Long time, no talk, huh?”

-------

It starts like every other fight they’ve ever had, words cloaked in poison and double meanings, pointed and cutting. The kisses don’t make up for it. They never do. There’s nothing there but passion tainted with fury, annoyance dripping through every move they make against each other. In another world, they could have been friends, he thinks. Instead, all they’re left with is charred remains, the fizzled out end of a match.

Chapter Text

Joshua Watson is a good enough fit on the team, and for once things are feeling okay as they move into the next until–

“Is that– Is that my fucking jacket?”

Edric and Tyreek are getting lunch at a diner by the Firehouse as the new election items are being unveiled on the broken TV in the corner, and god, he can swear that’s his old fire jacket on the screen right now. 

“Yeah, it kinda looks like it, huh?” Edric mumbles around a mouthful of pancakes.

“What the fuck?”

Edric raises a brow. “You’re really caught up on this, huh?”

“It’s my jacket! I loved that jacket. I haven’t seen it since… god, I don’t know, season 2? When Justice…”

“...Yeah.” The silence stretches between them for just a moment too long. Edric coughs, then continues. “Well, if the fans are smart enough to go Best Offense, we could finally get Lou on the mound.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, the control that they all have over us? Ever since Atlas, I don’t know… I’m made of Chicago and it’s made of me and I’m so scared of being torn from here on the whims of people who don’t even care.”

“I mean, of course it bothers me, and of course I’m scared. But I mean, come on! We just won a damn championship!” Edric’s gestures are getting bigger by the minute, the way they always do when he really gets into a topic. “You’ve gotta take those good moments when they come, my friend, or none of this is worth it. We’ve got to make it worth it, because if not, that’s how they win. And we can’t let them win, can we?”

Tyreek laughs. “No, I guess not. Feeling revolutionary today, are we?”

“A new blaseball season is upon us. Why shouldn’t we grab it by the reins and give it all we got?”

“God, don’t be so enthusiastic, it’s creeping me out.”

“Aw, come on…”

The server comes by to grab their plates and returns a second later with their check. Tyreek grabs it before Edric can get the chance, leaving a hefty tip along with it.

“Wanna get out of here?” It’s a moot question because Edric is already standing up.

“Yeah, let’s.”

Just as they’re leaving the diner, they’re stopped by a brace-faced teenager that can’t be any older than 16 at the most. Tyreek grimaces, because the reason they chose this particular diner in the first place was not only the proximity to the Firehouse but the relatively low profile they’re usually able to keep there. The city has always been kinder in terms of celebrity than some other teams that he’s seen across the ILB, but since winning the championship, all bets have been off.

Still, after exchanging a look, they both take a picture with the teen. Edric is practically glowering the second they leave, however, and Tyreek can’t blame him.

“God, I fucking hate this shit.”

Chapter Text

i.

The thing is, there’s still a part of her that remembers Moab. It’s hazy and distant like the fog that sits in the stadium on cold fall mornings, hovering just out of reach, but in the depth of her dreams there’s nights where she can see it clear as day. Nagomi’s face, smiling and free; Emmett before he became unrecognizable. On the best nights it’s her and Gomi doing homework in the dugout, listening to Rhys coach Randy from the mound. That’s more like how the moon hits her every month; perpetual steady change, reliable as the phases and tides.

ii.

The thing is, Declan only ever meant to be a firefighter.

Blaseball was never the focus; he didn’t even play it growing up. He was in hlockey with his sisters until he got bored but firefighting, that was the focus. Not even a capital-F Firefighter, he just wanted to help people, as foolish as that sounds. So instead of college he trains to be an EMT, works 18 hour days while reading textbooks in the back of the van, and waits for something. The yearning is like the stars, burning vestiges of something that used to be a whole universe.

iii.

Layna is not what you would consider good at blaseball, but she loves it enough that she finds herself in the underleagues. She loves it enough that it’s worth the shitty pay and long hours, worth the heartbreak and pain and absolute annihilation she feels. She loves it because it’s a slice of home, the feeling of sunny saturday afternoons at 15, grinning at Emmett across the outfield at 12.

There’s not enough sun in Seattle and that doesn’t make it bad but she’s left wanting for the feeling of it across her face, the warmth and glow it provides.

Chapter Text

You are not from here. You are not meant to be here.

(Are you meant to be anywhere? A question for later, perhaps.)

It is day 77, and you stand on the edge of a precipice. The bat in your hand is akin to something like a lightning rod; a means for you to channel through but not to protect. You are on a knife’s edge, where one misstep will send you teetering down like a house of cards, one that you don’t know you’ll be able to put back together.

(It’s in moments like this where the static calls to you. Dark and inviting like a safety blanket, and to be cloaked in it would be the nicest thing in the world. This, you know, is just an illusion of safety, however, as compelling as it might be.

It’s not time yet.)

The air is tinged with blood in a way entirely different from blooddrain; there’s a metallic edge to it that fills you with nausea. You’re just about to place it (chorby, nagomi, chorby, chorby, chorby, chorby) when the consumer lunges.

Your lungs fill with ichor. You black out.

(It’s different here.

Hawai’i, it seems, is showing it’s cards to you; with the large open sky and the steadiness of the waves, but mostly with her. You give yourself to her the same way you give yourself to the ground here, with some vague sense of hope that it will support you, hold you aloft. So far, that hope doesn’t seem misplaced.

Today, Baldwin is going to take you by the hand, and the two of you are going to walk. You are going to walk until the waves hit against your shins instead of pass right through, and you know this because this is what she has promised. Baldwin never gives up her promises.

It is election day, and she will be here, because she promised. She will be here because she said she would and she has to be here, because otherwise it is just another broken word from a long line of broken people that have forgotten, eventually. So she will come and you will go on your walk and you will be seen.

It takes the moon starting to rise to admit she isn’t coming. You feel yourself getting fainter by the second.)

The consumer takes a good sized chunk out of your side. You can’t tell if you want someone to notice. They don’t anyways.

You bleed through your bandaging, specks of red amongst the grey. And it hurts– god, it hurts, like a part of you is gone, like more than skin is missing.

-

You dream, some nights, in violent grey.

(She asked you once how grey could be violent, and you couldn’t explain it; the sheer totality of it, the blurry lines. You think now, eventually, she might get it one day.)

It’s just constant static, the way it edges into the corners of your vision, obscuring threats from view. And still, no matter how much you sleep the exhaustion is still there. You are tired in your bones and in your core and your body seems to refuse to rest until you find your way home.

You don’t think you know what that is anymore. You don’t know if you ever did.

Chapter Text

What Baby Triumphant doesn't know until they find themselves drowning in immateria, is the way it stretches and forks out, the way time bends like softened taffy. They don't know the way it overwhelms someone, draws them in only to drag them under and consume them whole. They don't know the way one's reflection can get lost in the dark, inky abyss, how it can be utterly impossible to recognize yourself out there.

They can't believe Knight was stuck here for a whole season.

It’s hard to tell how long they’ve been gone. At least a day, they’re sure– (are they, though? Can they possibly be sure when the skies don’t seem to shift, only stretch into infinite horizons? It’s an impossibility, really).

And another thing Baby Triumphant doesn’t know: how it feels to drown.

-

“Think about it like this: you're the star, the rest of us? We're all just planets in orbit.”

“I'm pretty sure vae doesn't need that kind of ego boost, Gita. The Ruthless I know sure didn't.”

“Fuck you too, Paula.”

“No, listen, both of you, that's not– Baby, you've been so good at holding it down– don't get me wrong you can be insufferable sometimes, but we need you on the lineup. The team needs you, Ruthless.”

“I'm tired, Gita.”

“You can't stay out here forever, Ruth.”

“Watch me try.”

-

Baby Triumphant is a lot of things. Obstinate, for one. Hot-headed, for another, and that’s not even counting every fight xe’s picked, or the late nights with Lou during siesta, or any of the other moments people try to throw at xem.

One thing xe’s not, xe thinks as xe keeps drifting in the tide, is a coward.

(Don’t mind the calls xe refuses to pick up, the messages left on xir voicemail that xe steadily ignored. It doesn’t count when it’s about someone you hate, right?)

-

“Are you going to talk to her?”

Baby scowls in response.

Lou sighs, exasperated. “Baby, for the love of God, please fucking talk to her.”

“We've maybe spoken three words total in the three years she's been here. Why am I the best option?”

“You've maybe spoken 3 words to her,” She's still looking at him like he's an idiot. “And you're literally one of three other people in the entire league that has this thing. She's fucking terrified, Baby! You know what it's like.”

“I mean, I'm sure she'd get along with Don fine.” He says, spitting the name.

“Okay, but you're her teammate. Not Don, not Ken. You. She is our responsibility, and that includes you. And you know Josh would be disappointed at this.”

“Low blow.”

“But I'm right, and you know it.”

“If I agree, will you let this go?”

All he gets is a raised brow. “I think you know the answer to that one.”

Baby doesn't respond, petulant.

“Get over yourself, Rue. And fucking talk to her.”

Lou storms off with one last pointed look, leaving Baby with their conscious and not much else. He forces himself to take a breath–measured, slow–and then looks back at Gita. She’s standing out at the edge of the field, where the ladders start cascading into brick. It's only Josh's voice echoing in his head which gets him to walk over there, and when he does, he sees that she's been crying.

He clears his throat, startling her despite trying not to. “Hey.”

“Oh,” She wipes her eyes. “Do you, do you need something? I'll be back at the firehouse in a minute-”

“Nope.” He says, popping the p. “Just wanted to check on you.”

“Really?” She says, unable to keep the incredulous edge out of her voice. “Sorry, I– didn’t mean to sound so shocked, I promise.”

He winces at that, taking another short breath. “No, I get it. Haven't exactly been the… kindest.”

He can hear the echo of how Rivers would call him out here–Yeah, no shit, dipshit–and the absence of it stings.

“Not that that’s an excuse, you know, but–”

“You don’t have to, like– you don't have to be nice to me just because we have this thing in common now.”

If Baby were less obstinate, he'd see the undercurrent of what she's saying: a plea to not be pitied. Part of him recognizes it, even if he favours ignorance in the end.

“That’s not what I–” He stops, catches himself, takes a breath. “Listen, I know I’ve been standoff-ish. But this is the first time you’re ever really dealing with the game affecting you like this. Don’t look at me like that–” He catches her objection before she can even make it. “–I know you were there for the feedbacks and everything, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m talking about this game physically taking a part of you and changing it. You haven’t even been hit by a party yet, or an allergic reaction, or… Just, it’s a scary thing. You’re allowed to be scared.”

The silence stretches between them like a wire on the traps he used to set for his sibling a lifetime ago. Neither of them mention the elephant in the room, how Wyatt Glover had disappeared without a trace, just yesterday. Baby doesn’t know if he likes Gita, really, doesn’t really even know her well enough to tell, but he does know he can’t stand to see another teammate martyr themselves, not right now.

Plus, Knight’s still elsewhere. And they’re not making it out anytime soon.

-

The secret Baby will never admit, despite it being written as clear as day for anyone who cares to look, is that Blaseball feels a hundred times more natural to xem than firefighting ever has. Xe didn’t group with stories of Firefighters, like Declan, or a prophecy, like Edric, or a degree in fire science, like Rivers; xe just showed up in Chicago one day, flames roaring and winds blowing, and had to fight. No, xe grew up playing blaseball in the dry heat of the California valleys. Besides, a sword is not too dissimilar to a bat, at the end of the day. The weight of it is what matters, the symbol.

The chill of the immateria, the cold wet wind rustling through the trees– it’s all starting to settle in and now they’re both shivering. Shi gets it now, how Wes had lost memories like they were breadcrumbs, in a place like this.

“Come on,” Gita’s teeth are chattering just as much as hir’s are. “Tell me what it was like, before the book opened.”

Shi shoots them an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“You’ve been here longer, they’re already starting to slip away, I can see it in your eyes. The memories, I mean. Talking will help.” Another breeze rustles through and she curls into herself further, tightening her grip on her legs. “Plus, I wasn’t born yet. My dad was here for the great fire, but I only know what he’s told me, so I’d like to hear it from one of you. Please?”

“...Fine.”

Chapter Text

Hahn doesn’t mean to keep running into Percy after her early morning jog, but by the third time it happens she goes into Siggy’s kitchen to make two cups of tea before joining her on the balcony.

“Figured you could use this.”

“Thank you,” Percy turns to her, eyes filled with static, just like everyone else. “I’m afraid I don’t remember your name, Sunbeam.”

Hahn’s not offended. Percy is elsewhere and scattered, and that makes the dry confusion of the desert hit harder than most.

“Hahn.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. My apologies. Thank you for the tea.”

Hahn moves to join her by the railing, forearms against the stone. “I didn’t take you for an early riser.”

“Ah, a lifetime of waking up with the birds will do that to you. Yourself?”

She shrugs. “Never got off east coast time, even after 40 years. Plus, it means I get to make my wife breakfast before work.”

Percy looks intrigued. “You’re married?”

“Yeah, for like, god, 55 years before we got here? We had planned out this big anniversary party and everything but…”

Percy looks like she wants to say something, but stops herself.

“Are you okay?”

“Just have a bit of a rude question, is all.”

“Oh, go for it.”

“She’s still…”

Alive? Hahn can fill in the gaps.

“Sometimes you make a deal with an entity so you can stay together.”

“Ah.”

“What about you?”

Percy’s face twists in a way that makes Hahn feel as if she should know why, but she’s never been one to read tabloids.

“A couple.”

“You don’t need to–“

“No, it’s okay. Let’s see, two in the vault– Jaylen I lost long before that, though. Knight and Oritz are also there, and Knight is well… Knight. Parker and Usurper are at the horizon, so it’s just a few of us here, really. I–“

And that’s when she starts crying in earnest, and Hahn finds herself with an armful of Percy Wheeler.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, It’s okay.”

Come on, Hahn. What would Priya say?

“Are you okay?”

Shit, not that.

“Not really.”

She rubs her back. “That’s okay.”

“It’s just been a really hard couple years, and listing it all out for once…”

“I get it.” She doesn’t, not in the same way. Neither of her teams have had to deal with what the Lovers have, and secretly she hopes it stays that way.

“I just don’t know how I’m ever going to start moving again.”

“Well, my wife would say ‘small goals’. She’s a therapist, so if you want or need, we could set you up? No pressure, though.”

Percy sighs, wiping her face. “If you had asked five years ago, I never would have said yes. Now…”

“I think most players should do it, to be honest. We see a lot of stuff.”

“A thing to consider for another day, perhaps. I’m sorry, I must have ruined your morning.”

“Not at all.” She hooks her arm around Percy’s elbow. “Now, would you like to join me for breakfast? I bet I can track down Sandy and force her to make it for us. Mine, not yours.”

Percy smiles, toothy and wide. “I would love that.”

Chapter Text

“I want it off.”

They're on the couch, The Blachelorette playing in the background more than anything else, when he says it. Brock knows exactly what Bertie's talking about–that patch of gold that's appeared on the chitin by his shoulder–but it still makes them bite his lip in hesitation.

“Tito… I'm not even sure what we can use for that.”

“A file, maybe? I don't care. I just want it off.”

Which is how they find themselves in the bathroom, Bertie sitting on the edge while Brock stands next to them, file in hand.

“This might be a whole lot of pain for something that won't even work.”

“Don't care.”

“As long as you're sure…”

“I'm sure.”

They both brace themselves as Brock goes in for the first pass, Bertie wincing as he does.

“So what brought this on?”

“I'm sick of looking at it. I can feel it, bone deep, and that's bad enough.”

Brock sighs and bites his lip, deliberately not mentioning the way the gold has creeped up into his irises as well, that even if they can get the gold off here, it's still going to be staining his fingertips and clouding his vision. Ego is a sticky creature–they both saw the way it slowly took Val over–and Brock just hopes this is all they'll get, for both of their sakes.

The file drags over in a way that makes them want to recoil, an awful grinding feeling, and somehow all Bertie does is wince.

“If I die, I'm never speaking to you again.”

“Well, we both know that's just a straight up lie.”

“Wouldn't that be so fucked? You get to the hall and bam! Silent treatment.”

“I'd cry and probably hate you forever.”

“Which is why I'd never do it.”

The chitin is raw now- the only way he can think to describe it, with the way they've moved past the hard shell of the exoskeleton to something more meaty underneath. It looks painful, and if they hadn't done stuff like this hundreds of times over, he'd feel guilty. Poking at it, he can feel a chunk of gold rooted in there.

“I think I might be able to get it out, but it's gonna hurt–”

The response is immediate. “Do it.”

“You know, this might just come back. It might come back worse.”

“I don't care. Get it out.”

So he digs his fingers in, grappling with his nails until they manage to get ahold of the gold, and when he pulls away, his fingers are stained with just a little bit of blood. Bertie cries out a little, squeezing from where he has a hold on their thigh.

“Sorry.”

“I was the one who asked you to do it. Is that all of it?”

“About all we're getting tonight.”

There's still hints of gold on the outskirts, but Brock is done. As much as he loves Bertie, and as much they find themselves in positions like this time and time again, there's only so much of it he can stomach, and he's there, at least for tonight.

“Thank you. I know that couldn't have been pleasant, but I do feel better now.”

“Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll make up for it the next time I want a haircut.”

“Come here,” They say, pulling Brock into their lap. “Seriously, thank you. I love you so much.”

“Love you too, babe.”

They should probably clean up, at least wrap up Bertie’s shoulder so it doesn't get infected, and go back to trying to ignore the siren call of ego. But for now, just for a second. It's just the two of them, and that's okay.

Chapter Text

“Hey.”

“Hey. Got your coffee?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Only Drachma’s worst for me.”

“I’d expect nothing less. I just grabbed from the pot in the kitchen Josh must have left on.”

“So lukewarm at best?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sound tired. Long shift?”

“Something like that. You sound far too peppy.”

“Eh, something about no rest for the wicked, I suppose.”

“It’s been too long.”

“Isn’t that why we’re calling?”

“Landry–”

“Sorry, just being an ass. I missed you too.”

“And I’m tired, so maybe not the best combination.”

“You out on the roof?”

“Yeah, and you’re on the balcony, if I’m guessing right.”

“Better view.”

“...Or we’re just predictable. Do you ever think we talk too much?”

“Nah, maybe we’re just getting old.”

“Oh god, we are, aren’t we? I’d say that’s depressing but I actually think I prefer it this way.”

“Nothing wrong with that, in my opinion.”

“...I’m scared, Landry.”

“About the election? Ty, I doubt they’ll actually go for it–”

“I think people are always foolish enough to play with things beyond their comprehension.”

“Not exactly the morning talk I was thinking we would have–”

“Sorry, it’s just– we keep beating around it, and I’m worried. Aren’t you, even a little bit?”

“Of course I am, it’s just… I don’t want to think about it yet.”

“It’s coming faster than either of us would like.”

“No, you’re right. We’ve outrun this shit before, though. Might be able to do it again.”

“Wishful thinking, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, like we’re both not more likely to run towards whatever’s coming? Come on.”

“I–”

“I should go grab some sleep while I still can.”

“Babe–”

“I just got off call and we have five hours till the game, so–”

“I love you, Tyreek. Even when we’re fighting.”

“Oh, we really must have gotten old if you’re calling this a fight.”

“Just being cautious, maybe.”

“Love you too, Landry. I really should go sleep, though.”

“Talk tonight?”

“Always.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me you’re not actually doing it.”

Gloria’s voice breaks through the static of the ship, sharp and clear, and Pedro can’t help but sigh.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s not true. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Fine.”

“So you are doing it then.” And it’s a statement, not a question, this time.

“Maybe.”

“Would you give me a clear answer, please?”

He sighs again. There’s exhaustion peaking in behind his eyes–he’s been flying for far too long at this point–but even now, he doesn’t have it in him to lie to xem.

“I am, yeah.”

Gloria pauses for a second, and he winces at the hurt in xyr voice when xe finally speaks. “You didn’t take me with you.”

“Gloria, how was I going to take you with me?”

“I don’t know! You could have tried.”

“You’re on the other end of the map.”

“Not for long.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we’re headed to the vault too, and when I get there, I’m going to yell at you.”

He laughs, a little broken. “That’s fair.”

“I miss her too, you know.”

“I know you do.”

“I get why you’re going, I just wish I was with you.”

“I wish you were too, for what it’s worth.”

“How’s the steering going? You have no one to trade off with.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Pedro.”

“Don’t use that voice on me.”

“I can use any voice I want. You know who told me that?”

“Me?”

“No, it was Val, actually. So it’s even more true.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches between them, taut like a string, and it feels better than he’ll ever admit to hear xyr breathing over the line.

“So, what does it feel like being dead?”

Gloria sighs, verging on melodramatic. “Awful. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t think I would much, either.”

“Probably not. It feels like you’re drowning, but like all the time. Sticky in my ribs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, you can make it up to me by not dying out there doing something stupid.”

“I’ll try my best.”

And he can hear xem shaking xyr head even over the call. “Not good enough.”

“I promise.”

“You better.” A pause. “Be careful, please. And that’s not a question.”

“I know. I’m sorry, and I love you.”

“You better find her. Or make it up to me. Both would be preferred.”

“You got it.”

And he can almost picture xyr grin. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Gloria.”

The line cuts out, and all he’s left with is static and wide open space.

Chapter Text

I didn’t make it. I think you know that by now, but- or maybe I did, actually. I thought I saw you for a minute, at least. Who knows if I actually did. All I know is that I woke up in the black hole again, and everything was gone, even you. Especially you. I'm still kind of out of it, and this place is just as awful as before.

Pedro

Gloria is here now. Pedro, when I tell you I cried– it was like the rivers flowed again for the first time in years, with enough emotion to fill a water basin. I am overcome with it all; with the familiarity and the camaraderie and the love I didn't even know I could feel anymore. If only you were here– our multitudes could not be contained.

And don't think you're off the hook for your foolishness, as grand of a gesture it may be. I only hope you'll be able to forgive that part of me, in time.

Your love,

Val

It's not as if you're going to get this, but we've been here before, haven't we? Are you still writing like I am? Do you even know to care?

I met one of your replicas once, and it almost destroyed me. Part of me feels as if I've gone mad these past couple years, madder than I did while Up. I've said this in a thousand letters you'll never get, but losing you broke me, Val, and now I'm a shattered man.

Pedro

Gloria and I made that chicken soup last night, but it wasn't the same without you complaining in the kitchen. It's made a world of difference, having xem here, but it doesn't change the impact crater left shattered over my heart, or the way it breaks. I have written you more letters than I could ever count, and I will not stop. It may be futile, but I've found that most things in the vault are and besides, a black hole didn't stop me once, so why should it again?

I know it must feel like all hope is lost, but I hope you can hang on, my love. For both of our sakes.

Your love,

Val.

There's few things I hate more than this black hole. To be here again– it's sucking the life out of me, Val. I can't bear it. Exhaustion has intertwined with the hum of it, creating a new song, and I don't know where to go from here. May we make a new song together, one day.

Pedro

A short one today, and a poem:

There is logic to the abyss

In the corners if you seek them

The key is in the search

Even when you don't find purchase

Hold on, my love. May you find purchase soon.

Your love,

Val

Chapter Text

Randy doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the way Emmett’s new hands fit in his. Really, he should be–it’s been years at this point–but it’s so much larger now, larger and synthetic and some part of him misses the way Emmett’s heartbeat would hum in his fingertips. Still, when he reaches for it in the dark, when they’re both half asleep in the hazy moonlight of the van, he can imagine that heartbeat still, alive and humming.

He thinks too of the way Emmett grappled for his own in the shining aftermath of the battle, after they had been born again in their own way, and after he saw his own brother kill a god. The way it fit perfectly in his, just for a moment, and how it felt like the most right thing in the world. The way that after years in the trench, he could feel it again, really feel– and how it sung.

So maybe they might be a little mismatched, and maybe it can be a little awkward sometimes, but holding Emmett’s hand is still one of his favourite things in the world.

-

"God, I don't know how we're going to get to the front."

Sandy sounds nervous, and in her defense, she thinks she has every right to be. There are more people on this street than he thinks he's ever seen before, and for the dozenth time this morning, he can't help but wonder why he let Rhys convince them to come here.

Here being New York pride, of course. It was supposed to be a fun trip for them now that the kids were out of the house– they were visiting Betsy anyway and Sandy and Vela had never been. Now that they are here, though, she's overwhelmed.

"I've got this," Rhys says, with uncertain bravado. "Just hold on tight."

So the three of them link hands, and Rhys begins to weave their way through the crowd. Eventually, they make it to the other end, even if a little frazzled.

Vela looks just as flustered as she feels as they turn to Rhys. "I hope you know I love you."

"Of course I do." He leans in and the two of them kiss, all wide grins and goofy smiles, and Sandy can't help but feel overwhelmed with how much they love them.

-

Jayden doesn't even notice Kaj grabbing her hand until they're already on the dance floor. Howell and Iggy had hired TIAT to play, and it's as loud and raucous as to be expected, but she feels awkward.

"Come on, dance with me!" Kaj yells over the noise. "Stop being a spoilsport!"

"I'm not being a spoilsport."

Sea just gives them a look, rolling shore’s eyes as sea tugs them into some kind of shimmy. "You gotta get over yourself, Jayden."

Xe throws xir arms out, throwing her into a spin, and she can't help but laugh.

"I'll try."

-

The apartment is hot–sweltering, really–which is to be expected when you throw three grown men into a bed at the height of summer in South Carolina. No sheets tonight–it's too hot for that–and still Corn lies awake, tucked into the middle as the fan hums in the background.

It shocks him a little, when Matteo's sticky hand slips into his. They've been pretty touchy since coming back, so he's not surprised in that sense, but they're still snoring, as is Dickson. Softly, he gives it a light squeeze, aching.

How grateful he is, to have both of his boys back.

-

They're in the library, the first time it happens. It's a late kind of study night–Envy has to finish a paper and Son is working on a case briefing–and the funny thing about Envy being left handed and Son being right is that under the fluorescents, they brush against each other.

They brush together and then Envy's fingers tangle in theirs without saying a word. A blush rises to Son's cheeks, but they don't say anything either, and if neither of them let go until they starting packing up, that's nobody's business but the two of them.

-

"Are you sure about this?" Nerd feels nervous, even though they feel a little silly. "I've never been skating before."

Lars just smiles and signs back: I've got you.

Nerd laughs. "You've never been skating either."

Lars shakes his head. Got Miguel to give me a crash course.

"You understand how that's less than encouraging, right?"

He doesn't respond this time, just pulls Nerd onto the ice. See? Nothing to be afraid of.

When Nerd falls three minutes later, they think they had plenty to be afraid of. Or, they would have, if they hadn't been caught by half a dozen spectral hands.

Lars's grin is almost prideful. Told you I've got you.

-

Holding Hotbox's hand isn't something Snyder ever takes for granted. It can be few and far between–sometimes it takes a lot of energy for Hotbox to make itself tangible like that. Snyder doesn’t mind, though, because it makes the moments they can all the more special.

When the sky is roaring, a god raging down on them, they know what it means when it's hand slips into theirs. Knows the weight of it–of what it means–and they don't say anything, because they don't need to. Instead, they just squeeze back, and that's enough.

-

There's a moment Paula barely remembers, when Forrest couldn't have been more than four. He was staying with hir for the first time in a year, they were on the way to the playground. As they went to cross the street, he grabbed hir hand, pulling hir back.

"Papa says we hold hands when we cross the street–" nothing but seriousness in his voice. "Otherwise, it's not safe."

"Okay," shi says, and takes his hand. "We can do that."

-

"Oh, thank fuck you're here."

Edric has barely stepped through the door when Zack grabs his hand, dragging him through the house. It's loud– almost overwhelming, but he thinks once he gets a drink in him it'll be alright.

"What's the SOS, babe?" He says, as she pulls him into the kitchen.

"Esme's here–"

"Ah."

"–And CB."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She pulls a bottle out of the cupboard. "How's fireball?"

"It'll do." She lays out two shots and they tap them against each other before knocking them back, rapid fire. "So, what's the plan?"

She shrugs."Go out there and dance with me?"

"That I can do."

-

It's a long, dark night in the hall, in the same way most nights are in there. They're not talking, just sitting there together like they have for years at this point.

Without saying anything, Landry takes the hand that he's holding, bringing it to his cheek. Tyreek can't help but shiver as he does it, chills running down their spine.

"I love you," He says, voice soft but gruff. "Always."

Tyreek doesn't respond, just takes the hand on Landry's cheek and pulls them into a kiss that swallows them both.

Chapter Text

Edric’s hiding out on the porch smoking when the door slams shut, the girl behind it emerging in a huff. Normally he’d just mind his own business, but there’s something about her that tips his hand in a way he’s sure he’s going to come to regret down the road.

He calls over. “You good?”

That makes her jump a little, but she shakes her head as she turns towards them. “I’m fine. Just trying to avoid my ex.”

“Oh man. Been there, done that.”

She makes her way over to him, brushing a petal out of her face before holding out her hand. “Zack Sanders.”

He stubs out his cigarette before taking it and shaking. “Edric Tosser. Beams?”

She laughs. “That obvious?”

“Just a little bit.”

“What about you? Wait, no– let me guess,” They look him over head to toe, like it’s an appraisal. “Let’s see… Punk, clearly–I like your jacket, by the way–could fit in with the Garages, but if that was the case, I’d know you. Not a shoe thief, obviously, but you’re here anyways. What else…” She takes his hand again, turning it over until she seemingly finds what they’re looking for. “Ash on your fingers– Firefighters?”

That makes him crack a grin. “You got it.” He picks up his pack, about to light another smoke. “Do you mind?”

“Nah, you’re good.” She leans back against the railing, looking back out towards the porch. “So, how’d you end up here?”

“Oh, me and Lou got invited by Esme, and Lou didn’t want to go alone, so…”

“Oh! That’s who I’m trying to get away from, actually.”

“Esme?”

“Yeah, high school girlfriend, you know the drill.”

His face shifts in a way she can’t read. “Yeah, I do.”

They fall into an awkward silence as he lights his cigarette, not really knowing what to say. After a second, Zack starts up again.

“Do you know Layna? Alaynabella Hollywood, I mean. She’s on the flowers now, but you have similar vibes. I mean, I just met you, but–“

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t think I do. I’m, uh–“ They pause. “I’m an alternate.”

If Zack looks surprised, they don’t look it. “Oh! So’s one of my best friends, I get it.”

“Oh.”

Edric’s not really sure why he’s here, if he’s being entirely honest. It’s hard being around the Shoe Thieves for too long–or at all, really–he doesn’t know them but they know him, or at least a version of him. It’s not the same, but he wonders if Zack is thinking the same thing.

“Wanna get out of here?”

She grins, all teeth and excitement, and he thinks this could be the beginning of something special. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter Text

twoglovesparrow: hey sorry if this is super weird totally feel free to ignore this but given everything that's happened in the past day and a half I feel like I should probably reach out because like, I figure you might be as freaked out as me and like, I don't know we don't have to be alone in this if you don't want.

twoglovesparrow: god this is so awkward seriously feel free to ignore this I'm cringing already

sundaero: oh my god no! please don't feel embarrassed or anything this is actually really nice

sundaero: and I have been freaking out since yesterday so like. total handshake there

sundaero: everythings been so weird and like. I didn't expect it to be? I don't know what I expected to be honest

twoglovesparrow: oh thank god ngl I was getting kinda worried

twoglovesparrow: and yeah no I feel you its weird

twoglovesparrow: everyone keeps treating me like I shouldn't be here or like I'm a kid

twoglovesparrow: which like to be fair I guess to them I kinda am.

twoglovesparrow: I came to firefighters games when I was a kid so like. they're not wrong except yeah they are because I'm a full grown adult that knew the decision I was making

twoglovesparrow: sorry it's just

sundaero: nah I get it

-

In her third year of undergrad, Gita’s psych class had talked about the concept of core memories– foundational moments that lay ground for a person, like the mortar between bricks.

For Gita, no moment has ever fit that bill more than sitting in the stands of the Firehouse at age 8 and watching José Haley turn into ash.

It was a yearly tradition: Gita passing all her classes meant 3 Firefighters games that summer with her father and grandfather, and a new pack of tlopps if she was lucky. That summer was special; her cousins from the Bay were visiting and she can still remember arguing with them over which Triumphant was better: Baby or Knight. Not that it mattered in the end, when there was nothing but a pile of ash on the field.

They never went to another eclipse game after that.

-

twoglovesparrow: god I need to like. call my advisor I guess

twoglovesparrow: I'm sure he already knows but

sundaero: you're still in school? god that's gotta be brutal

twoglovesparrow: yeah, I'm halfway through my masters in geography! don't know what the fuck I'm going to do now though

sundaero: yeah god I just finished mine in architecture i have no clue what I'd do if I was still there though that sounds like an actual literal nightmare.

twoglovesparrow: yeahhhhh

twoglovesparrow: you want to know the funny part?

sundaero: hit me

twoglovesparrow: the tickets to that game were from my advisor LMAO a congrats for getting through my first year lol

sundaero: jfc

sundaero: this game has a sense of irony ig

sundaero: but we already knew that

-

sundaero: do you regret it?

sundaero: joining I mean

twoglovesparrow: not yet

twoglovesparrow: who knows though

twoglovesparrow: if this week has shown me anything it's that things can change in an instant lmao

twoglovesparrow: you?

sundaero: idk

sundaero: my sibling’s on the worms so it's just been a week

twoglovesparrow: oh wow I can't even imagine

sundaero: yeahhhhh it's been a lot

sundaero: and part of me is wondering how much me joining is because of her

sundaero: like subconsciously you know

twoglovesparrow: yeah I get you

twoglovesparrow: idk for me it was like. I could hear the city in my ear and I just knew I had to do it

twoglovesparrow: I didn't even really think about it before I picked up the bat I just did it

sundaero: nah I did think about it it's just

sundaero: idk it's not like I didn't know what I was getting myself into its just that now I'm here it's hard not to be scared

twoglovesparrow: no I totally get that

twoglovesparrow: it's really fucking scary

twoglovesparrow: but hey upside:

twoglovesparrow: at least you don't also have to learn another entirely new job on top of everything else

sundaero: I mean you joined the Firefighters. I don't know what you expected it's literally I'm the name

twoglovesparrow: yeahhhhh

Chapter Text

“Hey Triumphant, you just going to stand there like a lovesick puppy, or…”

“You’re one to talk, Sanders, considering you can’t even get a shot in straight.”

“I knew it was a mistake to put you two on the same team.”

When Edric offered to bring Zack along to a Chiclawgo party, this wasn’t what he expected but he might as well have. When Declan suggested the four of them break into teams for beer pong with a glint in his eye, he was apprehensive at best and concerned at worst.

Zack grins. “Hey, at least we’re still miles ahead of those two.”

Declan looks genuinely offended. “Hey!”

“I mean, Dec, she does have a point,” Edric says under his breath, gesturing the three cups they have left to Zack and Ruthless’s five. “Besides, this was your idea to start with.”

“Yeah, and it was a good one!” He shoots wide and groans as the ball bounces off the table.

“Pick it up, Suzanne. I can drink Zack under the table but I don’t want to have to!”

She grins. “Coward.” Her ball sails through the air, landing in the center cup. “How about this? If we win, you’re buying breakfast tomorrow.” She turns to Ruthless, who pulls a face. “That seem fair, or are you gonna give up?”

Xe scoffs. “Not at all. I just think we can go a little higher stakes than that.”

“You have a better idea then, genius?”

Instead of responding, xe just lobs a ball back, landing it squarely into another cup.

“It wasn’t even your turn, asshole!” Edric slides the cup across the table to xem. “You’re taking that one.”

Xe just rolls xir eyes before downing it in one go.

“How about this?” Zack says with that one grin on her face that Edric knows is trouble. “If we win, Declan has to get a tattoo from Edric with whatever I say, and if you win, Baby has to get a tattoo with whatever Edric says.”

Xe turns to her, wide eyed. “Hey!”

She raises a brow. “You’re the one who wanted to raise the stakes. Gonna chicken out?”

“Fuck that.”

“Edric,” Declan says, breath hot on his ear, “We can’t let them win. I don’t trust Zack on this for a second.”

“Don’t worry,” they say, “I have a plan. Just try and fix your aim, dude.”

“I’m trying.”

Somehow, they end up managing to even it out so each team is down to one cup each. Declan turns to him, “So, plan?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Then, a little louder: “Rue! Your turn!”

Xe grins. “Suzanne, hope you’re ready to for some fresh ink…”

Just as xe sets up xir aim, Edric reaches for Declan’s collar, pulling him down into a heavy kiss. It works exactly as he plans as Ruthless’s ball sails past his head, landing across the room. When he pulls away, it’s to his leftover lipstick on Declan’s face and a slack jawed Ruthless.

“That’s cheating!” Xe stammers.

“It’s only cheating if we don’t win.” And with that, Edric’s ball flies and lands in the last cup. “Drink up, babe.”

Ruthless glowers, turning on Zack. “See if I trust you again any time soon, Sanders.”

Zack’s laugh is bright. “You’re the one who agreed to it, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, man,” Edric says, clapping xem on the back before slipping a kiss on the side of xir neck, “I’ll make sure it’s something you actually like.”

Xe rolls xir eyes. “Small mercies, I guess. Now, what do I have to do to get some of that?” Xe says, gesturing to Declan’s general dishevelment.

“All you ever have to do is ask, babe, you know that.”

Chapter Text

Lenny doesn’t recognize her face in the mirror. This is, she supposes, a good thing; Doom and Jazzmeralda have done an excellent job transforming her, in the end. But it’s hard to look at herself and recognize anything worth remembering, between the thick cream––clown white, Jazz had called it––and the blue of instability still pulsating behind her irises, even if they’re lined in the thickest eyeliner she’s ever worn.

“How do you feel?” Jazz asks, chewing at the bottom of zer lip.

“Weird,” Lenny says, because it’s the only thing she can say.

Doom laughs, loud and peeling. “Yeah, it’s usually like that the first time. You’ll get used to it.”

Lenny doesn’t say what she wants to, something about how she’ll be lucky if she gets the time to get used to it. It’s pessimistic, maybe, but between Randy and Dom, she can’t say she feels particularly great about her possibilities weathering this instability. There’s something echoing in the back of her head that Nagomi once said, about two being stability and three being a curse.

Doom leans over, like vae can see the apprehension in her eyes, and ruffles her hair. “So, what do you think? Want me to try and style this, or would you rather try out one of my wigs?”

“Whichever,” she shrugs, not particularly caring. “Why are we doing this again?”

“It’s a right of passage,” Jazz says at the same time as Doom says, “Because you deserve to go out with a bang.”

Jazz turns on vaer, smacking vaer on the arm. “Doom,” ze hisses, then turns to Lenny. “Vae doesn’t mean that.”

“Come on, Jazz! There’s no use pretending like we don’t all know what might happen.”

“That doesn’t mean you just say things like that–“

“Guys.” Lenny tries to get their attention, but neither of them are listening.

“We all know what it feels like, Jazz–“

“Yeah, but I’m sure Lenny doesn’t want to be reminded–“

“Guys!” That time she’s loud enough that they both stop, sputtering out. She picks up a brush from the vanity without looking, handing it to Doom. “Lets finish the job first instead whatever the fuck that was, okay?”

“Oh, honey,” Jazz leans over into the mirror, smoothing down the hair Doom had messed up, “That’s absolutely not the type of brush you want to use on your kind of hair.”

“You’re right, though,” Doom butts in. “We’ll get you looking perfect in no time.”

Lenny just sighs and closes her eyes as they get back to work, trying to let her breath guide her, or some saccharine shit like that. It has to work eventually, right?

Chapter Text

the thing about being underwater is that the human ear isn’t meant to process sound correctly. and you’re not exactly human, but when corn and matteo pull you out of the depths of sunken charleston, is the sound– how overwhelming it is, more of a flood than the liquid you’ve been trapped in for years.

it isn’t until you’re curled up on the floor of their dorm room, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t even come close to covering your wings, that the overstimulation starts to fade. approximately nothing here is familiar, but you think– well, that might be okay.

-

it’s an easy enough yes when corn asks you to join the team– you’ve never played blaseball before, but you’ve always been good with a lance and a spear, and you figure this can’t be too different.

you’re right, of course, and are far too good of a slugger for someone who’s never played before (that’s what matteo says, at least). it’s good for you, you think, to be around people like this again; like digging your hands into the desert sand you once knew, and letting it fill the spaces left behind.

it’s good for you, but it won’t last.

-

the feedback isn't exactly a choice, but you make it into one.

(morrow had asked you, years ago, if you missed parsa. the answer, of course, was yes as much as it was no; there’s a melancholy in missing a place you can’t return to. this is what you do know, though: you need a fresh start.)

you had been there at corn and dickson’s wedding. you know what they are capable of, when they try. and, you’re not afraid to meddle every once in a while.

new york is a bit hectic, but you’ll get used to it.

-

Chapter Text

Nerd meets Famous Owens–at least so far as they can remember–somewhere towards the tail end of Season Two.

The Sunbeams are just as horrifically bad as they were the season before, but the Tigers have shot past the Pies, coming for both their record and their championship. And most importantly to Nerd, and perhaps less so Famous, their teams have both made it out of the season unscathed. Nerd can’t say they remember much of anything about them aside from some barbed words and the slight sheen of something resembling performance. Not in the same way as the Figueroa kid, with all vir dramatics; no, it’s more like a shield, the kind of song that’s supposed to warn you off.

The first time they talk is at Emmett Internet’s funeral. He had gone up in flames just the day before, and both their teams are gathered at the edge of the Sixth Circle Stadium. It’s a quick ceremony after the game, and Nerd has their hands full with Lars and Nagomi on either side. But across the circle, Famous’s eye catches theirs, leaning up against Scorpler in a way perhaps too intimate for the occasion, if one chose to look close enough, though it appears no one but them does. The conversation after is nothing, really– not anything worth remembering, it seems. Basic condolences and platitudes, they’re sure, but what they do remember is the way their eyes shone with genuine regret as they gave them, the closest they’d ever seen to sincere in the few years they’d known each other.

This is all to say, they have never been particularly close, not in any way that matters. Which is why it’s so surprising when it’s Famous’s voice that starts filtering through the shell to them, a little less than a year into their solitude.

And, that’s why it’s even more surprising when nearly a decade after that, Nerd finds themself making what they’re sure is going to be a mistake.

-

The first thing Nerd hears, really hears, for the first time in years, is the sound of birds.

Not just any birds, they’ll later realize, but the sound of crows, cawing with their tattered claws, scratching at the shell that’s encased them, that’s been their home for god knows how long.

And then– sunlight. It’s blinding, in a way that makes them want to shy away, that makes them take their arm, atrophied from containment and disuse, and cover their eyes– anything to tamper down the sudden sting of it. Their antlers ache, heavy and full and tattered and scarred, and they have a feeling that’s only the least of their concerns.

Even after their eyes adjust, it’s hard to recognize where exactly they are. Their monocle is covered in a layer of dust, despite their best efforts, and the prescription isn’t right, not anymore. But they can see the teal of the rafters, the crows that saved them hanging down, and looking down at themself confirms the suspicion/conclusion/worry; even upside down they can read that it says Philly Pies.

(Things are starting to slot into place. The rattling that surrounded them, the slight changes they could feel even through the shell, the voice that sounded suspiciously like Famous Owens that they thought they had imagined– well, everything’s beginning to make a lot more sense.)

Someone reaches a hand out to them–Jaxon Buckley, they’ll learn later–and standing up, their knees almost instantly collapse under them.

Words are just floating past them, they can’t seem to grasp any as another hand comes to their other arm, helping them to the bench. After years–it’s not as if they know how many–even the past couple minutes have left them horrifically overstimulated, and they don’t want to think about anything approaching playing, though they know that’s coming too.

And sitting in the home dugout in the Tastykake Stadium, Nerd Pacheco can barely feel the tug at all.

-

“Famous, what face are you wearing right now?”

“…What?”

“I just… I want something to be able to picture. Is it your normal one, or…”

Their heart is beating so loud that they almost think they can feel it thrumming through the shell, the walls taking on a heartbeat of its own.

Famous stays quiet for so long that for a second, Nerd thinks they must have walked away, but just when they think they’re gone:

“Yeah, just mine. Took Caleb’s earlier though, when we were playing the Firefighters.”

“You know, I never asked why.”

“Why I do it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have a lot of time.”

“Maybe another day.”

“Famous, wait–“

“Another day, Pacheco!”

And then Nerd is left in silence once again.

Chapter Text

Edric gets woken up by the rustling of blankets and the absence of heat next to him, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why. Declan is still snoring as loudly as ever on the other side of the divot where Baby usually is, and he can still hear xir feet on the hardwood floors of their apartment as shi trails away.

(Ever since they got this bed, Baby has always been in the middle. Edric can guess to why, if he really tries, because they’ve always been a glass door, at the end of the day. For all they try to stay guarded, it’s easy enough to read between the lines. And that’s why they’ll never say anything about it, even in those roughest moments.)

After a few minutes, he pads his way into the kitchen. They all have a game tomorrow, but he figures it’s more important to check on zim instead.

“You good?”

Baby’s at the stove, making something in a pot (warm milk and honey, probably–It’s the closest I can get to caudle–this wouldn’t be the first time the two of them have ended up in this position). Ve doesn’t even turn at his voice, just flicks the kettle on without a second beat. That's enough permission for him to sneak behind cir, wrapping their arms around her torso until he can feel xem relax into it. It's only then that he tries again.

“Babe?”

“Don texted me again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It’s silent as Edric moves to join xem, pulling the jasmine tea his mom sent him out of the cupboard and putting it in to steep before turning to them.

“And?”

“And I’m not dealing with that bullshit till at least the end of the season. There’s too much going on.”

“Jesus. I mean, you’re not wrong, but…”

He knows they’re both thinking of Declan, lying in the other room, and just how tired he’s been the past couple days.

“Forecast is out for tomorrow, by the way. Feedback.”

“Ugh. You think we’re gonna catch a break any time soon?”

“Fuck, who the fuck knows? I’m tired, though.”

“Tell me about it.”

She pulls the pot off the hob, pouring into a mug before turning to look at them for the first time.

“I thought it was going to be easier than this, coming back. Should have known better.”

“I mean, it’s blaseball. No offense, but that’s always been the easiest part for you.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I don’t know. I think I’m like, actually scared for once in my life.”

“I mean, me too. But things couldn’t stay still forever, we both know that. We knew that going into this.”

“Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Xe puts down hir mug, pulling Edric’s out of his and before setting both of them on the counter and pulling them together, leaning down so their foreheads are nearly touching. “Promise nothing’s going to happen to you? You’re the only one left.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“Yeah, I do. Still.”

“I can promise I love you.”

“That’s enough.”

Chapter Text

In his dreams, all he can remember is the fire, the way the hulking machine sparked and shuttered, and the way the broken connection felt, and has always felt, like a severed nerve.

On those mornings, he wakes up screaming.

—-

“Edric!”

He barely has a chance to turn towards the voice before Zack is barrelling into his side. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he can’t help the grin that comes to his cheeks, before letting her guide him through the foreign halls.

“I can’t believe it took your partner getting stationed here for you to come and visit. Friends for 5 years, and this is what it takes, I’m wounded!”

Edric met Zack during a flight intensive back when they were both barely out of training, fresh-faced and away from their respective stations for the first time. That was before both of their accidents, back when he was still stationed at Deerfield and well– that’s not what matters right now.

“Oh, come on. I’m closer now, you know that.”

“Excuses. How is the PIT? I thought that was only supposed to be a two quarter thing?”

He cringes inwardly. “Turns out cleaning up a tower collapse takes a lot longer than you might think. And they’re required to have a medic on site until it’s done so…”

“So there you are.” Zack sighs. “Wonder if I could get Bickle to train me in the medbay sometime. It’s gotta be more interesting than Comms. I mean, anything has to be.”

He brushes his shoulder against hers. “Cabin fever starting to get you?”

“You have no idea.”

He stops, turns and looks at her. "You're way too jittery to just be excited about me, what's going on?"

She barely breaks her stride and Edric hurries to keep up. "Esme's here."

"Fuck. Really?"

"Job gone wrong, I think? I mean her dads are here, not surprising it's where she came to lay low with her crew."

"No, it makes sense, it's just... How are you holding up?"

"What can I say? It's awkward. She hasn't really said much to me, to be honest. Think she might feel a little guilty."

"Good." That earns him a sharp look. "What? She should feel guilty."

"Come on. Yeah, things ended badly, but it's not the same as you and–"

"Yeah."

They lapse into silence as they reach the end of the corridor. Zack coughs before pointing at an adjoining door.

"Baby should be down that hallway. I have to get back to work but I'll swing back in like an hour and we can grab lunch?"

"Sounds perfect." He grabs her arm and squeezes. "It's really good to see you."

"You too, babe."

And with that, Zack's footsteps echo down the hallway, and he takes a deep breath before opening the door.

-

“What would you rather be in: ship or mech?”

“Oh, I mean, mech. Obviously. You?”

“Same.”

“You sure you want to go back to Hellmouth? Bet you there's a world where we're compatible.”

“God, Tosser, you're such a flirt.”

“Fuck off, Zack. I'm being serious.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you're like, my twisted soulmate, I think.”

“God, we have to stop getting high after training.”

“Aw, love you too,”

“Love you, dipshit.”

–

The weird thing about only talking to your partner (well, not partner, but that’s a whole other thing) through aircomms for months is that you never know how things will go once you meet up again. Not that Edric is speaking from personal experience, mind you. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a little bit of nerves sitting in his stomach as he opens the door.

Baby doesn’t notice him at first. So he gets to look for a second, at the way vir hair falls across hir back, at the way his hand keeps fiddling with the wrench between zir fingers. Still, eventually:

“Hey.”

It’s a sharp double take like xe isn’t quite sure what she’s looking at. “Edric?”

He’s thrown into a hug before he can breathe, the kind that leaves you spinning and breathless right from the movies, and he’s laughing as he finds himself back on the ground.

“Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Zack needed a hand and I needed a break from Breck. Throw you into the mix and it was a win-win.”

“Holy shit. I can’t believe you didn’t say anything! It’s been…”

“Too long, yeah.” He looks up at xir. “I missed you.”

Her fingers brush the back of his neck. “Me too. How long are you staying?”

“Couple weeks, at least? Depends on how long things take, but we’ll see.”

“What are you doing, exactly?”

“Zack needs help repairing the mainframe, from what I’ve heard. After the last burst–“

“That makes sense.”

“Tell me about it.” He gestures to the mech in front of Baby. “I know it’s Siggy–“ Just about every kid in the Galaxy knows about the adventures of Knight Triumphant and Sigmund Castillo, the headlines wouldn’t stop blaring about “The Knight and their Fortress” growing up, “–but tell me about your Siggy.”

Massive understates just how big the mech before them is. Gigantic might be better, if barely. And still, Edric can see the nostalgic yearning in Baby’s eyes as they look at it.

“I don’t know… You know, before Knight started–“ Ze takes a sharp breath, and Edric can fill in the gaps. Before Baby got sent to flight school, before Knight became a household name. “He was a home. Our home. And I miss him. So hopefully, we can get him up and running again.”

“I’m sure you will, babe. I’m sure you will.”

-

“Hey,” Xe snaps hir fingers in a desperate attempt to get Edric to look at eir. “Hey! Babe, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

That’s probably an understatement– he’s practically catatonic in front of them. She redirects, this time kneeling in front of him and placing vir hands gently on their knees only after he nods.

“I mean, take your time but not gonna lie, you’re freaking me out a bit–”

“–Do you remember when you guys first found me?”

Ve pauses. “Which part?”

The Deerfield collapse was a massacre, to put it even remotely kindly. When Justice had gotten the distress signal from their home base, it was already too late. And by the time the Firefighters had gotten there, the only thing left in the burning embers was Edric himself. Shi’d never seen Josh as livid as when they got the report that the Cinnamon Stick was left to defend the entire station by itself.

“I kept saying something. What did I keep saying?”

Baby’s breath hitches in faer throat. “That we had to keep looking. That there was something else. But we triple checked, and there was no one else there. I pulled you out of that mech myself, Edric, and there was no one else there.”

“I know that’s what you all said. But,” And he looks up, eyes turned to ice. “Then why is my ex-partner sitting in the other room, Baby?”

Chapter Text

entanglement creeps around his neck like cobwebs, sticky and wet and foreign.

there are worse places he could be, ike supposes, when the world’s about to end. even if he’s out– even if he’s not where he should could be, he’s not alone.

(or at least, no more alone than he’s ever been. no more alone than he’s been since wes pressed that slightly damp baseball into his hands all those years ago. no more alone than the weight of his wedding band reminds him of. to be as among friends as he is out here (and he is, between the crabs and the wings and the rest of his own team, between burke’s friendly face and pedro’s worn hands, and the hum of qais by his side), to be amongst friends like this is a gift, and one that he’ll cherish.

so when the entanglement comes for isaac johnson, he takes it as he does most things; with squared shoulders and a breath as calm as he can make it.

-

when the fire comes for atlas, she doesn’t look away, just reaches for eiz’s hand.

(atlas guerra hasn’t been a Chicago firefighter for over forty-five years, but there’s certain things still ingrained in her. the hum of static, the need to help people, and a compulsion to bear witness. and in a moment like this, she thinks, someone has to.)

there are a dozen people she could try and find when the mints hit the floor of the hall, but the main one she’d want to is gone, turned to gold and locked away. instead, she slips away from the rest of the team, searching for another face she can remember.

it’s been a long time since atlas has seen joshua butt, but they smile just the same, and hugs that way too. when the mints eventually make their way to the vault, hewitt wraps her in one just as big.

-

the tacos sputter into the desert later than the firefighters, missing them on their way too and from the coin. it isn’t until days later that rivers finally spots lou, and nearly jumps into her arms.

(in the days/weeks/months that come, she’ll can’t help but wonder why they got this lucky, why the two of them got to stay together, when so many of their friends did not. it’s a different type of survivors guilt than the one that lives in her chest, the fractures lined with josh, and Iggy, and Kirby too, but it’s still a guilt all the same.)

she still limps, some days, and she sees the way Lou’s brow creases the first time she see’s. there’s fractures here too, inevitable in the face of distance and growth and grief, she supposes. they’re not the same people who once were together, who fought and screamed and cried, who were branded across the whole city, but rivers thinks they might just be better like this; new seeds to build stronger trees.

not many people out here get that chance.

-

the weight of axel’s head rests stiff on mullen’s chest, and all she can stand to do is pull him closer still. neither of them are particularly touchy people, but it’s him and her, (and somewhere off in the distance, like a memory or a ghost, the yong they once knew, too), and the world’s about to end.

her and axel have always been a bit of an odd couple, but there are some things thirty-some hours on a bike will do to people, and a lifelong friendship is one of them.

(mullen too, has been cursed with the instinct to never look away, and so she’s done, time and time again–tyreek dying, yong getting alted, that once horrible day in season 12–but few things have come as close to making her as the look on axel’s face two days ago. she doesn’t know if she had ever seen him so wrecked, and she hopes to never again.)

tomorrow, the garages will be nullified; the mills, the day after. but right now they’re all lying on the field of the big garage, looking up at the hole about to swallow them whole, and mullen has one more night to spend with her best friend.

-

edric kisses baby in one burning rush, and the day after, he burns too.

well, burning in this case is perhaps more like drowning, immateria slowly filling his lungs as they inch ever closer to the hall, and when he does kiss xir, it’s with blue lips to match their static eyes.

there are obvious faces for him to find when they reach the trench, and he sobs as he hugs josh and bertie and atlas in rapid succession. but there’s a face he finds after, that he’s taken years to find.

“it wasn’t fair,” when he finally stares down josé haley, “and i’m sorry.”

josé’s face says many things, a mixture of consternation and pity but mostly i am not your absolution and edric already regrets the words that sit on his tongue.

“you and tyreek and everyone else– you should have gotten more time. we shouldn’t have put that on you, none of us.”

josé wraps his hand in one furry paw and says, “it’s okay.”

edric nods and steps away– his regrets are his own, and there’s more faces to see.

Chapter Text

“So Axel slipped off, then?”

Layna doesn't look at you as you hand her the drink, just keeps her eyes on the starless sky. You're in the bleachers of the big garage, breath cold and floating in front of you, and you shiver as a breeze runs by. Unlike her, you can't look at the gaping maw before you for more than a couple seconds at a time, so instead your eyes stay fixed on her.

“Mmmm,” you nod even though she won't see, “Went off with Mullen. Probably for the best, I think.”

“Probably.”

The Seattle Garages and Axel Cardenas repel each other like magnetic poles– intentionally or not, it's hard to stay in a stadium that has your ex-boyfriend’s ashes painted on the wall. So he doesn't trust any of them as far as he can throw them; you, only an exception from your years elsewhere. The world is ending, and he's better off not surrounded by ghosts.

(a coward’s path, says the one in front of you, to run from your past.)

You ignore them as much as you've learned to over the years.

(the one ten feet to your left: “ze would know something about that, wouldn't ze.”)

Well, your transience has always been one of your better skills.

Neither of you speak for a minute. Your skin feels tight–taut–like you’re being stretched farther than you can possibly go. There’s a tension in the air, palpable, thick with aching and loss and gravity all in one. It’s almost too much. It’s definitely too much.

(the small one to your right grins, baring non-existent teeth. you look, just for a second, into their sunken eyes, their missing jaw. they’ve been with you the longest– since your trucker days, before blaseball, before clare. somedays, you think they know your shattered brain more thoroughly than you do.

they don’t say anything.)

Layna’s mouth quirks at the side, hinting at a smile she won’t let come to fruition. “It’s funny, isn’t it? That we’ve been here this long just to be taken out by a dying fucking sun.”

“Is it?”

“Don't be like that.”

She takes another swig. You look into her eyes, no light shining off of them because there's no light left to do so. It's getting darker, colder by the second, and you think you should maybe be scared but it's too far gone for that.

“I guess you care more about those than me, anyways.”

“What?” She looks at you for the first time, for no longer than a second or two. “You mean the suns?”

“What else would I mean?”

“Fuck off. I haven’t even been a Beam for four decades.”

(across the field, one of your ghosts is humming. you try and block it out before it can drive you mad.)

“You know, we used to have a Chicago Firefighters’ “Eat the Sun” tree-planting drive.”

She laughs, abruptly. ”Jesus Christ. Well, that's a name that didn’t age well.”

“Oh, it gets worse.”

A second glance, a raised brow. “How?”

“The full name was “the annual Chicago Firefighters Thomas Kirby Memorial "Eat The Sun" Tree Planting Drive”.”

“I–” You've hardly ever seen Layna speechless, but she is right now. “Well then.”

“Not our finest moment.”

“No, I imagine not.”

You spare a look back up at the sky, just for a second and it's all-consuming vertigo, colours too bright and utterly devoid all in one. It's going to, you know, swallow you whole. You can feel it coming.

A hand grapples for your wrist–you're both transfixed, now, transfixed and transported–and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“We're not getting out of this, are we?”

You can feel her head shake, but the words don't leave her mouth. The black hole, you think, has stolen that too.

“Yeah, I don't think so either.”

Just a few more seconds, it seems, if you're lucky. The two of you rarely are.

Chapter Text

“This is a mistake, right?”

“Probably.”

Zack is almost certain it is, even after she says it. It's the first time Esme’s been back to town in years, at least outside of games, and the beers they’ve gone through tonight have left her head spinning. Still, she never knows when to let things lie, so when they ended up by the reservoir–if her mind was less muddy, she'd have something to say about retracing old steps or falling into old patterns–she found herself suggesting skinny dipping like they were sixteen again.

To her credit, Esme went right along with it, stripping off her tank and jeans just as quick as Zack did. But there she is, already ducking her head under the water, while Zack stays frozen on the banks, shivering slightly in the breeze.

Esme, reemerging, calls out. “Aren't you going to come in?”

Zack isn't sure why her legs feel like lead all of a sudden, why it's like her roots have managed to tangle their way into the earth below her, but it does. For all that this feels a little too familiar, the weight of all fifty years that have happened since the last time they did this are hitting her all at once.

Esme tries again. “Zack?”

She shakes out of her stupor, and she's sure her cheeks would flush if they still could.

“Coming,” she says, softer than she means to.

With reckless abandon, she runs towards the water, making a sort of flailing dive as she lands feet first into the water with a splash. The force of her landing pulls her under, and she stays there for a few long seconds until she can no longer.

Esme paddles over to her, and in the moonlight, Zack can see her furrowed brow. “You good?”

Zack shakes her head, purposely trying to get the water from her hair to land on Esme with a grin. “Fine.”

Esme shrugs, leaning back into a backstroke and kicking away. “If you say so.”

Zack doesn't respond, just wipes the water out of her eye and attempts to decidedly not watch the way Esme's breasts peak out of the water, shining in the moonlight.

She's not very successful.

In part, she thinks, it is because she can't stop seeing ghosts around here– ghosts of who they were and who they used to be, who they used to be to each other. She sees the ledge of the reservoir, and thinks about the times they'd jump off of it holding hands, at twelve, fifteen, even twenty. That time they nearly drowned at sixteen, misguidedly making out in the middle of a storm. The both of them skinny dipping at eighteen–too much like this–tired and drunk after their graduation.

It's all too much.

Abruptly, she swims off towards Esme, who spins herself upright from where she was floating at the sound of it. They stare at each other for just a moment too long, and Esme starts to reach out.

“What's wro–”

Before she can stop herself, Zack pulls her into a kiss. It builds for one eternal second, Esme grabbing for her face, leaning in, pressing against her, desperate and wanting and everything she's been imagining all these years– but then it's over just as quick and Esme's paddling towards the shore.

“I can't–” she stutters, hauling herself out of the water before turning back, “I can't do this, Zack. We can't do this. We're not nineteen anymore.”

Zack’s still in the water, suddenly feeling far colder than she was a second ago. “What are you–”

“We need to grow up, Zack,” Esme scoffs, pulling her shirt over her head. “I'm not the girl you fell in love with, and I can't ever be her again. And you can't be the Zack I knew. We've both changed too much for that.” With a sigh, she stands. “You were right, this was a mistake.”

“Don't go.”

“I have to. You know that. You've always known that.”

And then, just as quick as anything else that night, Esme is gone, and Zack is alone. Tale as old as time, really.

-

“What were we, before the alt?”

Jess looks up from where she rests between Betsy’s thighs, brow furrowing.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, were we like this? Just fuckbuddies? Or was there something else going on.”

Jess sighs, sitting up. “Are you really doing this right now?”

“We've been dancing around it for months.”

“Wouldn't you rather just let me get you off?”

Betsy can't help but roll her eyes. “Jess…”

“That's not a no.”

“After.”

Jess huffs. “Awfully confident there.”

“Please?”

A silence stretches between them, growing thick, until Jess finally sighs.

-

“This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Pedro knows it is, and in the small part of his brain that's willing to be honest right now, he'd say that's exactly why he approached Edric in the first place.

A championship party when you didn't see active play is hard enough. It being his first one without Val is making it even harder. Throw all the rest into the mix–the fact that this may just be the last one they'll ever throw in Brock and Bertie’s place–well, it's hard not to drown in the weight of it all.

Sometimes, you need a distraction, and in the heat of the moment, this feels like the right one.

Chapter Text

You see it coming before it actually happens– at least the broad strokes of it. It's hard not to, as the runs slowly tick up on the TV in the corner of the living room; they've started ferrying you there after the first one, a shift in your contract that gets slipped in requiring all shadows to remain on league property for the duration of the game. None of you have a choice in the matter, but perhaps you never did.

The game ends and the spotlight activates, trying to find its target. This isn't the first time– McBlase was the first to go, after all, and Canton was only a couple weeks ago, at best. Whoever it lands on is in for a particularly sick game of cat and mouse, you all know it by now, but you’re still not prepared for it to land on you.

Everyone else’s eyes turn to you, you can feel them on your skin like a sniper’s scope, and you start to run. As fast as you can, past Pacheco and Anice, and you try not to flinch as Hunter presses something solid onto the palm of your hand on the way out of the locker room. Still running, you look down to see what it is: the blunt hilt of a dagger– good, you think, you’re going to need it.

You manage not to stumble, but your lungs are already burning, aflame with dread and a heavy beating heart. And then–

“Slow down, little doe! You know this isn’t going to end how you’d like.”

Of course they’d send Lang in first, with their vicious eyes and upturned grin. They are, perhaps, the only one here who knows you, and knows you well, at that; and if this is the starting offense, you’re in for a mess of the times.

The Seattle Garages, perhaps more than any team, have a wealth of assailants they can choose here; with as many as there are in their ranks after last season, it doesn’t matter as much if one goes down in the chase. They’re not stupid, though, even Lang’s always had a tactical mind, and you wouldn’t be surprised if they’re the one in charge today. It’s what you all would have done in their place, knowing who they were up against, inside insight means extra precious seconds in times like these.

“Fuck off, Richardson!” It's more of a wheeze than anything else really, but you can't help the grin as they snarl behind you, just missing your arm before getting caught by the chair you turned over.

Chapter Text

“So how are you actually doing?”

You laugh, wetly. “I’ve been crying practically since I landed. It’s like I can’t stop.”

There’s a smile to Hank’s voice, just out of reach. “Glad to be home?”

“I never thought I’d actually get the chance, towards the end. Fifty years in Philly–”

“Too fucking long.”

“Yeah.” There’s something needling you. “I’m guessing you don’t feel the same?”

“Things in Seattle are… complicated. They usually are. But it’s not the same as you, no.” A sigh. “I’ve been baking a lot. Not up for even thinking about touching an instrument, for now.”

“Not pies, I’d hope.”

“Only on occasion.”

“Hank…” It’s building to a whispered confession, like the ones you used to make while Bright slept next to you. “I think… I lost myself, towards the end. Like really lost myself.”

They laugh. “You were pretty scary. Especially that last season. A downward spiral, if I ever saw one.”

“Fuck off!” You sigh. “No, it’s just… I don’t know, Not to be a sap, but it feels like a fresh start, you know? Or at least a chance for one.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself… No, though, I get it, I do. I’m honestly kinda jealous, you know? You get to go home but it’s like, a chance for something new instead of being shoved into clothes I’ve outgrown.”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Philly was all kinds of fucked, but is this any better? I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Yeah.” God, you’re so tired. “I miss Bright.”

“And I miss Lang. We’ll make it through, Byrd.”

“Fuck pie or die, it’s fucking pie or live time–”

“–Fuck off!!!”

Both of you dissolve into laughter. “God, we’re fucked, aren’t we.”

“Things living in Philly will do to a motherfucker…”

“You know what I just realized, though?”

“What?”

“No more Sam.”

“Holy shit, you’re right… Burn in hell, fucker!”

“No more crust the process–”

“Jesus christ, how did we put up with that for so long…”

You sober, quickly. “A lot of us didn’t.”

“Oh fuck.” He sighs, apologetic. “Haruta, I didn’t mean.”

“Nah, she knew what she was choosing, it’s just…”

“Yeah.”

“However many years in a black hole and I still can’t get over it–”

“I don’t know if it’s one of the things you get over, Byrd. Sometimes losing people just does that, no matter how hard you try.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “I should go.”

“Byrd–”

“I’ll call you later, okay? This isn’t me begging off because I’m mad or anything, I’m just… I need a breather, okay?”

“Of course. I’ll call you tomorrow, how ‘bout that?”

“Sounds good. Oh, and Hank?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“If you’re gonna make pie again, make at least one of them apple for me, okay?”

The smile is back. “Can do.”

Chapter Text

The whole rest of the game, Hank keeps glancing back at the entrance to the dugout, but by the time they’ve reached the bottom of the ninth and Ruthless still isn’t back, there’s blood tinging his lip from the whole he’s bit through it.

It’s like– he knows why ve’s gone, the text alert made that clear enough; but Zack’s already been blowing up his phone with anxious questions and Bea isn’t doing much better, so the second the game is over he makes a break for it.

He barely makes it out of the stadium proper before he’s stopped by the one person he least wants to see right now: Shaquille Torres with his arm against the door, lying in wait.

“Hank, we need to talk–“

“Now really, really isn’t a good time, Shaq.”

“There’s never a good time, you’ve been avoiding me for months already–“

“Shaq–“

“You need to talk to me at some point–“

“Shaq. One of like, three people I care about on this team ran off halfway through the game because they found out one of their best friends died, in the fucking city the two of them played in. So unless you’re going to help me track Ruthless down, I really have to go–“

“Wait, what?”

“Do you really not– …Rivers Rosa was incinerated in Houston, Shaq. OG firefighter. How do you not know?? Isn’t the city like–“

“I can’t– I can’t hear it all the time. Like… the signal gets jammed. All I’ve heard for the past forty minutes is static.”

“Well–“ He doesn’t have time for this right now, he really doesn’t. “I really need to find them, so either help me, or get out of my way.”

Almost dumbstruck, Shaq steps aside, letting them through. Hank barely makes it halfway down the corridor before:

“Wait!” Hank looks back, seeing Shaq with a look of concentration, like they’re straining to hear something. “Check the garage first, okay? I have a feeling.”

He takes a deep breath, meeting their eyes. “Thank you. I’ll find you before our series ends, okay? I promise.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think Shaq was cracking a smile. “I’ll hold you to it.”