Category Archives: Fan Fiction

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.

There Will Be No Song For Him

“Six days till event horizon,” Brock tells him. It’s barely a whisper, with his head pressed against the top of his, the man behind him, much like everyone else, is so, so tired.

Where up until now, they’ve managed some semblance of faux stability, the wake of the end of the world makes Burke’s head spin.

They have a game in Kan–Oxford, now, apparently. He still can barely stomach the change. Death upon death upon death upon death, the feeds and the ticker and the announcements play off in every stadium like a pained rattle.

The universe, every bit of their existence is feeling this world ending tug, and the closer they make it to the black hole, the more he thinks of the darkness, the more he wishes it would just envelop him already.

The day passes.

The feed rattles.

“The Seattle Garages have reached the Hall of Flame…the Seattle Garages appear to be…

The word is muffled by screams all across the field. The Garages are beloved, in some parts of the world, the band plays on often beyond the city of Seattle. Burke has never been able to stomach the noise.

Especially not now.

He’s falling. He feels the Earth fall from under him.

There’s pairs of arms, two to be exact, they are cold and comforting but they aren’t enough, they aren’t enough, they couldn’t be enough.

Burke’s vision is full of static and feathers and blinding liquid salt. He’s scrubbing at his face, his glasses crumbling to the concrete dugout floor. His heart is screaming in every sense of the word, he should be gone in his partners arms right now, but he is here, fighting the bile and the erratic beat in his chest.

There are people crying far beyond where the Wings are huddled, mourning this team so beloved by the ignorance of the fans.

Burke could care less about them, about their musicians and their players. The death toll being as long as it is, the name is meaningless to everyone in these stands.

There will be no song.

He just lost his son.

The next four days, they don’t expect him to play, there’s some naive thought that the end of the world means the contract is broken.

He plays anyway.

When they’re edging the horizon on day 79, Joshua and Brock are by his side. They have stayed by him through all of this. The static and the gold and the feathers have faded now, the one fucked up gift the universe could grant him before it all ends.

The play their last game.

His partners squeeze his hand.

The darkness takes.

The Highs and Lows of Niche Avian Research

Nickname relishes in the early siesta. It’s a time for em to take a moment, to return to eir office, file reports, and unpack the last…several months of active play.

E wont deny the enjoyment of having the hands on ability to work with the team, but between stiff muscles and broken blood feathers and every form of hellish stress known to man, the break gives em just the moment e needs.

E has a lot of papers in hand now, prone to just shoving notebooks and loose sheets in backpacks and suitcases is not exactly the most professional action but when you’re flying between Mexico City and dozens of other places across the world, you do what you can to get by.

Nickname elbows eir office door open, the warm light and cool architecture of the Bucket being a welcoming site.

“Hi Nicky.”

E hears her before e sees her.

Scarlet Caster is one of Nickname’s more ominous teammates, not in a malicious way, but truly knowing her was something e would never grasp. Yet here she was, clad in that familiar red leather and large brim hat, she was sitting on eir desk, careful to not disturb the mountains of documents sitting on the oak number.

“It’s nice to see you, Miss Caster.” Nickname sets the papers in eir hands down on the nearby lounge chair.

“It’s nice to see you too Nicky.” Despite the fact that eir interactions with Scarlet are sparse, she donned the name on em fairly fast. It had surprised a few people on the team at least.

Usually, e would bristle at the…Nickname, e avoided it when e could, but in a moment just like this, around the same time e joined the team, Scarlet met em in eir office, far more foreboding then, the red leather replaced with something dark.

She asked em questions, countless questions, it felt like an interrogation at first, from everything to eir intentions on the team, to eir research, to how e felt about blaseball as a whole.

The last question sticks out the most, though.

“Do you ever intend to hurt Cell Barajas?”

Nickname remembers almost being hurt by the question.

“Of course not,” the person back then would say. “I took a dedicated oath, Miss Caster, not just to this team, not just to my profession, but to myself. Harming anyone would not just be a professional failure, but a personal one. I would have never stepped on to the field if I believed I could cause harm, whether it was intentional or not.”

That response back then seemed to help, Scarlet’s shoulders had loosened, she had let out a breath.

“Good…good…it will be good to have someone like you around for—for Cell, and everyone else.” Nickname actually beamed at the warm regards from the woman then.

“Oh, one more thing,” with her hat tipped forward, e couldn’t see her face, but the smile in her voice was obvious.

“Can I call you Nicky?”

“So how’s it going?” Scarlet asks. The question shakes em out of eir thoughts. This is how most of her office visits go now, a check in, a conversation, then she vanishes like the means. E didn’t really mind it.

“It’s going as fine as it can go! My research is going well especially now that a lot of injuries are out of the way but you know I can’t talk about that with patient confidentiality and—“

Under her hat Scarlet is smiling.

“Nicky—Yamashita,” the use of eir last names makes Nickname pause. “How’s the game going?”

Oh.

Nickname chuckles, “It’s as good as it can be, I think. Uh, you lead the lineup and all, but I’m certainly not a good batter.”

“Join the club buddy, since day one the wings have been bad at offense.” The sarcasm is rich in Scarlet’s voice, it makes em laugh.

“I’m so thankful for our pitchers,” Nickname pauses for a moment, “Cell keeps offering to train with me, I might take up the offer.”

Scarlet nods, “That would be good practice, you know we-she’s made for that kinda stuff.” Her stumble goes unnoticed, but the pause after does not.

“Speaking of Cell,” Scarlet’s shoulders tighten a bit, the only bit of readability she offers. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“Please understand,” Nickname begins, “I cannot break doctor patient confidentiality-“

“I know that Nicky,” Scarlet cuts em off. “It’s not anything like that.”

“Oh,” E blinks in surprise. “Then go ahead.”

Scarlet sighs for a moment, she tips her hat lower, “Cell, when you work with her, when you work with all of them, do you view them all the same?”

The question is a surprise.

The answer is easy.

“Why would I?” Scarlet is clearly surprised by the response, but Nickname continues.

“Every time a Cell joins us on the field, that’s a new life, there’s an entire species of people, of course I’d expect everyone to be different. If I assumed everyone when they were born would be the exact same all the time, it would be ridiculous.”

And Nickname continues, “I mean, beyond physical differences, every single Cell gets to develop on their own, they don’t even have to be A Cell, that’s a major part of my work here, watching the development is wonderful Scarlet, watching each and everyone become their own person is beautiful.”

By the time e finishes, e can tell Scarlet is satisfied with eir answer. She stands up from the desk and nods at em.

“That’s…yeah is is really beautiful Nickname, I’m glad you feel that way.”

E smiles back at her, “You know, I appreciate you coming to visit Scarlet, you can always join me in my resea-“ a knock at the door cuts them off. “One second.”

There is no one at the door.

When Nickname shuts it and turns around, Scarlet is gone.
The papers e left on the bench are now stacked neatly on the desk.

Resting on top the pile, Nickname takes in the beautiful brown, white and orange pattern of a large harpy feather.

E sighs, thinking of eir previous visitor, and smiles.

Blaseball Mini Prompts: Washing Each Other’s Hair

Burke shoots up from the bed, the thin sheets sticking to his drenched skin as he shakes awake. His hand is over his throat, lingers of the static he was clearly spouting prior to waking up still stung hard.

Despite the sun setting hours ago the heat was still unbearable, and the rise and fall of his chest was making his head spin.

The knock at his door make’s Burke scramble for his glasses.

With a short cough, Burke responds, “Come in.”

The door open slowly, and Brock peaks his head in.

“I heard a–Burke are you alright?”

As Brock’s full body comes into view for Burke, he watches concern rise on his face.

Burke opens his mouth to speak, but falters instead.

Brock sits down at the end of the bed, his movements as careful as they always feel to Burke.

He reaches out his hand, and Brock takes it in his.

“You,” Brock begins, “Are incredibly sweaty.”

Burke laughs at that, he really does. His shoulders shake from the laughter and the sheets peel from his back.

“Yeah I am.”

“Do you want to take a shower?” Despite the clamminess of his palm, Brock squeezes his hand tight.

“Please?” Burke leans into the man in front him, and Brock stands up to support him.

Removing himself from the sheets, Burke falls into Brock’s arms, they move slow, creeping across the dark of the apartment. The cold of Brock’s scales ease the heat and ache.

By the time they make it to the bathroom, and Brock has the water turned at best, lukewarm, Brock is still leaning into him.

With his hand on the small of Burke’s back, he helps him into the shower. Accepting the fate of his clothes, he stepped in as well.

Burke lets his head fall under the water, Brock watches the white locks fall across his face.

It’s a moment of peace, the pulse of the water pressure, their soft breath.

Brock presses a kiss to Burke’s forehead, then grabs the conditioner.

Ocean Winds Feel Like Home

The shore is wrought with death and blood, the tides pull away the seeping life from these men, these soldiers. The roaring waves pulse and pull, pulling the humor from these men like the fleeting hope of their wives and husbands, knowing they will not return home.

Pedro Zebulon has gazed upon many shores, has known their grains of sand and their storms. He feels it against his form, the pulsing of the rain against stone, the wear along his forearms. To him, a shore was change, instability, the ever present fear that something, anything, could be pulled away in an instant.

Where he stood, along the bay, facing the Pacific sky, illuminated only by the reflection of distant moonlight and cityscape, Pedro dared to call this home.

How he arrived in San Francisco, he could not say.

He knew it true that this was a city of love, of passion and strife, yet in his place, resting between sand and rock, he was far too secluded from the joy of beach goers. Perhaps this respite would be one of isolation, he’d consider between musings.

He got used to this routine, spending time between the cold stone and the warm grains of sand, tending to the animals who kindly graced his presence, serving the purpose he believed to be right. The people here did not interact with him, like he was a piece of the scenery, to be gazed upon but never examined beyond a cursory glance.

This was the truth for years, until in an instant, that truth was pulled away.

Early morning light, the seagulls letting out their calls, Pedro laid his eyes on the most stunning man.

To say the man was put together would be an understatement. This man looked as if he was built to be on this Earth, an easy, welcoming face paired with a confident, structured body. This man, though Pedro had never met him before, filled him with comfort.

Pedro watched the man, his steps purposeful and paced, stepping along the shoreline, picking up glass, rocks and shells; his ivory hair remained unmoved by the wind. Pedro stared and stared, lost in this man, until without warning the man was staring back.

Admittedly, Pedro blinked first. He got lost in those eyes. Dark, cloudy, like cobblestone and ash, those eyes of his had seen things far beyond any mere human.

Much like his own.

The man dropped his treasures, eyes wide in astonishment. He took a step, then another, then another; the crystal necklace that sat against his sternum bounced wildly, reflecting the early morning sunlight like nothing he’d seen before. The man braked to a stop a few feet ahead, collected his bearings, then finally walked up close.

Pedro did not flinch, he did not retreat, but he stared in wonderment as the man’s hand moved, resting inches apart from his cheek.

“You,” said the man, “you have seen the worlds.”

Pedro nodded.

The man smiled, “What is your name, my dear soldier?”

Pedro swallowed, taking in the man’s oaky voice, before speaking out for the first time in nearly a century.

“Zebulon,” even at a whisper, a deep base rattled Pedro’s solid chest, “Pedro Zebulon.”

The man’s peaceful expression did not waver, “Bastion Cambridge.”

If Pedro could melt, right in that moment, he would. He had seen these feelings from a distance, the way someone’s body language changes, but never had he thought he’d feel a warmth greater than the sun before facing this man.

“I, I must tell you,” Pedro stuttered out, “I do not want to be a soldier.”

Finally, Bastion’s hand met his face, “Then what do you want, dear?”

Pedro let himself form into the touch, closing his eyes, “I think,” Pedro paused, “a gardener, a place I can tend to…”

When Pedro opened his eyes, Bastion had a hand on the crystal that sat against his chest, “Then may I give you that place?”

A split decision, the tide closing in, everything shifting in an instant.

“Yes.”

When the light finally dimmed, the San Francisco bay was far from Pedro’s sight.

Where he stood now was a centerpiece. Surrounded by great stone walls crawling with ivy, he stood in a garden.

Trellises of grape vines, flowers and crops alive, each and every inch of where was standing was alive. Walking slowly, Pedro took in the sights, the building that surrounded him was dark, undoubtedly it had seen much and out of its walls; the seclusion was intentional and being allowed here was just as much of an intentional decision.

Pedro stopped, resting for a moment at a sprawling willow at the furthest reaches of the garden.

He thought of Bastion, the intense emotion the man had provoked in him.

Perhaps—

Yes.

This place could be home.

Early Morning Melody

Burke had concluded that today would be a day to lay in bed as he woke up with the sun. Warm light cracking through his blinds, instead of the regular urge to vacate the duvet, he took it as a chance to rest.

As far as he knew, the world would not miss him if he didn’t leave the sheets. No one was expecting him for anything in particular, and furthermore, Brock had told them at dinner that he would be out on expedition for the next few days.

As Burke relished in the silence, he let his eyes fall shut for another time, taking in a deep breath of the cotton around him.

The moment he hears the scratch of a record, his eyes snap open.

Even from the other room. The hum of the vinyl permeates through the wall. Burke closes his eyes again, for only a moment, before the smooth sound of a saxophone, and the soft accompaniment of a piano fills his ears.

He recognizes the record in an instant, even if it had never been played from the moment it entered his home.

Until now of course.

Burke slides out and shimmies off the covers. The cold air hits his bare chest as he cringes for only a second at the new sensation. He doesn’t bother with grabbing a shirt or slippers as he moves towards the door.

Opening it just a crack, Burke peaks into the living room.

The specter he sees is a welcomed one.

Joshua Watson, translucent just to the point of visibility, swaying gently in front of the record player to the music he, evidently, put on.

Burke opens his door a little more, & the old hinge makes a squeak. In an instant Josh stops swaying. He doesn’t move to stop the music, but instead turns to face the door.

“Burke?” Josh’s voice is barely louder than the music, a gentle bass among the melody. “Did I wake you up?”

Burke shakes his head. Opening the door further, he steps out into the living room to assure him. “I was already awake, just didn’t want to get out of bed until now…”

Josh smiles at him as the translucency of his form becomes more and more opaque.

“Well, it’s nice to see you out and about,” Josh says.

He hasn’t begun to sway to the music again, the record is in transition, the mere few seconds between songs. They’re standing in the silence, looking toward one another, before Josh opens his mouth to speak again.

“I realized—“ Burke turned his head, nodding at Josh to continue, “I realized that for as long as I’ve been here, we—you’ve never turned the record player on. I just thought I’d listen to something.”

This. This was true. When Burke first moved into the apartment, after stumbling into this world, after legal set him up with everything he’d need. The first thing he sought was a sense of normalcy. He sought out the things he knew, even if he was missing one of the most vital pieces.

His wife’s record collection was fresh on his brain back then. The records she’d play during dinner, the ones she’d throw on while cleaning the house, the quiet jazz records she’d listen to while painting, the sensual, beautiful music she would play to welcome him home from work—

It was hard. Realizing the degree in which he had lost his family the moment he stepped into this world. So the records served less as something he enjoyed, but as a reminder. Letting them collect dust wasn’t his intention, but well, here he was, listening to songs he remembers like yesterday for the first time in 45 years.

Burke smiles back at Josh, “I haven’t listened to this in a long time…”

Josh raises his eyebrows, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. My—“ the static itch in his throat catches Burke by surprise, his hand jumps to his throat as he swallows down the pain. Josh’s face is covered in concern; Josh has seen this many times before. Burke collects himself before continuing, “it’s an old favorite.”

Josh’s face goes soft. Walking towards Burke, he pulls him into a silent embrace.

Burke welcomes it wholeheartedly.

The two hold there, for a moment, & Burke relishes in it. While the thought of his wife is still simmering in his brain, he takes in Joshua fully, comforted by the man who has been in his company for so, so long.

The words that come out of Burke’s mouth at this moment are not impulsive. These words are tender, filled with the kind of love that Josh recognizes instantly.

“Dance with me?”

Joshua’s hands shift, moving in the space between Burke’s waistband and hips. Burke’s hands drift around Josh’s neck and shoulders. Josh let’s the distance fully close between them, resting his head on Burke’s shoulder.

At last, with the last slow track spinning into the air around them:

They dance.