Dinner Night

The smell of spices hits Adalberto’s nose when they get to the door.

The apartment lights, sans the kitchen, are turned down low. Some sort of music fills the air between the smell of garlic.

She said he was just going to pick up wine, cheese and bread, just like his husband asked, but got sidetracked by a few extra treats along the way. The corner market by their apartment was always too tempting, and Brock would definitely tease him for it later.

He watches Brock sway to the quiet music, he looks focused, relaxed, and the sight makes Bertie feel warm.

He sets the grocery bag on the counter, which gets Brock’s attention enough to smile at him, before going back to swaying.

Bertie lets himself slink behind him, pressing himself against Brock’s back, moving with his sway. Bertie’s long arms wrap around Brock’s waist, Brock leans his head back slightly, enough to press against Bertie’s chest.

This is how they stay, the lingering jazz, the warm smell of tomato & rosemary.

Then Bertie leans in, bending down, they kiss the man, letting their lips linger on the top of his head, then he hears Brock chuckle.

“Isn’t bending down like that gonna hurt your back?”

Bertie rests their chin on his head, “That ship sailed a long time ago dear.”

Brock sighs, “It’s only a little unfair that you’re so much taller than me”

Bertie grins, “It’s either this or we get you a step stool.”

With his unoccupied hand, Brock lightly hits him. He sets the spoon down, then turns to face Bertie.

“I can reach you just fine thank you.” Suddenly Brock raises up, balancing on his tiptoes, to place a kiss on the bottom of Bertie’s lips.

Bertie meets him, of course he does, he holds his husband close. He takes in his cold skin, running his hand against the rough texture of his face. He keeps an arm around him, just to make sure the steady balance doesn’t shift.

Then he feels Brock jump, he falls off his tiptoes.

“The sauce!”

Brock turns around to what is clearly a now steaming and bubbling concoction. Bertie chuckles and presses another kiss to his head.

“Keep your eyes on the prize love.”

Brock grumbles with no malice behind it, “Well someone decided to distract me!”

“Do you want cheese bread or not?” Bertie retorts.

Brock grins at him, “the oven is already preheating, I didn’t forget.”

Bertie smiles back, then goes to get the groceries they brought home.

The warm silence fills the room again, with the promise of dinner getting closer.

Without warning, Brock asks, “What snacks did you buy?”

“Dammit.”

Live Ash

Since joining the team, Kennedy hasn’t been a stranger to fire. He hadn’t been a stranger before of course, he’s worked with blow torches and forgers in his lab, but the sensation of a burning building is unlike anything else.

When he joined the team, after Axel understandably went home, the decision to pair himself and José on the same shifts made sense.

“It’s a comfort thing, trusting your crewmates is a big part of the job, and you two know each other.”

This was very true.

He trusted José deeply. Knowing that it was him he’d be with when the transfer to Chicago hit, being a battery and having that connection made the transition feel more…homey?

Almost.

Still.

The first time they went on a call with Joshua and Declan, the heat and the embers and the determination in José’s eyes was something else. It was, frankly, a horrific first call, and as evacuations continued, he almost lost track of him.

As Josh recounted the people living in the building and aid was being administered, Kennedy heard a scream.

Then boots hitting the pavement.

Then Declan yelled after his partner.

The building wasn’t safe. Joshua didn’t let him go in after him regardless of immortality or his metal components.

It was a tense three minutes.

José would come out with a boy in his arms. His eyes would lock with Declan, and like that, they were back to it, helping the injured, putting out the fire, following the call.

From everything about that night, his processors still cycle the sound of José’s cough, and the way he hid it in his sleeve.

Josh would reprimand him after, and he would apologize to the three of them after the fact.

They spent a lot of their time before the season in the basement of the firehouse.

Justice and Baby had told him there was some industrial space for him to work on himself and other mechanical projects, and after Thomas offered up a bean bag, José would camp out while he worked. Oftentimes, he would just read, sometimes, he’d be writing in a small notebook. It was a quiet company between the bending and shaping of metal.

José wasn’t always this quiet though.

He couldn’t really place when, but it always felt like he was trying to prove himself to the team…to everyone. He didn’t need to do that, none of them needed to prove anything, they had just won a championship!

Though, all things considered, he hadn’t really processed that himself.

None of them were strangers to fire after that.

The way Burke had held Axel back sticks in his mind.

Today José brought a project, some herbs to crush, a small molcajete and several clippings from his now downsized collection. José’s interest in plants fascinated him, while he never reaped the benefits of the various plants José would give to his teammates, getting the man to talk botany was always fascinating.

When he asked him what he was grinding, José first gave him a smirk.

“Really?” Kennedy laughed, but José shook his head.

“No, it’s not that, I’m grinding some chamomile, Silvia asked for it to help her sleep.”

Kennedy smiles softly, Silvia has kept in good contact with them both over the break, “That’s really nice.”

José hums in agreement, grinding out the dried flowers into a bowl.

“Say,” Kennedy begins, “How does it help you sleep again?”

The season starts like any other, they play the game like they’re supposed to. Jaylen isn’t like that anymore, and Chicago is far enough from Seattle that they don’t play much anyhow.

Still, the edge is still there. The fear of an ump’s eyes glowing white.

He was not on the field when Miguel Wheeler died, but José was. They called it a posthumous single in the reports, and it brought José home.

Despite the chaos, the screaming and crying and management sending Case out on the field, the thing that stuck with Kennedy the most was the hollow terror in José’s eyes. He was the only one of them on the field then.

He was just too far away.

Kennedy would often find himself at games he didn’t pitch, he didn’t need recovery like the others, he could watch, he could learn, he could hope to improve.

Caleb was a good pitcher and so was Garner on the Lovers, so he sat back, he took notes, and he watched, doing his best to ignore the looming dark sky.

It was the top of three and Caleb made quick work of Horne. Ortiz walked up to bat, her usual pomp and determination.

The rest came quick.

José was running, running, running, kicking up dirt along the first base line. The snakes slithering around Ortiz’s scalp jutted back. Caleb was yelling, Josh was yelling, from the opposing dugout Triumphant was running out too.

José burns.

It’s a cloud of glowing flame and ash, Ike and Ortiz are scrambling back as the umpire is unphased.

The smoke clears and everything is tinged a radiant orange, not like fire, not like embers, unlike anything he’s ever seen before.

He stares at the grass and the dirt and the bodies covered in what remains among the ashes.

The game continues.

They lose.

It’s Wesley, who finds him hours after the game ends, sitting at home plate.

The ashes were cleaned up, Josh was the one to call Burke, and he had declined the phone.

The orange though– “What is it?”

Kennedy stared down at the earth.

“Pyrophilous spores, a type of fungi which spreads after a fire.”

Wesley doesn’t respond.

Kennedy talks anyways.

“It was the blessing, that’s when things changed. I didn’t know–”

His gears creak, he’s registering a heat malfunction.

“You can’t blame yourself Ken,” Wesley sighs, “none of us knew he would do that.”

Kennedy doesn’t feel so sure.

Still though, he looks at the spores, he remembers a late night discussion, talking about the living network of mycelium that made up mushroom growth.

He remembers what it takes for those networks to be alive.

He remembers the determination in José’s eyes.

Eventually, he and Wesley go inside.

Some spores cling to his body, the brilliant orange lingers.

Even now, he doesn’t feel alone.

Remember Him

They stay in a group.

This has been the case since they landed here. Of course, staying with the team is common, but almost everyone is in reach at a moment’s notice.

And that’s where he finds himself now. Duffy–it’s Duffy sitting next to him, his back to the ever burning massive campfire that has sustained all of them. They stare at the starless sky, and Peanut Bong finds himself staring too.

It feels weird. Being this close, he hasn’t seen him since shit–season 10? Not since the falling, not since the shadowing, not since the–

Fuck.

“Did you feel it?” He breaks the silence, Duffy’s eyes meet theirs and it almost stings.

“Feel–” Duffy pauses, closing their eyes.

“No one else knew, they didn’t remember him by the time he went.”

That wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“It hurt. It fucking stung.”

“Ruthless didn’t understand why I crumbled to my knees.”

Bong balls his fists and starts to shake.

“I don’t fucking get it!”

Duffy starts tries to talk but the fire in Bong’s eyes makes it clear to stop.

“Why did you two get to stay together?”

“I don’t know D-” Duffy’s voice cracks, a familiar swell and itch starts to scrape at his vocal cords.

Bong deflates, “I know you don’t know D.”

“Do you miss him?” Duffy asks.

“I don’t know…it feels like losing a limb. It felt different than Quitter. Aly hurt too, but fuck man.”

Duffy nods.

“He didn’t want to put down roots, like I did.”

Bong turns to him, “Yeah?”

Duffy shakes his head, “They wanted to recover, to put it to rest. They found a lot of joy in Chicago…”

Bong laughs,”and then he went to Philly.”

Duffy sighs, “And then he went to Philly.”

The two stare off into the endless distance, the fire behind them feels almost closer.

Bong leans into him, Duffy relaxes into his warmth.

“Fuck you for leaving me, both of you.”

“I missed you too.”

“I’m glad you remember him.”

“I’m glad you remember him too.”

Bong raises an imaginary glass, “To Holloway “

“To Holloway”

Black Hole Home

It has been seven days, twenty two hours, and forty minutes since Brock left the apartment. Missions as a seeker take time, Josh knows this, and he knows he has to stay behind.

Him and Burke keep up the house. There’s no point in streaming anymore, not here, not now, but the two of them occupy themselves with any number of things. Lately, Josh has been reading, laying on the couch with a stack he stole from one of Burke’s many, many bookshelves.

If he’s being honest, the sheer amount of romance novels among the physics books and research articles is more of a surprise than he thought. Burke is doing his usual, pacing, researching, reading and writing down his recent examinations of the situation they’re in and the last bits of information Jasper and Haruta had brought back to him weeks ago now.

The house was quiet, this is honestly what they both preferred. When it was just them…well, the two of them, Sosa, and Axel, the house would be left in a similar state like this, the absences of them felt oddly heavy in Josh’s chest.

He knows that Sosa is safe, they heard from Stout that Houston made it to the desert safely.

He knows why Brock stays out so long.

Josh puts the book down against his chest and closes his eyes. While they were expecting impending doom through all of this, it’s the waiting, the nothingness, that exhausts him the most.

The spiral Josh is falling down breaks with a knock at the door.

Josh looks up and Burke is already moving to the door. There’s no real warning, when someone comes to visit, but the beds are always made. Josh isn’t quick to admit he enjoys the company, but he’d be remiss to shut anyone out. When Burke opens the door, he hears him gasp.

A quiet “hi” sends Burke down on one knee, he hugs the person in front of him.

NaN. The kid is a little taller now, the glitching and static floats above the pair as Burke holds him tight.

Josh gets up as Burke is letting go. Burke laughs then “Help me up would you?” NaN extends a hand, and Burke braces himself as he gets back to his feet.

Burke is leading NaN into the living room when the kid spots him.

NaN stares up at him for a moment, blinking.

Josh smiles.

NaN runs forward, hugging him, pushing into his stomach.

“Oof” Josh braces the kid, surprised at the rush.

NaN’s voice is quiet, he turns his head to he side so Burke can hear him too.

“I missed you guys.”

Burke walks over to both of them, his hand resting on Josh’s shoulder, “We missed you too. Have you been doing okay?” It’s a loaded question, Burke looks at him with an immediate regret in his eyes.

NaN sighs anyways, “I–do not like Philly.”

Josh mutters “Does anyone?”

Burke hits him lightly on the shoulder.

“Is that what brought you here?” Burke’s voice is soft. The same softness he heard seasons ago when NaN first arrived.

“It’s the roam…actually.”

Right.

That’s right.

Brock has told them about running into roamers, it’s the only reason they can still see Jas now after all this time.

The poor kid probably didn’t want it to be this way. He knows how hard it can be when you can’t settle.

“Do you know how long you can stay kiddo?” Burke’s voice is gentle.

NaN sighs, “I know I can stay for a bit…at least.”

Josh cuts in, pitting his hands on NaN’s shoulders, “Well hey, we have a bedroom ready, why don’t you rest, and I’ll put dinner on.”

NaN looks up at him and smiles.

The kid is quick to hug Josh again, and a moment later he’s hugging Burke.

With one last “Thanks” NaN walks to his bedroom like routine.

Burke looks up at Josh. His smile is almost nostalgic.

“Do you want help with dinner?”

Josh nods at his partner.

At least for tonight, the house will get to feel a bit more like home.

Commemorate

Just before season 15, there’s a practice day, and Lucy is called to Sam’s office.

She checks her locker like any other morning once she gets to the stadium, and there’s a pristine, clean slice of strawberry rhubarb sitting on a gilded plate, resting on her scripts and books.

She doesn’t move to remove it, she glances around a moment, but before she can speak up. Eduardo is looking at her, shaking his head, and her mouth falls shut.

Walking up to her, Eddie shuts the locker quietly, while he cannot sigh, his eyes flicker, and a comforting metal hand meets her forearm.

“Go up to Sam’s office. This means business.”

Lucy doesn’t have any questions, she knows, at least, some about the manager of the team, she has at least seen him once, on the day she signed. The stories about him are tense, she even fondly remembers Jessica calling him a number of expletives at some point during a visit. Regardless, the Philly Pies take business as seriously as they do winning, and this is no jovial manner.

Lucy smiles at Eduardo, “Thank you dear.”

Eddie nods at her, letting his arm fall, “see you soon.”

So she goes. Heels clacking up stairs, the piece of pie in her hands still as pristine as ever, by the time she makes it to Sam’s gilded door, she’s putting on that practiced smile. This is no worse than any audition room, certainly no worse than any directors meeting, she knows she will be fine.

She knocks and the door opens wide. Sam is sitting there, and he grins.

“Ms. Tokkan, take a seat.”

She walks in, and does as asked, “What can I do for you Mr. H-”

“Sam is fine dear,” he cuts her off, “I’d just like to talk about your place on the team.”

Oh.

Oh dear.

Lucy paints a smile.

“What can I do for you? Am I pitching or batting?”

“Neither actually,” Sam perches his elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands, “developmental has determined you aren’t quite ready yet, but in due time all things work out.”

She’s not playing.

What does he want?

“Do you have another role in mind for me?”

Sam’s wide grin creeps into view and Lucy just keeps herself from shuttering.

“From my understanding, you’ve been spending quite some time in the Piebrary, is that correct?”

Lucy nods, “Yes, I thought I’d test out the cherry pie recipes.”

Sam’s nostrils flare, he looks almost delighted, “Not everyone has a pension for baking like you do dear. Amazing on the stage, amazing in the kitchen, you even got perfect marks in mortuary school.”

Lucy’s smiling performance slides off of her face in an instant.

“Those records are private.”

Sam keeps grinning, “Nothing stays private forever dear, which was quite fortunate for me.”

Lucy’s lip twitches, she cocks her head and closes her eyes before asking the question one more time, “What can I do for you?”

Sam sits back. He’s clearly satisfied getting under her skin. “I need you to help in concessions. I believe you know about our commemorative pies.”

She blanches a bit, remembering the gaudy advertising about ashes.

Ashes.

Wait.

“You’ll have a special role that unfortunately the previous holder is unable to fill.”

Lucy’s lips are tight.

“You’ll be responsible for assuring everything surrounding those pies is perfect of course, and if any new recipes are to come of this, I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at figuring it out.”

Lucy feels faint, she needs out of this office. Now.

“I understand.”

Sam stands up, he’s walking to the door. When did the door close? She’s standing now too.

“I’m happy to see you undertake this position Ms. Tokkan, and I trust you won’t let me down?”

She puts on that smile again, “Of course Sam.”

He nods, “Good.”

He leads her out the door before shutting it in on himself, and Lucy stands in the hall alone.

She’s done it.

She never knew any of them, not really, Eddie or Lang or even Bright will talk about them.

She didn’t know them.

But she knows their faces.

Genetic material and technology she doesn’t understand is one hell of a baking technique and time after time again the racks are stocked with peach and apple and Mississippi mud and gooseberry and coconut cream and Lucy has never loathed the smell of sugar and fruit more in her life until now.

She does this, without fail because what else is there to do when the man upstairs expects this task done expertly.

She was even briefed, as much as a big black “recipe book” can brief a person about handling ashen remains in a culinary setting and what to do when the umps target someone new.

It’s been seasons though.

Yeong-Ho died before she was here.

Just like in school, she doesn’t let the grief hit her. Maybe it was the years of exposure, maybe it’s the acting classes she secretly paid for during college. She’s fine.

Getting called to pitch is a saving grace. She’s elbow deep in the crust when she gets the fax, and she knows damn well when she walks out onto the field shades of Mickey Woods gray are probably smudged across her face.

She does well.

Sam has not reassigned the task, she works on the days she doesn’t pitch.

Lang jokes about bags under her eyes and she punches him.

She is tired. The faces of the dead come in waves. This is why she went to acting, the faces haunted her then too, she never had to hold their hands then.

Maybe she’s hoping for the end of the world.

She’s never been a fan of comedy.

Bright burns.

In all the seasons she knew the girl, in all the seasons she didn’t, she knew that Philly was her home, even if it didn’t love her back.

Ruslan and Eduardo stare at her when she sweeps up the ashes. They try to tell her there’s no point and the glare she gives them both sends them turning heel. She bags them up. She does not bake.

Eddie knew about her task, eventually, after a particularly bad game, she confided in the metal man.

Both of them thought the last bit of her training would never come to fruition.

Pie or die and no one had died in a long long time.

But here she is holding the ashes of a girl in her locker refusing to use them for their expected purpose. They haven’t heard from Sam all season, and there sure as hell isn’t anyone in the stands itching for a Bright themed snack.

Day 67 and Lucy feels sick from all of the gaudy pink. San Francisco is still hot without the sun and worse with the supernova, but when Holloway leaves scorches in the grass, she’s out on the field before anyone else can catch her.

Eddie is trying to pull her back, he’s yelling at her, what the fuck are you going to do with those ashes with no mouths to feed, there’s no demand at the end of the world.

This isn’t about the pies in the concessions or her duty to the boss, in everything she has done from long before taking the field, in those damn classes that got her into this mess, she understood how important it was to not let these ashes go forgotten.

She doesn’t answer Eddie’s question. She doesn’t write recipes. She fashions urns out of emptied flour and sugar cans. After every single Mickey and Cedric and Juan and Forest and Hobbs and Yeong-Ho it’s the bare fucking minimum she can do.

She asks herself if saving the two of them makes up for it all, what she’s become.

Day 79, she doesn’t get her answer.

Maybe

He tries to avoid checking on the league.

It’s just him in the apartment now. Buddy sits by his side like always, but even the good dog knows it’s not the same.

Commissioner Vapor is finding it harder and harder to get out of bed.

It’s been some time now since York, some time since Jesús picked up the base.

He wanted to say he’d be better than this.

More and more often, he’s found himself floating out of his suit, avoiding it all together even, filling the room with soft white vapor, floating above the lamps, if he isn’t careful, he even clings to the popcorn ceiling.

Calling this place home almost felt wrong.

Isolation was bad. Mooney told him this once. She recalled when Jesús first came from his universe. She recalled what it was like all those seasons ago losing people he never knew. In a rare instance, she even brought up her wife…

He’s unsure if he should be grieving like this. Grieving what has been gone for some time now. Grieving what should have been were it not for existing in this exact place.

He finds himself asking if calling this place home matters.

The memories hurt. So much of York is still here, action figures and artwork and enough pokemon plushies to fill a chair. Looking at the sticker-covered door of Jesús’ room he remembers the night’s he’d spend there, laughing and crying and finding all of the brand new ways he could feel. These are memories that feel good, he knows this, and yet…

Why does it feel so distant now?

He can feel himself running out…fading out. Enough energy to perform is one thing. It’s not like he has streamed recently at all.

Dot and Workman will bring over food, Mooney checks in on his suit, he makes sure the apartment is clean and Buddy is taken care of the best he can possibly manage.

But managing isn’t enough, is it?

He’s tired.

He’s so, so tired.

He checks the league, reading the numbers, he makes sure Jesús is safe.

He reads the names of teams, places so far from home.

Maybe he won’t stay either, not like York, not ike Jesús, maybe he’ll be able to see it all on his own terms.

Maybe he’ll try again.

With one last thought, before he feels his form drift into exhaustion, is that maybe things can be better.

Buddy whines at the ceiling, and he floats down to the warmth of his companion, despite the lack of physical contact, Buddy cuddles close.

Yeah.

Maybe.

Cling

Josh is ogling him, he can tell.

He’s standing in the living room, staring wistfully into the dining room where he is standing, slowly putting on the parts of his space suit for the first time in over two decades.

Brock realizes that Josh never saw him in the space suit last time.

He moves to stretch feeling the layers of fabric and metal and polymer shift with him.

Then his husband wolf whistles.

“Alright alright that’s enough,” Brock sighs at him, walking towards the grinning man.

“What? Can a man not enjoy his husband all dressed up? Is it a crime to appreciate my cool astronaut husband?” Josh’s arms meet him as Brock gets closer, they slink around his hips. He pulls him in close.

“First off, not an astronaut, second off, I didn’t know you were in space suits, hun.”

Josh laughs at that, “Tell you the truth, I’m really not.”

Brock doesn’t expect that to be the end of the sentence, the silence sits for a moment before Josh speaks again.

“Just wanted to appreciate you…before you left.”

Brock takes his glove off of his hand and rests his palm against Josh’s cheek, “You know that I’ll be home soon.”

“I know I just–” Josh’s voice catches, the tell tale sign of anxiety is clear on his face.

“I know,” Brock supplies, “And I will not leave you, under any circumstances.” “You’re gonna keep writing things down right?” Josh asks him, glancing at the bookshelf that housed his journal from the last major expedition.

“Yes, obviously I need to keep scientific data and observations, but I won’t leave you empty handed either.”

Josh smiles at that, “That’s all I ask.”

Brock’s hand moves from Josh’s cheek to the back of his head.

Josh’s arms hold tighter around his waist.

Brock kisses him.

He kisses him for a long time.

Enough to savor it, to remember the cool touch of his skin.

To remember the shape of his face and his lips and the texture of his hair.

Josh is holding his waist tighter, clinging to his husband tight.

He’s savoring it too.

He didn’t savor it then, when he left for the sun all those years ago.

But he will damn sure savor it now, and he will do this, again and again and again and again, every return from the void, every expedition he goes on.

If nothing else, Brock Watson is a man of science.

But Brock Watson is a man who loves first and foremost.

Worldwide

Neerie was always better at the piledriver.

She had one mean fishermans driver, back in the heyday it could knock him out flat in seconds.

It helped, though, that she made it so easy to powerbomb her.

Summer days would be like this, taking bump after bump, slamming into the mat and bouncing off the ropes with such speed it was a miracle neither of them seriously injured one another.

One day, after practice, Zephyr would lay next to her. The sky is magenta and cream, the warm glow of the setting suns illuminating the clouds pink.

Neerie turns to him.

“So what’s the plan, when you get outta school?” She’s smiling at him, graduation is coming up soon and the anticipation in both of their bones has shown both in and out of the homemade ring.

“Wrestle.” Zephyr’s answer is firm, his parents weren’t exactly happy at first, but he broke them down enough. Wrestling school was cheaper than University, and he was willing to put in the work.

“You sure you don’t wanna work with me?” Neerie’s laugh is breathless, she’s intent on trade school, running her own business where she can shame people night and day for whatever fucked up coffee orders come through the till.

“I’ll order an awful expresso if I see you on the road.”

With the clouds above them, Neerie reaches her hand out to the sky, rays of golden light bounce through her skin.

Zephyr joins her.

The darkness is suffocating, the nothingness makes his muscles ache. He can’t feel the sky, he can’t feel the ground. The bruise on his chest from Niq’s wild pitch is the only thing tying himself to his body.

He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t ask for this.

He had to get out. He needed out. He couldn’t be like–

Neerie.

He hasn’t seen her. Not for a long time now. Not since Dallas and the flood and–

The light breaches his eyes, the neon sickness of the city and the supernova feels welcoming.

He. Will. Not Die. Here.

He’s running faster than he ever has before, faster than his time on the field, faster than the match against Kane in Tijuana he took during siesta, faster than in that dingy backyard ring with his sister.

He will not fade into obscurity.

In his head, Zephyr hears the ring of the bell, he hears the screams of the crowd.

His boots hit the dust.

He dreams of seeing the sky. The real sky.

From the depths of redaction, a wrestler roars.

The World Wide stadium greets him with open arms.