An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“Well,” Zack says, raising a glass with a tired smile on her lips, “to us, my loves. To whatever’s about to come.”
The words slip out your lips before you can stop them. “I love you so much.”
“Jesus Christ,” Edric grimaces, swallowing down his wine in one swift gulp. “Save that until I’m gone, please?”
(a story about the new seattle garages, the old chicago firefighters, grief, and finally growing up)
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hi i spent the past three months working on a fic about the new seattle garages and the old chicago firefighters, and about grief and falling in love in the middle of it. i'm very proud of it.
(13.2k words, cws for swearing, death, grief/mourning, mentions of drug and alcohol, skin picking, and hair pulling.)
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"oh my god," hank says, staring at its phone in horror. its eyes aren't even visible through the curtain of bangs over its face, but stevie can tell exactly how wide they are regardless. "oh - i fucked up so bad, steev. i need you to run me through with a sword or something. holy shit."
stevie hides a smile with their fingers. they roll onto their stomach so they can hang over the edge of the bed and look over hank's shoulder at its phone. "it can't be that bad."
"it's that bad," hank groans. it looks mortified. stevie’s never seen that expression on it before - hank’s by far the most shameless person they’ve ever met.
“it can’t be,” stevie says. “show me.”
hank wordlessly passes over its phone. it’s open to a tweet it sent, which reads:
shank marshallow @xoxohaaaaank
turns out the secret to getting bitches in seattle is to go to dallas first lol
underneath is a selfie of hank - with stevie clearly visible in the background, on its bed, wearing one of hank’s oversized t-shirts and clutching a playstation controller.
the first reply below it reads:
ron @ronmonstera
henry.
“I’M BITCHES?” stevie shrieks.
“IT WAS A JOKE,” hank says, voice rising to a whine. “IT WAS FOR MY LOCKED -”
“ron is going to kill you,” stevie says, almost wonderingly. the two of them have been pointedly not mentioning their relationship status around stevie’s sibling, mostly due to the fact that hank and ron are on the garages rotation together, and hank is terrified at the prospect of any kind of shovel talk ron monstera would care to give. given that ron is easily three times hank’s size, stevie can’t blame it.
“i know,” hank says, grimly. “you got the number of a rogue umpire i can call to get over here before he comes and snaps my neck?”
“maybe this is a learning opportunity,” stevie says, passing the phone back. “maybe you should respect your bitches more.”
“i respect you so much, steev,” hank says. it looks up at stevie, expression grave. “so much that i’m asking you to go to the corner store, buy one of those swords they have in the window, and take my head off.”
stevie has to duck behind their curtain of hair to hide a laugh.
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more minific moments bc blaseball is coming for the jugular this week so have some baby ruthless pov (cws for incineration/death, grief)
You can feel it before you actually hear about it; in the subtle rumble of the bricks beneath your feet, the way the rafters start to shake. It reminds you just a little too much of the day that Josh died, and that’s why you start to run.
On your way out of the dugout, you barrel into Hank head on, who stumbles back a few feet with the weight of you. Steadying your shoulders, you know he can see the panic in your eyes, the fear in your chest, and it stings even worse.
“Rue,” he says, voice low but steady, “what’s going on? Everything okay?”
You shake your head, unable to get the proper words out. “Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”
You don’t say the truth you know to be real at this point: by wrong, you mean dead.
He glances towards the field, uneasy. “I’m sure no one will notice I slip away for a minute,” he wavers, though you can both see the two outs on the board even from here.
The shaking’s gotten more noticeable in both you and the building, and you haven’t felt an urge to run this strong in many decades.
“No,” you say, slipping past him, “I’ll be right back.”
“Rue!” He yells, but you’ve already broken into a sprint and you don’t turn back because you need to get out of here before they announce it, you can’t– you need to see it for yourself first.
Here’s the thing. You know this building better than anyone on the premises; fifty-odd years will do that to a person. These are the stones and bricks you grew up with, in every sense but literal, and so your feet take you exactly where you need to go.
You barely make it to the door of the garage before you’re stumbling, tripping over your own two feet as a cry confirms your worst thoughts.
On the wall you see it: Rivers Rosa in shades of glass, sitting perpendicular to Tyreek Olive. You take one heaving breath, and then your legs are giving out.
And it’s that position Hank finds you in after the game, eyes still glued to the window.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
things feel suffocating, almost. seeing the pacific when you awake is a reminder, and not quite a kind one. it's– there's a sense of loss in the core of it, when you interrogate the chasm in your chest. tides are changing, and there's no going back.
(baby triumphant, and a series of conversations)
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i love these guys that’s all lmao (12x100, cws for smoking, swears, and brief mentions of skin picking)
