Archive of Our Own ^beta

Anyone whose existence begins in a chaotic storm of flames and smoke and screaming tends to have a lot of questions.

Commissioner Vapor starts with the basics. What is blaseball, exactly? What is this place? Why don't I have a body like the rest of you? How does it even feel to have a body? Why are you all so sad? How can I make you all stop being so sad?

Some questions are easier to answer than others. But the Talkers do their best to answer each one anyway, and CV will look back on that in the seasons to come, when everything has changed yet again and he feels like he's finally starting to grow up against his will, feels a lot more like a person. He'll think they were so good to me, so patient, they were all hurting and I was asking them the most ridiculous things, and they still took the time to try and find answers, maybe because they welcomed the distraction, but definitely because I was theirs, and they were mine.

But right now, thrown into the deep end of this terrible ash-choked season, he doesn't really understand. Sometimes he asks a question and Jesús will start crying, or Ziwa will stumble over their words and be unable to finish, or Dot will just look right through him as if they haven't even heard, far off in some place that CV will never know how to reach. He hates seeing people react like that, so he starts trying to find his own answers.

Answers come to him in the form of memories, sometimes, though these memories often just invite more questions. Memories that couldn’t possibly be his. Memories of having a body. Memories of hands, hands swinging a bat, petting a dog, lacing up shoes, crackling with feedback, buzzing with instability. He's not Workman, right? He sort-of-remembers being their cloud, hovering overhead, not ever thinking much of anything because he was just a cloud, and clouds don't think things.

He's something a little more than a cloud, now. But he's not human, and he's not -- he's not Workman, so why does he remember being Workman, if he isn't, and never was?

CV figures that's a question he maybe shouldn't ask the Talkers. Not yet. He's starting to learn which kinds of questions upset people, and which kinds of questions can be answered with a simple straightforward sentence, and which kinds of questions make people smile and start talking for a long time, and which kinds of questions make them exclaim What? No! Don't do that, that's a terrible idea!

How do I get better at hitting? What's in the Underarena? What was Workman like? What's a Tlwitch stream? What were Elijah and Kiki and Tony like? What happens if you make coffee with Mlonster Energy instead of water? What were Trevino and Kennedy and Tyler like? Is Richmond Harrison still my best friend even if he's on another team and I haven't met him yet? What was it like in the universe you came from, Jesús? What even is gender, and how can I be sure if I have it or not, and why does it matter? What does “pog” mean?

CV’s quite literally hovering over Jesús and Jenkins’ shoulders when he asks that last one, peeking curiously at the comments Jenkins is getting online every time they make the video game guy do a cool thing.

“It's short for poggers, or pogchamp.” Jenkins doesn’t quite seem sure how to explain it. “It just means something is cool, or awesome, or whatever.”

“Oh,” CV says, shifting some of his vapour up and down in a way that he hopes looks like a knowing nod. “Poggers.”

If he concentrates, he can float around a bat well enough to swing it, for a moment or two. Swinging doesn't really require hands, just a bit of force and a whole lot of enthusiasm, but video games aren't quite as straightforward. He's fascinated by the way Jenkins’ and Jesús’ fingers fly over the controllers, effortlessly manipulating an entire little world.

He asks Mooney a very important question the next day.

“Can you make me a suit? Like a space suit, but for me instead of for space? With hands and everything? So I can play video games like a totally poggers person? Oh, and hit better, of course. I mean, that's definitely the most important thing.”

Mooney blinks behind her moon-round glasses. “Of course I can,” she says, as if he’d asked her for something simple as whether she could pass him his bat. “Give me a couple days.”

CV tries not to disperse out of pure excitement. “Oh, thank you! I’m so happy I could hug you!” He swirls around her. “Except I can't really do that yet. Will I be able to do that? I mean, to anyone who wants it? Can you make me huggable?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a suit if it wasn’t capable of basic actions like that.” She’s pulled out a clipboard and is already sketching diagrams, scribbling words CV doesn’t understand.

“Science is so cool,” he says, awestruck.

Her mouth twitches upwards. “It certainly is.”

CV doesn't ask questions about Budy. Or to Budy. Budy is a dog. Budy has always been there. CV arose in a swirl of ash and mist at home plate, and looked at the dugout, and there was Budy, watching him with big wide dog-eyes full of love. Budy loves him, and he loves Budy, and there's never been any question about that, even before he could remember the word love and start to realize how much more complicated it can be for people than dogs.

He can't pet Budy. Not yet. Sometimes he almost-remembers how hands feel, how dogs feel, and he thinks maybe he was meant to have hands, and meant to have a dog, but… why? CV is not Workman. Right?

Budy is not Beasley. That one's definitely true, at least. Beasley’s still with the Thieves, a team CV hasn't played against yet, which is probably good. He doesn't know how Beasley would react to him. Would there be any recognition there? Anything to recognize at all? Or just resentment, or sadness?

Commissioner Vapor is not actually the commissioner, apparently, either. He still doesn't understand that. It's right in the name!

“But why not? ” he'd insisted once he found out “the commissioner is doing a great job” referred to someone else. “Why wouldn't I be a real commissioner? Mooney Doctor is really a doctor! Fish Summer is really a fish! Ortiz Morse really communicates in Morse code! I'm really made of vapour, so how could I not be really a commissioner?”

“Names aren't legally binding, I'm afraid,” McBlase said. “They aren't inherently the same as titles. Mooney had to earn her doctorate.”

“Well, how do I earn being the commissioner?”

“I don’t think that’s a job you'd actually want,” Ziwa said. “Parker doesn’t get to play blaseball, and he doesn’t seem to have any more control over things than we do. Maybe even less. ”

“Sounds like he's not much of a commissioner, then. Maybe I'm the real commissioner.”

Greer snorted. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

“But I am doing a great job, right?”

“You sure are,” Ziwa said, and that was that.

He's been living with Jesús Koch. Jesús said it was no trouble; he had plenty of space, and Vapor didn't take up much of it. Physically, at least.

“Is it going to be trouble now?” CV asks. He's draped himself across Jesús’ shoulders (or at least over their outermost jacket; CV assumes there must be shoulders under there somewhere), reading a book along with them. Or trying, at least. His mind is too full with excitement about soon being able to hold books and other things himself to actually concentrate on the words. At least he did come into this world knowing how to read. One less question that needed asking.

Jesús looks up. “What?”

CV gets the sense that they’re really looking right at him, at where his face would be if he had one. It's one of the many things he likes about Jesús. Jesús understands. He thinks Jesús might already understand him better than he understands himself.

Except when it comes to this question, apparently.

“Is it going to be trouble now,” CV repeats, trying out the concept of patience. “Now that I’m getting my suit. You said it was no trouble for me to live here. But I'm going to have an actual body. I'll be able to eat food and sleep in a bed and wear clothes and do other regular human stuff! That seems like more trouble.”

“You'll be able to eat food?”

“Well, I'm going to try! Mooney's not much of a scientist if she can't make me a food-eating-thingy!”

“It’s called a mouth.” Jesús is doing something with his own mouth. CV thinks it might be smiling. Or smirking. Something like that.

“I'm a Moist Talker, of course I know what a mouth is! Stop missing my point!”

“Sorry,” Jesús says, closing his book. “Of course it's not going to be trouble. How could I mind? We're friends. I'm glad you're going to get this opportunity, and you'll need someone close by who can help you adjust. And you’ve already got your dog running around getting Dlorito dust everywhere, how much worse can you be in a corporeal form?”

“Thank you,” CV says, more relieved than he'd care to admit. “Also, I think I can probably be a lot worse! But I'll try not to be, because I like living here. And so does Budy.”

“Good to know,” Jesús says. “Because I like you living here too.”

CV wishes he could match their smile on the outside.

The season isn't going great for the Moist Talkers. Even aside from the whole “everyone keeps dying” thing, that is. They don't stand a chance at making the playoffs, especially with Workman gone, and their last series is against the Pies, which seems to be making everyone sad. They all keep looking at Hobbs standing sullen and silent in his Pies uniform, and then looking away.

Still, they’re partying. Which is good, because it makes them better players. Except it's bad, because it means they're not in the playoffs. But it's good, because partying is fun. And also it's bad, because it feels wrong to be partying when people are dead. But they can't help it! They don't have a choice.

CV wants to party. He needs to party. Except he wants to be in the suit when he does it, so he can actually dance and pose and jump for joy instead of just floating around a little bit more. Not that he's picky about it, though! He could party beforehand, too. Come on, even just one...

But another game goes by, and it doesn't happen. He's disappointed for a minute, which is about how much time it takes before Mooney calls him.

...Well, technically she calls Jesús, because CV doesn't have the ability to hold a phone (yet!), but the point is, she wants to talk to him. She'd skipped out on the last few games, not needing to be there on the days she doesn't pitch, dedicating her time to building the suit.

“It's ready for you to try out,” she says, and before she gets halfway through the sentence CV is already floating at top speed towards her lab. Which, admittedly, is not very fast, but the sentiment is there.

CV could ask questions about the projects scattered around Mooney's lab all day, and she’d probably be happy to tell him all about the less illegal ones, but there will be time for that later; there's only one thing in there he cares about right now.

She's got it standing at the far wall, dressed in a Moist Talkers uniform. The suit. His suit. It looks achingly person-shaped, with arms and legs and feet and hands, actual hands to hold things with, and a dome-shaped head.

“Oh, pog, my head's going to be an orb!” He floats around the suit, poking at it with little tendrils of vapour, trying to find a way in.

“Slow down a minute,” Mooney says, as if he could possibly ever. “You need to know how it works first.”

She then proceeds to launch into an explanation that lasts about a million years, going on about how it all works, and how often it will need maintenance, and how to keep it clean, and a bunch of other things that are way less interesting than actually getting to wear the suit. Jesús, who’d gone along with him, is taking dedicated notes, so it's not like CV also needs to pay attention, anyway.

“And, yes, you can try it out now,” she finally says, and he darts over, pausing right in front of it, suddenly feeling... is this doubt?

What if it doesn't work? What if it's not everything he hoped for? What if it won't make him feel any more human? What if it won't make him feel like himself anymore? What if he's claustrophobic? How does he even know what claustrophobic means?

He doesn't say any of these questions out loud as he peeks into the valve. It's pretty straightforward. Just drift inside, and then close it. He could learn to close it himself, even, with his new hands, but for now Mooney's going to do it.

CV flows inside slowly. There's plenty of space in here, room to move around, to coil up inside the dome or stretch out all through the limbs.

He's not trapped.

He's free.

CV lifts part of himself, and his arm lifts, too. He spreads the edge of himself into five tendrils, and his fingers wiggle, too. He stretches another part of himself downwards, and his foot slides forward, and then his entire body hits the ground, hard.

“This is the coolest thing ever! ” he says, voice muffled by both the helmet and the floor. “Uh. I mean, sorry. I hope I didn't scuff the dome.”

“Please,” Mooney says. “As if I haven't accounted for all the hazards of blaseball. A little fight with the floor isn't going to mar my handiwork.”

“Hell yeah, I'm stronger than any floor,” he says, and carefully curls a hand into a fist, and punches it. “That didn't even hurt!”

...That didn't even hurt. Aren't people supposed to feel pain?

“Let me help you up,” Jesús says, and CV very carefully lifts his head to see them standing there, holding out a hand. It takes some concentration, but CV manages to get his own hand in that general direction, and then his fingers curl around Jesús’.

The first thing he's ever truly held. He doesn't let go right away, even when he’s on his feet. He can't feel the warmth of Jesús’ hand through the suit.

Aren't people supposed to feel warmth?

Jesús’ hand grips tighter, and CV thinks he can feel the warmth somewhere inside him, inside the suit, inside the vapour, inside -- his soul? Does he have one of those? He feels it somewhere, at least, and maybe that's a start.

“Can you teach me how to play Flortnite now?” he asks.

Jesús laughs. “Your priorities, CV.”

“We still have one more game to play this season,” Mooney reminds him. “Maybe batting would be a better use of your time tonight? It’s going to take some adjusting. You'll have the whole offseason to play video games.”

“And I have the whole offseason for batting practice! It's not like it matters if we win tomorrow. Maybe we can compromise? Jenkins learned from playing Major League Blaseball on the PlayStlation. That sounds like a good idea.” CV’s slowly taking steps around the room, stabilized by Jesús.

“It takes time to be good at video games even when you've had hands all your life,” Jesús cautions him. “Don't expect it to be easy.”

“That’s what you think! It's gonna be so embarrassing when you lose to someone with zero hands experience.” CV pauses. “Wait. Can I literally get my game face on? This dome is just so… blank.” He shifts the vapour around in the helmet a bit, suddenly self-conscious.

“There's nothing wrong with how you look,” Mooney says. “Pure roundness can be beautiful, too.”

“Oh! Sorry. I didn't mean your wife was ugly. She’s very beautifully orblike. I just want some variety with my face, you know? Like, the option of having a face at all.”

“It's all right, CV, I understand what you mean. I think if you work at it, you'll learn to form yourself into various expressions. In the meantime…” Mooney starts pulling out drawers and rifling through them. “Now, where did I put that?”

CV chances a couple of bounces on his new feet. “You've got some kind of fancy science thingy to make me faces?”

“Yes,” she says, unearthing something from one of the drawers and holding it out to him. “It's called a marker.”

CV takes it in the hand that's not currently occupied by Jesús. The second thing he's ever held!

“Poggers,” he says reverently, letting go of Jesús so he can uncap it.

“Do you want me to draw a face for you?” Jesús asks.

“I can do it!” CV insists, already attempting two dots for eyes that are starting to look more like unruly spaghetti. “Uh. Give me a minute.”

The nose turns out a little better. The mouth is significantly on the wavy side, but at least it’s curving up. He does two downward slanting lines for Serious But Playful Game Face Eyebrows, and they only wobble a little bit.

“Ta-da!” he says.

Jesús is trying not to laugh. “Hmm. I think it needs a little something.”

CV lets him take the marker, because he figures Jesús probably does have a better idea of how faces are supposed to look. And because holding onto things takes practice, and CV doesn't want to look ridiculous by dropping it. But mostly the first reason, because of course he wasn't going to drop it.

Jesús draws a couple of swirly squiggles between the nose and mouth. “There. Now you look distinguished. ”

“A moustache? I look like Alston!”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s going to be mistaking you for Alston,” Mooney says.

“Well, good, because he's wanted for too many crimes… hey, I can commit crimes now!”

“Please at least try to keep your illegal activity to a minimum. I don't want to be responsible for you being arrested.”

“I meant food crimes. Obviously.”

“How about you master walking, and face-drawing, and batting, and video games?” Jesús suggests. “Then we'll see.”

“How about hugging? ” CV exclaims, remembering and turning to Mooney. “As an expression of gratitude! Did I say thanks yet? Thanks for the suit. It’s the most poggers thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“I did get that sentiment.” Her mouth does that twitching-upwards thing again. “You’re welcome. I’ll accept it as an expression of gratitude and for the scientific purpose of testing suit functionality.”

That's all the invitation he needs. He stumbles forward, and she catches him, and his brand-new arms are around her, and her old arms are around him -- well, he shouldn't think of her arms that way, probably. He's learned that people don't like being called old, even if they all are, compared to him.

The point is, it's his first hug, and it makes him feel kind of warm inside again.

“Thanks,” he says. Is that what you're supposed to say in response to a hug? He pulls away and stumbles backwards, where Jesús catches him. “Oh. Hey. A second hug already! Is this what it's always like, having a body?”

“Something like this,” Jesús agrees, and CV thinks maybe he could stand like this all day. Maybe it's even better than video games. But how would he know?

“Can we play video games now?”

Jesús laughs into CV’s brand-new shoulder. “Yes. Yes, we can.”

They do play video games, for a while, but then CV gets distracted trying to learn the Flortnite dances, and of course things just spiral out of control from there. What else can he do now?

“Jesús! How about cartwheels? Can you teach me how to do a cartwheel?”

“I don't know how to do a cartwheel.”

“You mean it's not some kind of instinctive human skill? I thought it was just a thing that humans could do.”

“Lots of humans can't do cartwheels.” He pauses. “And some non-humans can. Tony could do them. Only ever saw that once, though, because twelve-foot-tall plastic skeletons need a lot of open space for acrobatics. And because… well. Yeah.”

“Yeah,” CV echoes, mentally adding “cartwheels” to his ever-growing list of Things That Cause Complicated Emotions In Moist Talkers.

Jesús says nothing, after that, so CV needs to come up with an even better activity.

“Let's see how many M&Ms I can fit into my suit!”

“Mooney just made that for you, and you're going to contaminate it already?”

“She said I could try food!”

“I don't think this is what she had in mind.”

“C’mon, it'll be fun! You can film me doing it, and I can post it online, and it can be like one of those contests where you have to guess how many things are inside the jar, and the winner gets all the things!”

“Nobody wants your used M&M's, dude.”

“Okay, we'll come up with a better prize! I don't want to give them my M&M's anyway.”

“Oh, fine, why not,” Jesús says, shrugging on another jacket. “We're gonna have to go buy a lot of M&M’s, then. And if Mooney asks, I had nothing to do with this.”

“So I should tell her you let me run wild and unsupervised on my first day in the suit instead? Is that better?”

“...You know what? She's the one who's enabled you to do all of this. Technically, anything that happens is her fault. We don't need excuses.” Jesús pauses on the way out the door. “Just... try to make sure we don't end up in a situation where we might want them, okay?”

CV pulls the marker out again and makes a valiant attempt at converting the smile into a grin. “Deal.”

Needless to say, CV doesn't get any batting practice in before their final game of the season, which is probably why he doesn't get any hits. He doesn’t even mind, not when they're out of the playoffs anyway, and especially not when he gets to actually hold a bat and swing it properly, feel real power behind it for once.

(But it feels familiar, when he does it, as if he's done it many times before. He tries to write it off as instinct. Not anything more. He's not Workman.)

Mooney doesn't have a great game either, probably because she seems to be paying more attention to CV than to where her pitches are landing, analyzing how well the suit is working. She seems... impressed? Proud? Of him, or just her own handiwork?

It's a while until the next season, but he's going to make sure he does better then. He’s going to make sure she's proud of him.

CV hasn't directly seen anything bad happen in blaseball, not since the horrific inferno he first appeared in, and even that was less seeing and more… well, he’s not sure there’s a word for it at all. He knows that players are dying, and being shelled, and all kinds of other things, but he’s never seen it.

Not until the Shelled One descends, and takes Dot away from them.

Now he can't stop seeing it, that image of them stepping forward, a dozen hands splayed out protectively in front of York Silk’s small form, saving someone they barely even know, staring down the peanut, their eyes never closing before the shell closes around them.

This was supposed to be a break, a nice peaceful offseason for the Talkers. A chance to get away from the horrors of the game for a while.

Well. Maybe it's peaceful, inside a peanut shell. He hopes it is, for Dot’s sake.

The election brings an unexpected gift to the Talkers: Scorpler’s jacket. Nobody's more surprised about it than Jesús; as the team drapes it over his shoulders, he tries to protest, to give it to anyone else, but they’ve voted for him to have it, and so it's his now. His-and-Scorpler’s, because nobody's going to forget that name, that day. If it couldn't go to a Tiger, at least it went to a Talker.

Who wouldn't want to be fireproof? CV certainly does. He's surprised to find, though, that he's happier Jesús got it. CV will be fine, probably. He's just made of vapour. What could the umps possibly do to him?

Better that someone more flammable is safe, especially when that someone is Jesús.

Mooney likes to work outside at night whenever possible. She'll drag some of her smaller projects out in the evening, ready to work with the help of the light and company her wife can provide.

CV hasn't been out of the suit since he first went in, but Mooney insists it needs regular maintenance, and there are already plenty of upgrades she's thought of that she wasn't able to implement initially. So here he is, out in the damp Halifax air. Part of the damp Halifax air, for the first time in a while.

It should feel natural, shouldn't it? This is what his life used to be. But it doesn't, it feels -- strange, and overwhelming, like he could dissipate at the smallest breeze, like he's just the most insignificant part of the atmosphere, something the world would never miss.

“Are you done yet?” he asks, floating around Mooney.

“No,” she says. Just like she said the last five times. Astonishingly patient, he'll later think. She shakes a sleeve of the suit, and blinks at the small object that falls out. “Is that an M&M?”

“Huh! Weird,” CV says quickly. “No idea how that got there! Let's talk about something else. Can you make me fireproof?”

“I can make the suit fireproof in as many ways as possible, but not in any way that would matter to an umpire. I haven't yet figured out how to bypass that. The gods don't want me to, but I’ll keep trying.”

CV figured as much. “Thanks anyway.”

She waves a hand. “It's nothing. The least I could do.”

He thinks maybe she tries to do too much, sometimes. Especially after the necromancy. She wants to do something more helpful. Something that won't turn out wrong.

The wind shifts, making CV focus on keeping himself together. The clouds part, and the moon comes into view just above the horizon.

Mooney smiles. “You look beautiful tonight, darling.”

CV drifts aimlessly across the yard. Who's ever going to say something like that to him? Everyone thinks the moon is beautiful, but who would think it about a cloud of vapour, suit or no?

And if anyone somehow did, what would he do about it? Who would it be? Jesús? Would he even want to do anything about it, even if it was Jesús?

“Mooney?” He floats back over to her.

“Yes?”

“How does love work? I mean, how do you know that you love someone? Or know how you love someone? Uh. If that's not a weird question.”

“It's not a weird question.” Mooney looks up from the suit. “But it's also not an easy one to answer. I could give you the scientific explanation, explain how different chemical reactions in the brain can make us feel -- but you don't have a brain, as such, and that's where it gets even more interesting. Some things go beyond science, or at least the science we know.”

“Oh. Okay.” Maybe even normal people with brains who have been around a long time and felt love don't understand it. He knows he loves Budy, but that’s different. Budy’s a dog. Dogs are uncomplicated, designed to be full of love and loved in return.

“I'm not done. What I mean to say is, even when we know the scientific explanation for some things, it can be hard to understand why. Why do certain people make us feel the way that we do? What words can we find to describe or classify such a feeling? Why is it that you can feel at all, when you have no brain or body? That makes it harder for you to figure it all out, I imagine.”

He does his best approximation of a nod.

“If you're wondering whether you can feel love,” she continues, “I have an easy answer for you there: of course you can. You’ve proven to be capable of feeling plenty of things, and I see no reason why love can’t be one of them, if you choose to label that feeling as such. Even so, the how and the what of it are more complicated, I'm afraid. For many people. You aren’t alone there.”

“Oh,” he says again, trying to take it all in. Things seem harder to understand when you’re part of the impossible bigness of the sky.

“I wish I could give you more answers. I am, at least, here to help you try and find them. We all are. It's what teams do.”

CV thinks about the team. The team welcoming him even though he arrived in such an awful moment, listening to him, trying to answer his questions. The team mourning the ones they've lost, regretting their mistakes, vowing to do better, moving forward. The team giving Scorpler’s jacket to Jesús despite his protests, and him starting to gain confidence from it. The team going up one by one to talk to Dot, tapping messages on their shell every day, though they may not hear. The team, and the different ways they fit together, and break apart, and find their way back together again.

Maybe he understands love a little better than he thought.

During the offseason, Jenkins helps him set up a Tlwitch account, and shows him how to stream. CV even gets eight entire viewers one day! He's sure he'll get even more once the season starts and he can stream blaseball as well as video games. True, he hasn't been getting as good at the blaseball, but everyone says that's because of star count; there's not much to be done about it without outside interference. At least video games are something he can improve at on his own merit.

Workman's legacy was in blaseball, though. CV owes it to them, to everyone, to be better.

It's only ten days into the season when the Talkers play the Thieves. CV doesn't stream during that series, suddenly feeling like it’s a little harder to be his usual cheerful self. What if the Thieves hate him? What if they see too much of Workman in his batting stance and it's an even more painful reminder of what they've lost? What if, to the Thieves, he is nothing like Workman at all, and that's an insult to their memory when he was once a part of them? What if he steps onto the field and remembers too many things he never experienced?

It's probably easier for Beans and McBlase. They replaced a former Thief, too, but they know who they are. They've had a lot of years to figure it out before they ever walked onto a blaseball field. CV looks at them; Beans purrs as her slitted eyes meet his drawn-on ones, and whatever emotions McBlase might be experiencing are perpetually concealed behind sunglasses.

How am I supposed to feel about this? The question dies unspoken. He doesn't think they know either. He doesn't think anyone does.

Is it bad that he drew a smile on his dome? Should he look more sombre, respectful? Is it offensive to have a good time here, or would the Thieves be happy to see him thriving? Is he thriving? Will they be proud of him if he gets hits, or will they just be more sad? Do they know he might have some of Workman's memories, might be -- no, he's not Workman.

Before the game starts, CV ducks into the bathroom and frantically scrubs off his entire face. If smiling is the right thing to do, and he feels like doing it, then he'll find a way to do it with the vapour. This is his game face now. Blank. Ready to be whatever he needs to be.

CV plunks himself down on the bench next to Jesús at the last minute. Jesús looks at him, frowning slightly. “Hey, are you okay?”

The perpetual swirling inside his dome betrays nothing. “Yeah, dude, of course. Pog on.”

Commissioner Vapor is doing a great job. As soon as he takes the field, as soon as Hotbox Sato hits the ball, CV makes the catch. It's for the best, isn't it? Wouldn't the Thieves have been disappointed if he’d dropped it, or missed it? Disappointed that Workman's replacement couldn't even play the game right?

The Thieves are out there hitting home runs, but CV doesn't manage anything better than a single. The Talkers lose. CV can’t decide if he's supposed to go talk to the Thieves or if he can just ignore them, walk off the field as if they mean nothing to him -- and, really, they don't; there might be this nagging feeling swirling all through him that he's walked among them before, that his hands have swung a bat and his ears have heard them cheer (he doesn't have ears, he's never had ears), but that doesn't mean anything, right?

He doesn't have to decide, doesn't have to think about the Thieves anymore, because he reaches the dugout just in time to watch Mooney drop her phone in shock.

Far away in Philly, Hobbs Cain has been incinerated.

He'd been dead for almost a minute when CV hit that single, and none of them knew it. Was it a punishment for what he’d dared to do, or just terrible luck? Was it yet another sign that the necromancy shouldn’t have happened? Hobbs can't be blamed for it, not really, not when he'd needed the support of Mooney, of the team, of the whole league behind him, and he'd quickly gotten it. He didn't deserve to die.

He didn't deserve to die, but neither did the twelve people Jaylen's pitches ignited. If Hobbs hadn't dragged that terrible book out of the Underarena, Workman wouldn't be dead, and CV wouldn't exist at all. CV was born out of the terrible mistake that Hobbs and Mooney and everyone else made when they found a new way to defy the gods. He didn't exist before that, not really, not as anything more than a wisp of a dream of a cloud. Beans and McBlase and Quack and so many others walked onto that field for a reason, even if that reason was that they had to, but they still walked onto it. CV was born there. CV was nothing before he was a blaseball player. CV was nothing before Workman died.

CV was meant to be nothing, and yet he is here, and Workman and Hobbs and so many others are not.

Mooney's outside again, just a sliver of moonlight over her head as she frantically works away at... well, CV's not actually sure what it is. Maybe she isn't, either. Maybe she just needs something to do.

"...Is this a bad time?"

She blinks up at him, surprised. "Well, yes, you could certainly say it is, but it's not a bad time for you to be here, if that's what you mean."

He flops down on the ground next to her. "I think it's always a bad time for me to be here. Like, here in general."

"You were born into some very bad times, CV. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he says automatically.

Her hands shake as she tightens something on whatever she's working on, and she does not reply.

"I never knew Hobbs. But… if you and him and everyone else hadn't decided to do necromancy, then I wouldn't exist. And you didn't do anything wrong! You didn't know what would happen. But I happened. And I only happened because Workman died. And… now I'm here. Because Hobbs had a plan, and it went wrong, and… well, I'm not supposed to exist. I know I'm not. But I do exist. Everyone else who replaced an incinerated player would still be out there existing if that player hadn't died, but I wouldn't. My life, it's… it's not worth…"

Mooney jumps to her feet. "Commissioner Vapor, don't you dare finish that sentence," she says sharply. "Your life is worth so much. Everything went terribly wrong, except for you. You're the one good thing that came out of this. Just because losing so many people was a terrible thing doesn't mean gaining you wasn't wonderful."

For a moment, CV has a strange feeling that his helmet might be about to leak. "I… I…"

"Has anyone been saying things to you?" she demands. "Any Thieves? Any Talkers ?"

"No! No, but I wouldn't blame them for thinking…"

"Anyone who might think that about you isn't worth your time. You're one of us, CV, and we're very glad you are."

He wipes his dome. "...Mooney I think my helmet is having a leaking problem."

"I think I might know how to fix that," she says, and pulls him into an embrace.

And maybe it's not a permanent fix, but after a while of being held, CV manages to think that maybe existing, especially in a hug-shaped form, is kind of nice, and if nobody minds him continuing to exist, he would kind of like to do so, even if he can't always manage to make existing fun.

When he gets back to the apartment, Jesús is waiting for him, eyes puffy and moist. "CV! You just ran out after the game, and you never answered your phone, and--"

"I was thinking. And also I needed, uh, emergency suit maintenance."

"...Well, could you at least let me know where you're going next time? I was worried about you."

CV had been agonizing over the question would you be happier if I wasn't here? But he looks at Jesús and thinks, maybe, he knows the answer.

"Sorry. Are you okay? I didn't know Hobbs, but you…"

Jesús shakes his head and steps forward to bury his face in CV's shoulder, and CV thinks that, yes, existing in a hug-shaped form might be something worth doing.

There are more games to be played against the Thieves, of course. Two days later, CV is standing at the plate, facing Beasley Gloom on the mound. The dog hasn't darted up to him eagerly, or attacked him, or run away, or done anything other than sniff curiously and look kind of sad. So maybe CV isn’t Workman, but he probably smells something like them, at least.

Or maybe he just smells like smoke. Like the absence of Workman. And the absence of Workman isn't good, of course, but that would mean he really isn't Workman, right?

It would be easier to believe it if his arms didn't swing like they remember doing it a thousand times; if he didn't hit that pitch with a familiar crack and watch it fly out of the park; if the static in the air didn't bring back memories-not-memories of suddenly wearing a different jersey and swinging at Beasley's pitch because there was simply no choice, expression as carefully blank as a helmet full of vapour as the ball lands among the screaming crowd in the stands.

Jesús is there to congratulate him on their way up to bat, bringing him back to the present, back to himself. Back to being a Commissioner and doing a great job.

“It was pretty poggers of me, wasn't it?” CV shapes his vapour into something resembling a grin and goes to pet his own dog, putting thoughts of Beasley behind him.

Jaylen Hotdogfingers is another reason why CV exists. Not that he's going to go up to her and thank her for beaning Workman or anything, but… has she ever thought about it? Thought about how one of her pitches helped bring him into this world, intentionally or otherwise?

Either way, she doesn't spare him a glance. Probably for the best. Jaylen's attention is rarely a good thing to have when you’re batting against her.

They say Dot wasn't afraid of her. Afraid of what might happen, yes, but not of her. Dot never blamed her, which caused some friction among the team, yet there's not a single Talker who doesn't go visit their shell. On some level, they all understand.

Greer’s afraid of her, CV thinks. Pitching in Dot’s place, she's doing that thing where she's trying to be extra intimidating and tough, to show how very not afraid she is, and that, in fact, you should be afraid of her. Jenkins says it means Greer cares and doesn't know how to show it any other way, and also says CV should never tell her they said that about her.

She's not as much of a match for Jaylen on the mound as Dot was, which is apparently good in this situation. Workman got beaned in extra innings, after all. CV exists because of Dot, too, but if they ever get out of the shell, he knows better than to say it. He’d quickly learned about guilt just by watching them.

CV reminds himself that nobody's dying from this. Jaylen just makes people flicker now. Eugenia waves off everyone's concern when she gets hit, insisting that there will always be Garbage in Gleek Arena. Quack is… not nearly as calm when the pitch slams into him, squawking furiously, knowing it might mean leaving behind this place that carries Kiki’s memory.

CV’s up to bat immediately afterwards, kicking away the few feathers scattered on the ground. She could hit him just like she hit Workman, though this would leave him to be flung to another team instead of to die, dragged away from the closest thing to family he'll ever have. Away from where he was born.

He can't let that happen. He swings at the first pitch, hits a single. Safe. Jesús follows him with another single, also safe. Their gazes meet across the space between the bases as they breathe sighs of relief.

Two days later, Quack feedbacks to the Garages.

CV is not bothering Cedric Spliff. Jesús specifically said not to bother Cedric while he's settling in, and apparently “bothering” includes “inviting him to be on stream before he's even played a full game with us”, so CV just draws on a nice smile and welcomes him to the team, which feels pretty boring, but Cedric seems to appreciate it.

It's strange for Quack to be gone. Yes, he’s a duck, so it's not as if CV ever had any deep meaningful conversations with him, but at least he knew what it was like to join in the worst of circumstances. Now there's no one left to relate to but a long cat and a lawyer, who aren’t the best conversation partners either, and the roster changes show no sign of slowing.

Adjusting to playing the Shoe Thieves would probably be easier if things didn't keep happening during those games. Eugenia’s not even gone long enough for them to begin to get used to it before she comes back, exchanging Simon for Lachlan.

CV does not bother Lachlan, either. Not right away. Jesús says he's probably upset about the whole Simon situation. But he's been a Talker before, so really this is just like coming home, right? And what better way to welcome him home and get his mind off things than to recruit him to do his favourite thing live on stream?

“Yo, Lachlan,” CV says a week later. “You know how to do food! Do you want to come on my stream and we can do food together ?”

He frowns. “Like… in front of the entire internet ?”

“Not the entire internet, yet. But someday!”

“How much of the internet are we talking?”

“Maybe at least ten people,” CV says proudly.

Lachlan finally cracks a smile. “Okay, then. I'll do it for you and ten other people.”

“Pog! See you tomorrow.”

“Wait, tomor--”

But CV’s already rushed off to pick up the ingredients.

Lachlan seems a lot less enthused when CV shows up at his house with Dloritos, Mlountain Dew, and an assortment of other essential Gamer Ingredients, camera already rolling.

“What… what exactly are we making with this?”

“You're the food guy, you tell me!”

“Well, if you want my honest opinion, the best thing to make with all these ingredients would be… nothing. Absolutely nothing. There's no way they're going to taste good together. I thought maybe we'd start with something basic, like, I don't know, pizza, or chocolate chip cookies. I have everything we need to make--”

“Chocolate Dlorito chip Mlountain Dew pizza! Great idea.” CV eagerly cracks open a can and starts pouring it into a mixing bowl as Lachlan looks on, speechless with what is probably admiration at CV’s culinary genius.

“I still think it was a success. We even got twenty entire viewers at one point!”

“You almost killed Lachlan.”

“I didn't! I'm at least 90% sure it didn't turn out poisonous. Eugenia ended up eating it and she was fine.”

“Eugenia can eat literally anything, which is why she should be your cooking partner on-stream instead of Lachlan. I thought he was going to have a heart attack out of pure culinary horror.”

CV swirls the vapour around in his helmet, his best attempt at an eye roll. “He's fine. You worry too much.”

Jesús folds his arms. “Sometimes I think you don't worry enough, CV.”

“What? He's fine! He even said he'd be on my stream again as long as it didn't involve food crimes! We can play video games sometime instead! We’re bonding!”

“You know, you don't need to be so…” Jesús pauses, as if trying to choose their words carefully. “Nonstop? People will still care about you if you're not actively doing something entertaining.”

CV doesn't know how to process that, so he just says “Pog,” and cracks open another can of Mlountain Dew.

The Talkers miss out on the playoffs again, which tends to happen to teams when some of their best hitters are dead and their best pitcher is trapped in a giant peanut shell. This means, of course, more partying. It doesn't feel so wrong to do it this season; the league hasn't been plagued by incinerations, and the overall atmosphere is a lot better.

CV finally feels it on Day 99. It's like someone has poured Mlonster Energy into his suit, but instead of the temporary rush of sugar and caffeine swirling through him, this feels like it's seeping into his very essence, something bright and alive and long-lasting, as if his soul is marinating in the cheers of the crowd and the support of his teammates.

Morse parties before the game is over, too, doubling his pitching to one entire star. CV kind of doubts that any amount of partying will ever make him a good pitcher, but, well, Mooney's always had more stars and is somehow managing to lose this game even worse than the one Morse lost yesterday.

Not that it matters under the circumstances, and not that she actually cares, of course. Blaseball, CV suspects, has never been much more than a good opportunity for Mooney to learn all the secrets that lurk in the underarena, in the rest of the city, and anywhere else they might travel to. She's eager to ask him questions after the game, seeing how he feels and trying to determine if the suit needs to be adjusted to account for his increased hitting power.

“We've got time to work it out in the offseason,” CV reminds her while testing out whether his flossing moves have improved.

He's the last to leave the field, gaze lingering on the new stats displayed up on the Jlumbotron. He has three and a half stars now. Not as many as Workman had for most of their career, but as many as they had when they died. Supposedly, he's as good as post-blooddrain Workman now.

(He dreams about blooddrain, sometimes. Of his skin (he's never had skin) being ripped open, of his blood (he doesn't have physical blood either, right?) being stolen. At least it's not as bad as dreaming about being on fire.)

(The fire dream happens a lot more often.)

Alone on the field, cameras off, the party energy still swirling through his suit, Commissioner Vapor looks up at those three and a half stars and whispers something that no one is around to hear, not until those words finally drift downwards to the Hall and weave their way into the dreams of the person they were meant for.

There's nothing dramatically different about him next season. Sure, he's got better stats (and more Tlwitch subscribers), but he feels pretty much the same when he steps up to the plate. If anything, he's hitting a bit less often.

Maybe he's not that much like Workman after all.

Jaylen herself is now flickering, and it’s fifty-three days into the season before they face her in feedback weather. Jenkins is the one pitching against her, and yet Mooney shows up anyway.

“What are you doing here?” CV demands. “Go do a science or something! The feedback might get you!”

“CV,” she says gently. “If the feedback wants me, it'll take me no matter where I am. I'd rather it be when I'm here and I know exactly what's going on.”

“You can't go,” he insists. “You can't! You… I… I need you! …For suit maintenance!”

“If I go, which might not even happen, you can call me anytime you need me, for any reason, and I'll do my best to help you. I promise.”

“I need you here,” he says stubbornly.

She places a hand on his shoulder, the shoulder she made for him. He refuses to look at her.

“There are worse things than feedback, CV. Whether it's me, or Greer, or Morse, or nobody, it'll be okay. We'll all be okay.”

He looks up in surprise. “You forgot Dot.”

“So far, feedback has always swapped an active pitcher with an inactive one. I don't believe Dot can become the active pitcher if they’re shelled. The pitcher must throw the ball, of course, and they are unable to do that in their current condition. That leaves three of us.”

“That doesn't make me feel better at all!”

Mooney squeezes his shoulder gently. He can't feel the warmth of her hand. “Let's let the game play out, and then we'll see how you feel.”

CV has no idea what he's feeling. The weather itself doesn't help; feedback has always been kind of unsettling to him. Sometimes he gets a strange echo of an anguished memory, of being engulfed by static and suddenly standing at the plate facing down Beasley. That didn't happen to him. Not him. Why does he remember how it felt?

He doesn't feel the memory when the static spikes this time. Doesn't feel anything but panic as Jaylen flickers over to the dugout, and--

Morse.

It’s Morse.

Not Mooney.

This isn't good, of course. Jesús is standing motionless at the plate, unable to meet Morse’s eyes as he throws four balls in a row right past them. Morse smiles a sad little smile as Jesús shuffles to first, and the game goes on.

Shouting breaks out in the dugout. Ziwa’s being held back from running at Jaylen, who's trying to make herself look as innocent and unobtrusive as possible. It's a whole big dramatic scene, the kind that CV’s audience would love to see, but he can't bring himself to hit the record button.

He turns away, unable to bring himself to watch, either.

CV’s been trying to break Dot out of the shell. Not just for the views, though it's definitely satisfying to see how many people tune in to those streams. Sure, everyone says only birds can free a shelled player, but how do they know that for sure if they haven't tried everything?

He's brainstorming what to try next (jackhammer? chainsaw? just asking the shell really politely if it will crack open, please?) when he realizes someone is already there.

Jaylen Hotdogfingers is standing with her eyes closed and a hand on Dot’s shell, the same hand that tore so many teams apart. She's barely said two words to any of the Talkers since she got here, but she seems to be whispering a whole lot of them to Dot right now. She looks… vulnerable. Human. Not like a murderer at all. Not like someone who had the power to bring CV into this world.

His feet slosh audibly in the Gleek’s ever-present… fluids as he tries to turn away, and Jaylen’s head snaps up. He can see her immediately trying to process what she could possibly do about this situation, what, if anything, she should say to the person who only exists because Workman Gloom died by her hands.

CV breaks the ice the only way he knows how. “Hey, Hotpogfingers! Wanna be on my stream?”

She blinks, thrown off guard. “No? Also, please don't call me that.”

“Yeah. That's fair. I just thought… we don't all hate you, you know?”

“Maybe you should.”

“Did you kill everyone on purpose?”

“No!”

“Then why should we hate you?”

“Because most people don't believe I didn't! And even if they do, I'm not exactly the best person to have around right now!” She kicks the shell angrily and then mutters a few swears under her breath, hopping on one foot.

“I already tried kicking,” CV helpfully informs her. “I'm running out of ideas, though.”

Jaylen frowns. “Is this what your stream is about? “Top 10 ways to unshell your star pitcher” or something like that?”

“Oh, that's a good title! Are you sure you don't want to join me?”

She looks away. “You don't want to associate with me.”

“Hey, if you're trying to help, people might forgive you!”

“Listen, kid.” Jaylen sighs. “I don't think you get it. You weren't there to see it all happen. It's not the kind of thing that people can just get over so quickly.”

“I was born in it,” CV says quietly. “I’m… maybe I don't understand it the same way other people do. Maybe I don't understand it at all. But I'm part of it. And maybe I'm not over it, and maybe I never will be, but that doesn't mean I have to hate you for it.”

He doesn't say you're part of the reason I exist, because she probably doesn't want to hear that.

“This isn't just about me and you. It wasn't just Workman. It was twelve people, and each of them left a whole lot of people behind to hate me for it. I…” Her hands clench into fists. “Don't you get it? I can't. A murderer hanging out with an innocent kid who got dragged into this to replace one of the people I murdered? Maybe to you that would be some kind of redemption for me, some chance to show I can be fun and friendly instead of just ripping teams apart, but people aren’t going to see it that way. They aren't going to believe it. It'll just be another reminder of what I did.”

CV looks at her, wishing she could properly see him looking back instead of just seeing a swirl of vapour. What expression could possibly be right for this situation, though? How can he get her to understand what he's feeling if he doesn't really understand it himself?

“Jaylen? Do you hate me? For being a reminder of what happened? For being the only replacement player who started existing just to be a replacement, because you don't know how to deal with the fact that I exist?” He watches her stumble back in shock and quickly adds “Not that it was your fault, or I’m your responsibility or anything. But. Yeah.”

“I don't… I don't…” she shakes her head. “There's so much hate around this whole situation, but that doesn't mean it's directed at you. No one should ever hate you just because you exist. I couldn't do that.”

“Didn't this situation happen because of love, too? They brought you back because they loved you. Because they wanted to show the gods they couldn't just keep taking the people they loved away. I… I don't know if I understand love. I don't know if I want it, if it can turn into hate just like that.”

Jaylen groans. “Oh, I am not the right person for this conversation. Go ask the Lovers or something, I'm sure they'd have a field day explaining it to you.”

CV brightens. “Oh, that's a great idea!”

“...Well, wait. No. Don't just go running off to San Francisco on a whim. I… I don't know, CV. I don't think anyone entirely understands it. People do stupid things for love, and they do stupid things for hate, too. Mostly I think people just do stupid things.”

“I'm very good at doing stupid things, does that make me a person?”

She looks him up and down. Suit, vapour, and all. “Well, you’re not a debted zombie, so already I think that makes you more of a person than how I've been feeling lately.”

“Maybe we can be people who don't really feel like people together, then,” CV suggests.

Jaylen scrunches up her face. “I don't know about together. Maybe respectfully, from a distance. Not like I'll be here long, anyway.”

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me! Tlwitch dot tv slash BlaseballCommissionerButNotTheOfficialOne!”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I had to change it because I got a fancy-looking letter from the Commissioner's office and McBlase told me I was going to get sued if I didn't. But everyone knows I'm the cooler commissioner anyway! Stop by anytime if you need anything.”

“I'll try not to need anything, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Pog! Uh, I'll just leave you to your conversation, then. Bye!” CV dabs and turns away before he can make this situation any worse.

True to word, Jaylen’s not there very long. Nobody expected her to be, and it's probably in everyone's best interest that she leaves the home of Ruby Tuesday behind.

Did her feedback game really have to be against the Thieves, though?

Maybe if they end the game quickly enough, she won't feedback. Won't bring one of Workman's old friends, or worst of all, their dog, here to stare at CV every day and wish he was someone else. But of course the Talkers seem to have picked this day to be good. Jaylen's pitching a shutout, and Cornelius is very much not, letting in run after run. Even CV can't seem to stop himself from scoring; the static in the air has him full of nervous energy, swinging hard and fast and batting in four runs without really meaning to, probably reminding the Thieves even more of Workman.

Maybe it's not CV. Maybe it's Cornelius, letting it all get to his head, thinking too much about what might happen to his team before the end of the game to throw the Talkers good pitches. He won't be going. It'll be someone else.

How about Fitz? CV pleads with the blaseball gods. She never even knew Workman. She hasn't been there very long. Or even Snyder. They're not the same Snyder who was on a team with Workman. Just… not Gunther. And definitely not Beasley. Please, not Beasley.

It's almost over. It's almost over, and nothing's happened. Jaylen’s still pitching her shutout. Bottom of the ninth. Two out. It's okay. It's going to be okay.

Foul ball. The static intensifies.

CV looks at Jaylen. She looks back at him, almost apologetic, and then she's gone, flickering over to the Thieves’ dugout, leaving a confused Beasley in her place.

Blood Hamburger gets caught stealing.

Game over.

CV’s gone before Beasley can even look at him. He doesn't want to know what he might see.

“You're avoiding Beasley,” Jesús says out of nowhere one day.

“What? No. Of course not.”

Budy looks up at him with big sad eyes, informing CV that he, too, knows CV has been avoiding Beasley, and it makes Budy very sad because he wants dog friends.

“What?” CV throws his arms in the air. “You want my shoes to get stolen? Is that what you want? I can't believe you'd expect me to put my footwear in danger.”

Jesús folds their arms. “As if it's ever been about that.”

CV flops facedown on the couch, or at least in the direction his face would be if he'd bothered to draw one on. “Uuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrggghhhhhhh.”

“You want to talk about it?”

CV slides off onto the floor. “Noooooooooooooooooooo.”

Budy comes over and sniffs him in concern, and Jesús lies down next to him.

“I can and will lie here on the floor with you until you talk about your emotions.”

“Isn't that uncomfortable to your soft squishy human body?”

“Yes. So hurry up and tell me about your soft squishy human emotions.”

CV sits up, unreasonably pleased that Jesús essentially called him human. “Fine. Get your soft squishy human butt on the couch and I'll talk.”

Jesús does exactly that, and CV joins him, picking Budy up.

CV stares at the ceiling. “I don't want to make Beasley sad.”

“By existing near him?”

He shrugs.

“CV, your existence shouldn't ever make anyone sad. And if it does, it's their responsibility to work through those feelings, not yours. You're not doing anything wrong by existing.”

“But Beasley…”

“Is going to be on our team for the foreseeable future, and is a very good dog. Have you ever considered that maybe he feels bad for you ? Maybe he's worried that you think he hates you, and that's contributing to his troubles adjusting to this team.”

“He’s a dog, Jesús.”

Budy headbutts CV disapprovingly.

“Sorry, Budy. I don't mean dogs are stupid. I mean… I don't know, if I died and the universe spontaneously created someone to replace me, wouldn't it make you sad to be around them?”

Budy whimpers.

“...You’re right, that wasn't a very nice question. Sorry.”

Jesús sighs. “Just… try not to assume the worst, okay? Just because we miss Workman doesn’t mean we can’t be happy to have you here. I think Beasley could feel the same.”

“Nobody’s happier to have me here than they would be to have Workman. Especially Beasley.”

“It’s not a competition, CV. You’re different people. I’m closer to you than I ever was to Workman. That doesn’t mean I’m glad they died so you could be here, it just means I’m glad you’re here.”

Are we entirely different people, though? is what CV thinks, but what he says is “Really?”

Jesús smiles hesitantly. “I… I didn't do much of anything before you were around, you know? Not since I got here. Buried myself in my jackets and played some sad guitar alone in my room because I didn't want to face this new world. You dragged me out into it and helped me realize it's not so bad here after all. Don’t try to tell me people aren’t happy you’re here.”

“You still do those things, though.” CV gives one of Jesús’ jacket sleeves a gentle tug.

He sighs. “Well, yeah. It's a slow process.”

CV leans over and rests his dome on Jesús’ shoulder. “But you do seem happier now.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

They sit quietly like that for a while, CV doing his best to pretend that everything is fine and cool and he is definitely not still freaking out about Beasley and Workman and existing and being this close to Jesús and what this whole love thing might mean.

He knows what he wants to say, though.

“Jesús?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy to have you here too. I mean, uh, all of you. Everyone. The whole team. Which includes you, obviously.”

They're smiling. “I know, CV. We all do.”

Beasley pitches a shutout against the Millennials, and it's beautiful. CV’s not sure dogs really care about winning as long as the ball gets thrown around, though, especially because everybody always tells Beasley he's a good boy regardless of the outcome. They're telling him that now, and he's wagging his tail politely, but his eyes keep shifting away, as if he’s still looking for the one person he wants most to tell him the exact same thing.

CV’s not that person. At least, he's not nearly enough of that person. Not enough for Beasley or for anyone else. But he's Commissioner Vapor, and he's supposed to do a great job, and that means at least trying to connect with his newest teammate.

It's what Jesús wants him to do. That helps him take those steps forward once the rest of the team has started to disperse and Beasley is sitting alone on the pitcher's mound. Budy follows, and CV has never been more grateful for his presence.

“Beasley?”

He thumps his tail on the ground a couple times.

“Hi. Just wanted to say you pitched a great game. And welcome to the team, because I don't think I said that yet. And…” he gently nudges Budy forward with his foot. “This is my dog, Budy! I think you two could be friends.”

Budy wags his tail, and the two dogs begin sniffing each other. Seemingly satisfied, Beasley wags his tail again too.

“Guess he probably smells like Dloritos, huh?” CV holds out his own hand to sniff. “Actually, I probably do too. Do you like Dloritos, Beasley?”

Beasley licks his hand, tail wagging harder. It would tickle, if CV could feel such a thing.

“You probably shouldn't be giving him Dloritos,” Ziwa says, walking up to them.

“Since when did you become Captain No Fun Allowed?” CV protests.

“Hey, not all dogs have Budy’s…” Ziwa looks him up and down. “ Unique constitution. Beasley’s better off with dog treats. I’ve got a bag in the dugout, if you wanna give him some.”

“I bet Workman gave him anything he wanted,” CV says without thinking. (Which is how he says most things, now that he thinks about it.)

“They did spoil him,” Ziwa admits, after a notably awkward pause. “I guess we all do, too.” They give Beasley a couple pats on the head, then turn to CV. “It's good to see you giving him some attention.”

CV ruffles Beasley’s ears, and the dog doesn't do anything to indicate that he wishes CV would leave and never come back. “He deserves it. He's a good boy.”

Maybe CV doesn't deserve to be the one here to give Beasley attention, but since he is here, it's about time he started giving Beasley attention anyway. It’s the least he can do.

This time when CV steps into the lab, Mooney's staring at the idol board and chewing on her pen, pages of messily scribbled notes in front of her. The squid icon hovers ominously next to Pitching Machine, with Jessica Telephone and York Silk right below, and Dot almost at the bottom of the board.

She abandons it, of course, so she can get started on his suit maintenance. CV finds it less overwhelming to be out of the suit while he's indoors, where there are no breezes or open skies, but it's still strange to be formless, almost helpless. Every time he floats out of there he finds it hard to believe he used to live like this.

He doesn't like to think about it, so instead he drifts over to the computer, where the display hasn’t changed.

“You're planning something.”

“Mmm,” she says, not looking up from the suit.

He drifts back and hovers in front of her face. “What, you're not gonna tell me?”

“It's just a thought. Nothing definitive yet. But I know you’re not going to leave me alone about it, so…” She sighs and pushes up her glasses. “The other teams are scared of the Monitor, and I can understand that. It's a hungry giant squid, and mysterious entities haven't been particularly kind to the league in the past.”

“But we're not scared of it!” CV says proudly.

“We’re not, though we certainly respect it. The Fridays, though, are very concerned for York’s safety, and they know it would be nearly impossible to move him out of the way if Jessica and Pitching Machine were to drop. The Tacos say they're willing to make another sacrifice, but nobody thinks they should have to.”

She pauses to polish CV’s helmet.

“So?” he prompts.

“You need to stop getting Dlorito dust all over your helmet.”

“I meant about the idol board!” He swirls around her impatiently.

Her mouth twitches. “All in due time, CV. Not everyone is going to be thrilled with this plan.”

“How do I know if I should be thrilled with it or not if you won't tell me?”

Mooney sighs. “All right. We have worshipped the Moist One ever since it first appeared, and showered it with the tiny eggs it asked for. If there is anyone it might take mercy on, it would be us. I think if we get Dot up the board, we can prevent it from going after any other shelled player. They're the least likely to suffer consequences from this. And if I'm wrong, and they do…” Mooney hesitates. “I believe they would want to be the one to take the fall. They went in there to protect York. If we prevented them from protecting him again, they would be devastated.”

“You want to sacrifice our star pitcher to a giant squid? Man, I wish I'd thought of that one. I'd get so many views.”

“Not sacrifice,” Mooney corrects. “Communion. Dot may be able to talk to it. And this isn't a publicity stunt, CV. It's real, and it's dangerous, and I have to be absolutely certain it's the right thing to do before I tell the world to help me do it. I can't fail the league again.” Her hands have stopped adjusting the suit, and she’s staring right past him.

How can CV tell her that he understands this, but he doesn't know how to handle it? He deals in publicity stunts, not serious plans. He films increasingly ridiculous ways to try and break Dot out because he's afraid to get anyone's hopes up, afraid to believe it might actually work. If this goes wrong, it won't just fail to break them out, it will really go wrong, and Mooney doesn't deserve another burden like that when all she ever wanted was to set them free.

He drifts over and drapes himself around her like a cape; hopefully it's one weight on her shoulders she’ll be able to bear.

“You've never failed me,” he tells her. “I trust you. I think Dot does, too. I think they would want you to try.”

“I think they would, too.” She sighs. “And that’s why I think we have to do it.”

Partying feels better this season. Sure, they missed out on the playoffs yet again, which is kind of cringe, but at least everyone seems less depressed and more inclined to actually enjoy partying.

It's a beautiful day in the Gleek and they're absolutely trouncing the Magic -- far too late for it to have any impact on the postseason, of course, but they're still having a good time. Jaylen has left Halifax behind and isn't tearing teams apart with her pitches anymore. Dot is still in the shell, but if they all have enough faith in the Moist One, maybe they'll soon be free. Isn't it about time the Talkers actually felt like partying?

Jesús sure seems to think so. CV’s next to them in the field when it hits, getting a close-up view of the way their face lights up as the confetti swirls around them. His viewers are getting a pretty good view, too.

“Yo, party boy!” CV waves the camera in Jesús’ face. “Do a flip!”

He swats it away, laughing. “Hey, pay attention to the ball!”

CV looks up just in time to see it bouncing towards him, and effortlessly turns the camera around to himself as he scoops the ball up and throws it to first, ending the top of the inning. “Dude, I got this, don't worry. I could play blaseball with my eyes closed.”

“You don't have eyes.”

“Exactly! How much harder could it possibly be with ones that are closed?”

“I forgot how good this feels,” Jesús admits, a little extra spring in their step on the way to the dugout.

“Like chugging a happiness-and-teamwork flavoured Mlonster Energy?”

He snorts. “Something like that, yeah.”

A few days later, even Dot ends up getting in on the partying, somehow. No one's sure if they can even feel it from inside the shell, but CV sticks a party hat on top of it anyway and snaps a selfie with them. Greer’s shouting something in the background about how she's already pitching this game for Dot, so the least they could do is let her have the parties, even though of course she doesn't need the stat boosts, and they should stop being such an ungrateful spotlight-stealing--

“Can you hear her from in there, Dot? She misses you,” CV grins, snapping another picture.

CV’s turn comes on Day 99 again, the last chance. He's on first, waiting for Jesús to bat him home, when he feels the party energy surge through him, bright and alive, and he doesn't even mind that he gets thrown out at second as Jesús slides into first. This game isn't what matters. The Talkers will be unstoppable next season, especially once they get Dot out of the shell.

Four stars. He watches them twinkle up on the screen, the same number Workman had at their best. Maybe he's not Workman reborn, but his stats sure are starting to look more and more like it.

Next season, he promises them when the cameras are off. Next season, I'll make you proud.

CV doesn't film it, in the end. Once he’s standing there in anxious, reverential silence with the rest of the team, something about the moment makes the thought of talking to an audience feel wrong. When the Moist One descends to the Gleek and scoops Dot’s shell up into its impossibly large tentacles, CV has no words anyway, and merely grips Jesús and Mooney’s hands tighter as the entire team holds their breath and waits.

It's not that he ever believed Mooney’s plan would go wrong, but he still breathes a sigh of relief when it goes right. Dot slowly sits up, covered in squid spit and shell fragments, sporting some totally sweet tentacles, and Mooney is there to check them over and pronounce them okay, if overwhelmed. Their faith paid off, faith in the Moist one and in Mooney and in each other.

Teamwork, both on and off the field, each of them a part of it in their own way. This, CV thinks, is what it’s all about.

The Thieves make the finals, and invite all the Talkers to come watch. Everyone seems to be happy about this; even Dot is almost smiling as Beasley reunites with his old team.

CV’s not unhappy about it. It's fine. It doesn't matter if he's in Halifax or Charleston, he can stream anywhere. He sets everything up in the hotel room he's sharing with Jesús and broadcasts an assortment of video games to anyone who'd rather watch that than the internet series finals.

Jesús does manage to drag him out for Game 5, insisting it'll be exciting and he won't want to miss it. CV’s pretty sure they really mean they don't want him moping around in a hotel room about the Workman Situation all week instead of hanging out with the Thieves, which is not what he was doing, he's got a devoted audience to entertain and Jesús knows it, but he goes anyway because he can't resist both Jesús and Budy looking at him with those pleading eyes.

It does turn out to be an exciting game. Unfortunately, the one immediately after it turns out to be even more exciting for all the wrong reasons.

The Thieves don't even get the time they deserve to celebrate their championship, their championship they won for Workman and all the other friends the umpires took from them. CV doesn't get any amount of time to decide what he feels about this, because now giant peanut shells are falling from the sky and cracking open to reveal players who are familiar and alien all at once, an entire team sporting cold red eyes and dusty white hair, their limbs moving jerkily as if they're all being yanked around by the laughing puppeteer in the sky.

CV doesn't even recognize York at first. This isn't the little kid that Dot fought so hard to save; this is a teenager who hasn't had the chance to properly grow into his body, as if he's wearing a containment suit that was made without any care at all, trapped in the armour of a peanut shell designed only to hurt.

The Shelled One says MY DORK with possessive glee, the crowd screaming in fury, Dot’s many hands clenching into fists that can do nothing to strike this false god down, and CV finally realizes that even though everything went according to Mooney’s plan, nobody had been planning for the right thing at all.

Everything is different next season. The old weather comes with new twists, Dot is back and pitching better than ever, and the threat of the Pods is looming heavily over the league. Even if CV does manage to live up to Workman's legacy, who's going to notice? Everyone's got bigger things on their mind.

This doesn't stop him from trying, of course, because what else is he going to do? Mooney makes sure his suit is in peak condition for the start of the season, and he attacks the ball in a Mlonster-fuled frenzy, stealing bases whenever he gets the chance and finding new ways to make it look exciting to the viewers. Jesús seems to worry about him, and so does Mooney, but what are the umpires going to do, incinerate him? He’s got Jesús to protect him, and now Fish, too.

Fish says eating fire doesn't hurt, even though it looks like it does, the way the flames swirl around them and make their eyes glow white-hot, magma pumping through their veins, the fireball of a home run streaking across the sky like it did the day CV started existing.

Workman would have been a perfect fire eater. In their absence, CV thinks that maybe he should have been the one instead of Fish -- he survived their incineration, didn't he? Maybe he doesn't even need a blessing or a suit to be fireproof enough for that. Maybe he doesn't need anyone's protection.

He suggests this possibility to Jesús, who immediately says “I'd rather we never find out. Don't be an idiot, CV.”

“Maybe I want to protect someone for once,” he mutters.

“I get that,” Jesús says softly. “But it's better if no one has to protect anyone, don't you think?”

Who's going to protect us from the Pods? remains unspoken. All the fireproofing in the world won't do much good there, and they both know it.

Beasley’s ended up staying with Dot. It's probably for the best; they've both got a lot to adjust to, and maybe it's easier to do the adjusting together. It's not like CV would have been the best fit for Beasley. He's got his own dog, and his own life, and he's not ever going to be Workman in a way that matters.

Maybe things are getting better for them. Dot still seems uncertain in their new body, tentacles askew and awkward, as if the Monitor made a suit for them that could fit but they're not ready to wear it yet. And yet they also seem happier, more connected to the team, more willing to open up. Beasley might not be happy, exactly, but he looks a little less lost now that he has someone he wants to follow around.

Does Dot feel responsible for Beasley? Do they look at him and think of the day Workman got beaned, wish they had been just a little worse at pitching so it hadn't gone into extra innings? Do they feel the same when they look at CV?

CV can't ask them that. He has to come up with a better question when they're the only ones left in the locker room, Dot struggling to zip up their bag with their unwieldy new tentacle-hands, Beasley flopped on the floor, and CV waiting for Budy, who's decided to join his friend in Floor Time.

“How's it going with Beasley?”

Dot looks up from where they've finally conquered the zipper. “Pretty well, I think. I certainly appreciate having him around. I’ll never be Workman, but I do what I can to make sure he knows this is a place where he is loved.”

CV thinks of Dot falling out of the shell, saved by the Moist One, waking up to a protective circle of teammates. “I guess that's kind of what teams are for.”

“Yes,” Dot says softly. “I suppose it is. I am grateful for the second chance to experience it.”

Should he ask? He's not sure. He asks anyway.

“How… what does love feel like? At least, to you? Because for me it's been so confusing.”

“That is not an easy question to answer,” they say slowly.

“Uh. Sorry. If you want, I can just Flortnite dance out of here and you can forget I asked!”

“No need for that.” Their mouth twitches up a little. “I just… well, I don't know if I can give you a satisfying answer, but…” They pause for a while, thinking. “For a long time after the blessing, I tried not to feel it at all, because it hurt too much to lose people. But… it hurts anyway. It always hurts to lose people, even if you try to bury your feelings before the loss. So whatever love might feel like to you, do not run from feeling it. It's worth it.”

Did you love Workman? No. He can't ask that. He thinks he knows the answer, anyway.

“Love,” they continue. “is missing people when they're gone. Wishing they were there. That is what love has been to me for so long. It has been nice to have the reminder lately that love is also for the people who are still here, and that I... I am allowed to feel it, and express it.”

Do you wish I wasn't here? He can't ask that either, but somehow he thinks he knows the answer to that one, too. Somehow, he thinks Dot doesn't hate him for existing instead of Workman, even if they wish Workman were here.

“It is a beautiful thing, to know you are loved,” Dot says before he can ask anything at all. “And, yes, it can be confusing, too. But sometimes you don't need to understand it. You don't need to classify it. You just need to feel it.”

“What if… what if I'm afraid to feel it?”

They smile, a little sad, a little happy. “Welcome to life.”

Before he knows it, the season is over, and CV finally finds himself in the playoffs. It's not everything he dreamed it would be, but it feels dreamlike all the same, much like the rest of the season did, as if he's just floating through it all despite being firmly nestled in the suit.

Before he knows it, the Talkers’ playoff run is over, too. Four games, and then they're done. Out. Playoff experience ended. Not even close enough to glimpse the championship, and no parties, either.

They all go to watch the finals again, probably less to support the Shoe Thieves and more because they know they can't outrun the league's impending doom, so they might as well witness it firsthand.

Something goes wrong even before the Pods show up. CV’s stopped paying too much attention to the game; cursed and exhausted, the Thieves are losing to the Crabs by a large margin. He's scrolling Tlwitter instead, which is easier than watching the game, easier than being painfully aware of how much time is left before… well, nobody knows exactly, but he's not ready to find out.

It's Mooney who feels it first. She lets out an agonized cry almost before Tot Fox has finished swinging the bat, before the announcer can make sense of what's going on. The birds scatter, and yet the sky grows even darker, the sunlight draining away. For a moment, the moon is silhouetted against the sky -- and then she's falling, falling, and Mooney is stumbling down the stairs, screaming for her wife, and CV leaps up to follow her and --

Jesús’ hand catches around his wrist. ‘Don’t!” Their voice is panicked, their eyes wide.

CV struggles. “Let me go! I have to help her!”

Everything is wrong. The moon is gone and the sun is gone and there's a big black hole swirling in the sky and there's a sun rising but it's wrong, its light is different and there is no moon for it to illuminate, and Mooney --

Jesús wraps both arms around him now, holding him tighter. “Nobody has any idea what's going on! You can't run out there, it's not safe! I… I'm not losing you.”

“And I'm not losing Mooney!” CV tries to twist away. “Don't make me get out of the suit. I'll do it, and then you can't stop me.”

“Mooney can take care of herself,” Jesús insists. “We can't even see her anymore. We don't know where she's gone off to. The less people unaccounted for when the Pods show up, the better.”

CV goes still. “What, and I can't take care of myself? I can’t take care of anyone ? Is that it? I needed Mooney to build me a suit and I needed you to show me how to be a person, and without either of you, I'm nobody? Just some silly little cloud? The ghost of someone who doesn't know how to be them and doesn't know how to be their own person either?” He breaks free, Jesús’ grip having suddenly loosened. “Maybe I want to make my own decisions. Maybe I'm tired of people telling me I'm doing everything wrong. Maybe I want to help, and not be told to leave people alone because I’ll just make things worse. Maybe you can stop feeling like it’s your job to keep me out of trouble all the time.”

Jesús’ face crumples, and CV suddenly feels unsteady, like he might dissipate despite having the suit all around him.

“Is… is that really what you think of us?” Jesús whispers. “That we do this because we’re obligated to, and we hate every minute of it? That we wish you were someone else?”

CV doesn't know what he thinks. Everything is going wrong and he feels like his very essence is uncontrollably swirling like the black hole in the sky, like the flames that consumed Workman, as if he's become a miniature tornado of self-loathing, his own personal natural disaster.

“I just want you to be safe and here with me,” Jesús says. “I don't want anyone to be running into danger. Not Mooney, not you, not anyone. What do you think she would want? She'd want you to be safe, too. Caring about someone else doesn't mean you think they can't take care of themself. It just means you don't want them to have to face the world alone.” He swipes at his eyes. “And I… I don't want to face this without you. I don't know if I can.”

CV sits down, suddenly finding it too difficult to keep the suit upright. How is he going to go after Mooney now? He can barely move.

“Sorry,” he manages. “I don't want us to be mad at each other at the end of the world. I mean, maybe it won't be the end of the world! It would be great if it's not. Then we could talk about our emotions after.”

Jesús lets out a little laugh-sob and reaches for CV’s hand. CV takes it, squeezing tight, and maybe he can't feel the warmth but he can feel the pressure, the tether, the promise that Jesús thinks he's someone worth holding on for. Maybe right now, this is the best way for him to help, the best decision for him to make. Maybe Jesús really does want him here.

The Pods are back, their shells crashing into the field like meteorites, fallen stars here to scorch the earth. They look like they have no opinion whatsoever about this, blank faces betraying nothing as they take to the dugout. Jessica Telephone idly twirls the cord of the Dial Tone. York Silk taps the Vibe Check against the dirt. Axel Trololol polishes his arm cannon.

Anyone who didn't know better might truly believe they're in control of their own actions.

Wyatt Quitter hits a single, and that's all it takes for the Crabs to collapse. The beginning of the end of the world. Jesús’ hand grips tighter. Would CV hurt them if he holds tighter too? How could he tell?

He does anyway, just in time to watch the world reborn.

They're coming back, rising from the depths, an army glowing soft blue with the force of the fans’ love. So many players from before CV’s time, familiar faces he's never met, legends like Kiki Familia and Landry Violence and Tyreek Olive and --

Workman Gloom.

Workman Gloom is here, and real, and alive, and smiling, and holding a bat. Beasley is barking joyously in Dot’s arms, because his person is finally back. Workman Gloom is here, and Commissioner Vapor is here, and that must mean Commissioner Vapor is truly not Workman Gloom.

Right?

Workman Gloom is here, and still CV remembers, remembers how it felt to die, and before that, how it felt to live, live in a real body as a real human person, which CV isn’t, and never will be, because he's not Workman Gloom, so why does he remember?

Workman Gloom hits a home run, grinning, and the Shelled One is screaming, and Jesús is holding his hand tight, and he is Commissioner Vapor and the world is still going and so maybe he can save all these concerns for later, because it seems there may be a later after all.

Mooney's wife is gone.

CV knows this as he trudges home, no bright welcoming orb in the sky to light the way. Mooney is okay, or at least as okay as anyone can be after that; Ziwa texted him to say that they found her, and they're looking after her, and they're sure she appreciates his concern but it's probably best if he just goes home for now, it's been a long day.

He's not sure if he should take this as she doesn't need you or we don't think you should see her like this, and he wants to argue that maybe this is exactly when she needs him and exactly when he needs to see her, but he's afraid to talk to anyone. He yelled at Jesús when Jesús needed him. He really just does make things worse even when he's trying to make them better, doesn't he?

People are celebrating in the streets, laughing, shouting, cheering, singing songs about fighting gods. It's exactly the kind of thing he should enjoy, but CV doesn't feel like joining in. His life never made all that much sense in the first place, but it still managed to get turned completely on its head today.

Back at the apartment, he sits on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen, unable to find the motivation to play anything, even just for himself. Jesús sits next to him, quiet.

“Why does it still feel like the world ended?” CV finally asks.

“A lot of things happened. Especially things that impacted you.”

“Workman.”

“Workman,” Jesús agrees.

“What if they're back for good? Nobody will need me anymore.”

Jesús looks at him. “Don't tell me you seriously believe that. You think you play the same role in everyone's lives that Workman did? I know you better than I knew them. So does Mooney. You couldn't replace them, and they couldn't replace you. It doesn't work that way.”

Would he still say that if he knew CV had some of their memories?

CV just shrugs. “Maybe I’ll have to give up my spot on the team. Dedicate my life to Tlwitch streaming instead.”

“Would that really be so bad? You'd be safe.”

CV kicks his heels against the couch. “I guess not. But I would hate being safe when other people aren't.”

“How do you think I feel every day?”

“That's different.”

“How is it different?”

He shrugs. “You deserve it.”

Jesús burrows his hands into the jacket sleeves. “What did I ever do to deserve it? I don't. Not more than anyone else does, at least.”

“You deserve it because you're you,” CV says simply.

They're quiet for a moment, as if they don't know what to say to that.

“CV.”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever thought of yourself the same way? That you deserve to exist just because you're you? That even if the world is worse without Workman in it, it's also better with you in it? That people really do want you here no matter how good you are at blaseball or video games or being a person or anything at all, because you're just good at being you? ”

“I don't know if I can be good at that when I don't really know who I am.” CV’s helmet is starting to feel dangerously close to leaking again.

“But that's what friends are for, right? Helping you figure that out. Because they want to, not because they feel obligated to. Because even if you can handle something alone, you shouldn't have to.”

CV cringes at the reminder of what he said earlier. “Sorry. That was a bad time to say those things.”

“I think it’s important just to say them at all, if it’s what you’re feeling. You can say things to me anytime you need, okay? Just as long as you're prepared for me to call you out if you're being a dick.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

“Not really. I understand where you were coming from.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Hey.” Jesús nudges him. “I've had a lot more years of existence than you, and even I don't really understand myself. I think people would be surprised if you did understand yourself at this point.”

“We understand each other, though, don't we? At least kind of?”

“Yeah. I think we do.”

CV swipes at the moisture that's starting to leak out. “Do you understand how to fix my helmet leaking problem?”

“I think I can give it a try,” Jesús says softly. They lean over and carefully wipe it away with their outermost sleeve, Scorpler’s jacket apparently able to solve water-related problems as well as fire-related ones. “Better?”

CV still doesn't quite feel steady. “What if it leaks more? Maybe you should, I don't know, put pressure on it or something.”

Jesús shifts closer, resting his head on the spot where CV’s helmet meets the rest of the suit, curling his body into CV’s, as if he needs someone to hold him together too. “How's that?”

“That’s… good. Thanks.”

They don't move from that spot for a very long time.

The lab is messier than usual. CV carefully works his way around strange-looking machine parts and assorted debris until he finds who he's looking for.

“Mooney?”

She blinks up at him from a space she’s cleared on the floor. “CV? Is it maintenance time already?” She squints at the calendar on the wall for a minute before giving up. He's not sure she even realizes it's still displaying last month.

“No. Unless you think I need it! But I just stopped by to, uh, see how you were doing.”

“I'm fine.” She goes back to tinkering with… well, he actually has no idea what it is. She definitely doesn't look fine, though. All her water-hair seems to have evaporated, there are dark circles under her eyes, and her hands are shaking as she adjusts a dial.

“...I'll be right back.”

She nods. CV isn't sure she really registered what he said, but he tries to be quick about it anyway.

There's a completely untouched casserole in the fridge. He pulls it out, serves up a couple portions, and sticks them in the microwave. Now is not the time for food crimes; it's well past the time for just any food at all.

“Where did you get that?” she asks when he sets the plate in front of her, as if she doesn't even remember what's in her own fridge.

“Lachlan.” It's a pretty safe assumption.

“That's nice,” she says absently, making no motion to actually eat it.

CV gets the feeling she would say exactly the same thing if he had said “me” or “the Monitor” or “Tillman Henderson” or anything at all.

“I was going to eat it, but I'm not sure if it's safe to put in my suit! So I thought maybe you could eat some first. Y’know, give me your scientific analysis of whether it’s… suitable!”

Mooney stares at it. “What is this? Did you do something strange to it?” She looks around for cameras.

“It's food! You should eat it! Would I poison you?”

“Not intentionally.” But she pokes at it with her fork anyway, and starts eating, almost mechanically, as she goes back to pore over her notes. CV puts the second plate next to her once she empties the first one, and waits to make sure she goes through that too.

“Oh,” she says after a while, looking up. “CV. Did you need something?”

He glances around the messy lab. “Do you… need any help?”

“Not with this. It's too dangerous to get anyone else involved.”

“What is it?”

“I'm going to bring her back.”

CV wonders if she once said the same thing about Jaylen, with much more excitement and much less desperation.

“How?”

“It's far too complicated for you to understand.”

“So teach me!”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not getting you involved in this. This is my job, and mine alone. If I fail, I’m not taking you down with me. Not that I intend to fail, of course. But you deserve better than that risk.”

“So do you!”

“And what does she deserve, CV?”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“You can best help by staying out of it,” Mooney says, quietly but firmly. “Go back to your games and your streaming.”

“What if I’d rather be here?”

“Trust me.” She steers him towards the lab exit. “You don’t want to be here.”

CV finds himself on the wrong side of the door, wondering if he'd even done anything to help at all.

The third time York Silk falls from the sky, PolkaDot Patterson is there to catch him.

They're sprinting across the field before anyone else has even noticed the world breaking apart above them, managing to dive forward at the last minute, wrapping him safely in their tentacle-arms and carrying him to the dugout. York hasn't gone back to his eight-year-old self, but somehow he still looks so small in their arms, eyes closed, peanut dust in his hair and shell-patterned scars marking his skin.

Mooney's there immediately, looking more sharp and focused than CV's seen her since that day, alight with purpose. She gives York a careful examination, and declares him to be physically all right outside of the scarring.

“It's not quite a coma, but he's in a pretty deep sleep,” she says. “I think he'll wake soon enough, though, and in the meantime, I'll keep an eye on him.”

Jesús quickly donates one of his non-Scorpler jackets to be folded up and placed under York’s head as a pillow. CV hovers with him and the rest of the team, waiting for York to wake up, but Mooney soon shoos them all away except for Dot, insisting it's best not to crowd him.

CV doesn't argue; he's just glad to see her looking more like herself again.

He doesn't hear what they talk about (not for lack of trying, but Jesús keeps yanking him back every time he attempts eavesdropping), but nothing too dramatic happens once York’s eyes flutter open, so he must be himself again.

It would probably be important to pay attention to the other election results, but CV’s more focused on the dugout than the screen. Some exclamations from his teammates break through here and there, anyway.

“We got swapped to Mild Low?”

“The pods are falling all over the league!”

“Jaylen’s on the Lovers…”

“Released? What does that mean ? Are they okay? Where are they?”

“Where are the Crabs ? Where did they go?”

“Aw, man, the Thieves got headphones. I was looking forward to spending some time in Charleston…”

“ Bontgomery Mullock??? ”

By that point, York is up on his feet (despite protests from Mooney), demanding news about Nagomi -- it turns out she ended up on his old team instead of getting to ascend with the Crabs. CV doesn't know her, doesn't know how she might feel about this, but at least it means she can still see York, that'll be good for both of them, right?

“Shouldn't we help?” CV insists next time Jesús tries to drag him away. “He's our teammate now. Says so right on the roster and everything.”

“Later, yeah. Right now, Mooney and Dot have got this covered.”

They're already leaving with York, Jesús’ jacket wrapped around his shoulders. Taking him to somewhere more restful than a field full of nosy, noisy blaseball players.

CV sighs, willing to admit to himself that maybe Jesús does have better ideas about what to do sometimes. “Fine.”

But it's Jesús who ends up asking, that evening, when it's just the two of them and Budy back at the apartment, flopped on the couch, playing Smlash Bros but not really paying attention to the screen. Asking almost rhetorically, as if he's not expecting CV to answer.

"What are we going to do now?"

CV answers anyway. "Teach him how to be a teenager, of course."

Jesús raises an eyebrow. "You?"

"I'm nineteen! I know all about being a teenager!"

"Technically, you're four, and you've just spent all four of those years saying you're nineteen."

"Which is still four more years of teenage experience than he has!"

Well, okay, maybe York has had one year, but spending it brainwashed by an evil peanut god isn't exactly a typical teenage experience.

CV pauses the game and puts down the controller so he can show Jesús he's Totally Serious about this. “I want to help! Everyone helped me when I got here, including you, so isn't it my turn to help people? To prove I really can? Sure, Mooney understands how to help him with whatever symptoms he might be having, and Dot understands what it's like to be shelled and change teams and be a star, but I understand how to have fun, and I think that's also what he needs.”

“You think that's what everyone needs.”

“Because it is!”

Jesús shakes their head fondly. “I guess you do make some good points. Just don't overwhelm him, okay? He's going through a lot, and he'll need some space, too. We're not going to burst into Dot’s apartment tomorrow and drag York out to stream with us or anything like that.”

“Of course not, we'll wait at least one more day for that.”

They study CV, as if they’re not sure whether he’s joking or not. He does his best attempt of shaping the vapour inside his helmet into an innocent look.

“Yeah, yeah, patience and all that, I get it. But aren’t you excited to have someone else to hang out with? We can be… the teen squad!”

“The teen squad ?”

“I'll think of a better name later. Like… uh… the super sick teenage turbo poggers pals!”

“... On second thought, the teen squad sounds great, actually.”

“Pog,” CV says proudly.

He can be responsible. Can’t he? He's been looking after Budy his whole life. He's been helping Mooney adjust after the black hole incident. He didn't run away during the Pods game when Jesús wanted him to stay. He knows how to run a Tlwitch stream. He usually doesn't show up too late to practices. He hasn't even burned down Jesús’ apartment or anything like that.

How hard could it be to help York?

They do go to see him, after a few days. There's only so much time they get between seasons, and if York's going to get any chance at all to have some good old teenage fun before games start up again, they can't wait any longer.

Dot opens the door after just a few seconds of knocking, as if they'd been expecting someone to show up, or they'd been anxiously pacing around the living room, or they used their interdimensional squid powers to instantly teleport to the door and open it. CV’s not actually sure if that last one is something they can do, though, and he's reminded that he still really doesn't know Dot all that well.

“Hello,” they say softly. “I suppose you're here to see York.”

CV can already see him curled up under a blanket on the couch, the familiar sounds of Plokemon music blaring from his GlameBoy. He looks up, wide-eyed, and then back down at the screen. Beasley hops off from where he'd been sitting next to York and trots over to the door, tail wagging as Budy comes up to greet him.

“I mean, it's not that we don't want to see you, Dot!” CV quickly says. “You're pretty cool and all that. You're just, y’know, an adult who probably doesn't want to get up to teen shenanigans. Which is fine! You're still poggers.”

“Well, thank you. I believe this is the first time anyone has ever called me ‘poggers’.” Is that the hint of a smile?

“But it won't be the last!”

“Is it okay if we visit York?” Jesús asks. “We thought maybe he’d want some company closer to his own age, but we can go if it's a bad time.”

“Isn’t CV, like, three? I’m not a baby, you know.”

They all turn their heads to look at the figure on the couch, who's staring back defiantly.

“ Four. ” CV folds his arms. “And that's only in boring official age. I’m nineteen in the age that matters, because time is stupid.”

York snorts. “Yeah. How many years have I been alive? As if that matters. I was eight for ages and now I'm suddenly sixteen and who the hell knows what I'm supposed to do about that? Not me.”

Dot raises an eyebrow. “You certainly seem to be enjoying the swearing aspect of teenagerhood so far.”

“What? I just said hell! I didn't even say f--”

Dot covers Beasley's ears. “Not in front of Beasley!”

“Right, because Workman definitely never said that in front of him ever.”

Dot goes quiet for a moment, running their hands through Beasley's fur. Nobody knows where Workman is now; the Hall Stars vanished after the fight, and though they gradually seem to be resurfacing, it hasn't happened to Workman yet. It probably will, though.

CV definitely has not been worrying about this. Not even a little bit.

“Sorry,” York mutters.

Dot looks up. “No need to apologize. I'm sure they did. And they may again.”

And that's the end of that conversation. After a moment, York stands up and leaves the blanket and GlameBoy behind, revealing his outfit of a matching Talkers shirt and sweatpants combined with the jacket Jesús lent him when he fell to earth.

“Guess you probably want your jacket back, huh?” He awkwardly shrugs it off and holds it out.

Jesús waves it away. “No, you can keep it. I've got plenty.”

CV wonders how much of this gesture is pure generosity and how much of it is Jesús finally trying not to hide behind so many layers. Probably both. CV doesn't have anything to give York, but…

“Don't you have clothes?” he asks. “Like, other than team gear and donated jackets.”

York, having hesitantly put the jacket back on, seems to be attempting the classic Jesús technique of shrinking into it. “Um. Not really? None of my old clothes fit, and neither do Dot’s, and I guess getting a whole new wardrobe wasn't the first thing on my mind when I got unbrainwashed and crash-landed in Canada.”

“Well,” CV says brightly after a somewhat awkward silence. “We get to take you on a shopping spree, then!”

“Only if you’re up for it, of course,” Jesús adds.

York glances from them to Dot to the nice safe couch and GlameBoy. “I don't know…”

“Or we could stay here and do online shopping!”

He stares at the floor. “You… you don't have to do this for me, you know.”

“Maybe we want to do it,” CV says. “Ever think of that?”

Jesús nods. “You're our teammate now, and teammates do things together. Trust me, we'll all have a better time adjusting to this situation if you let us help. Doesn’t have to be specifically this right now, but, like, in general.”

“I second this sentiment,” Dot adds.

“Okay,” York says, finally looking up. “Fine. Let's go.”

It's not until they actually get to the mall that CV realizes none of them know much of anything about fashion.

CV doesn't actually need to wear clothes, Jesús’ favourite outfit is an entire closet’s worth of jackets, and York spent most of his life being eight and wearing whatever his mom picked out for him. Heck, who would he even ask for fashion advice when he definitely doesn't want his mom picking out his clothes anymore? Maybe he'd be more inclined to ask Nagomi, but their main fashion statement always seems to be spiky crab armour. And then there's Dot, who pretty much only ever wears their uniform or sweatpants and a hoodie.

So, basically, York is doomed.

They decide to start with the practical stuff, because winter in Canada is a far cry from winter in Hawai’i. Jesús trails their fingers longingly over a row of jackets before picking out a couple of particularly warm ones for York to try.

“You already gave me one of your jackets,” he protests, craning his neck to see past the stack of winter gear in his arms. “How many could I possibly need?”

“Just wait until the temperature drops,” Jesús says ominously.

“Do they make Croc boots for winter?”

“I'm afraid to learn the answer to that.”

The answer turns out to be yes. York clomps around joyously in a pair of green Croc boots (CV dubs them “croots”), holding a pair of blue ones too.

“What do you think?”

“I think they're probably safe from any Shoe Thieves,” says Jesús.

“Poggers,” says CV.

Getting other clothes turns out to be a bit more complicated. York doesn't want to use any of the change rooms, and while he doesn't say why, CV watches him scratch at the scabs again as he turns away from the row of doors. No small enclosed spaces, not so soon after escaping one, maybe not ever again.

He pulls shirts on over his Talkers shirt, holds pants up to his waist and tries to determine if they'll fit. It's a good enough method. It'll have to do.

Jesús eyes a few things too, but doesn't take off any jackets -- and doesn't pick up any new jackets, either, which at least is probably good.

CV finds a pink hoodie that says “gamer grrrl” and declares that he’s going to wear it for his next stream, and probably also for every stream ever, because it's perfect.

“Right, because no one would ever guess you’re a gamer otherwise.” Jesús nods with what CV figures is probably very fake solemnity.

“Are you a girl, then?” York asks tentatively.

CV shrugs. “I dunno what I am, but I do know that gamer grrrrl is a state of mind, and I'm living in it.”

York nods. “Cool.”

CV’s been told he doesn't need to pick a gender, and so he kind of… hasn't. Maybe he'll get around to it someday, but there are way more important things on his mind. Like Flortnite, and blaseball, and recruiting York for teen shenanigans, and Mlountain Dew and Dloritos, and Budy, and Jesús, and what exactly he might feel for Jesús, and his subscriber count, and Workman--

Well. It's a lot of things, and there's not all that much room for gender, and he doesn't see why there needs to be.

“You like Plokemon, right?” CV asks when they finally leave the mall, arms laden with packages. “Ever play Plokemon Go? We can show you the best places to catch ‘em all around here.”

“My mom always said I was too young to have a cell phone.” York’s still wearing a pair of croots, and he scuffs the toe of one of them against the ground. “But now I'm not, I guess, so I got one the other day. Haven't had much time for going on real-life Plokemon journeys yet.”

“Wanna go, then?”

“Maybe… maybe some other time? I'm kinda tired.”

He does look tired. Was this a mistake? Did they drag him out into the world too soon?

“We accomplished a lot today,” Jesús reassures him. “Our Plokemon journeys can wait.”

“Not too long, though,” York proclaims, gazing dramatically towards the horizon. “These croots were made for walking, and they're gonna walk me all the way to becoming a Plokemon master!”

CV brightens. Maybe they're doing the right thing after all.

Last time, they'd left Budy and Beasley behind with Dot (who hadn’t seemed to mind looking after them both; maybe they were just happy to have the company), so today they make up for it by taking the dogs out with them on their quest. It's a typical Sunken Halifax day, the sky overcast, the waves gray.

The old boardwalk sunk beneath the sea long before any of them were here to see it. If you look closely on a clear day you can still see it under there, overgrown with seaweed and barnacles and who knows what else, but today they don't even bother mentioning it to York. Taking its place are even less permanent structures, floating bridges and other makeshift systems to try and keep the citizens from getting too wet, though CV has always wondered why you would even live here if you don't want to get wet.

(Jesús has reminded him that not everyone has a nice containment suit to keep out whatever Substances might be in the harbour, and CV has reminded him in turn that that’s what adaptations are for, so shouldn't Jesús put those gills to good use? To which Jesús has said that maybe CV’s suit is an adaptation in its own way, which is silly because it was Mooney who made it for him, not the city. What could the city ever do for a cloud, other than perhaps call it to life in the first place?)

(CV wonders if York will adapt, someday.)

At this point, they’ve wandered past any attempts at boardwalk re-creations and have reached the sections that are mostly just… rocks. Large, slippery, generally hostile to walking, and of course a perfect spawning point for Plokemon. Also apparently a perfect place for dogs, as Beasley has flopped down and refused to move any further, and Budy quickly joins him in lazing around.

“It's kind of like Hawai’i,” York says absentmindedly, sitting on a particularly flat rock and dangling his crooted feet over the water as he swipes at his phone screen to throw a Plokeball. “Surrounded by water, except everything’s cold here.”

CV plops down next to him. “It's not even close to winter yet.”

Not that CV can even get cold from inside the safety of the suit, of course.

York turns to Jesús, who's sat down too. “Is this why you wear so many jackets?”

CV cringes sympathetically at the sensitive subject. Not that York would know; he might not even know Jesús is an alternate.

“It was a lot colder where I came from,” Jesús says quietly. “I don't feel the cold much here. It's just habit, I guess.”

“Oh.” York is quiet for a moment. “Sorry. Are you sure you don't want your jacket back? Is it… is it from home?”

“Some of them are from back there, and some of them are from here.” They run their fingers over the sleeves of Scorpler’s jacket. “I'm not sure which place feels more like home anymore, but that's not a bad thing, I guess. Seriously, you can keep it. It's good to share parts of my old home with my new one, I think.”

CV gives him as much of a pointed look as he possibly can with vapour. “You never gave me a jacket.”

Jesús stares back, an are-you-seriously-doing-this-right-now kind of look. “You’re my best friend and you’re living in my apartment. I think I’ve given you a lot.”

“But not a jacket!”

Jesús continues staring. His mouth twitches upwards a little.

“You're not ever gonna win a staring contest with me, Koch.”

“Asshole,” he says in the way that CV has learned is affectionate, taking off another jacket and throwing it to him. CV snags it before it can fall into the sea and slips it on in triumph. He'll get through all those layers yet.

…Well, no, not like that. CV shifts awkwardly, even though he didn't say it out loud. He wants Jesús to be more confident. Happier. Not feeling the need to hide all the time. Because… because he loves them, yes, but not because he’s yearning to literally see what they look like under all the jackets. It's not about that, right?

Maybe someday he'll figure this love thing out.

“I guess I'm lucky I can still go back to my old home, at least.” York’s voice drags CV out of his thoughts.

Jesús shrugs with way more nonchalance than CV knows he actually feels. “I'm lucky in other ways.”

“Hmm.” York puts his phone away and drums his heels against the rock. “There was a lot more sand in Hawai’i, too.”

“Sand is just really tiny ground-up rocks,” CV helpfully supplies. “Which means that rocks are just really big sand! So I would say there’s actually more sand here. Bigger sand. Which is pretty cool, if you think about it.”

They're both staring at him.

“What? Mooney teaches me science!”

“Okay, Doctor Vapor,” Jesús grins. “Guess I can't argue with science.”

“Well, can science make this into actual comfortable-sized sand?” York kicks the rock in front of him and immediately regrets it. “Ow.”

“We do have actual sand, you know,” Jesús informs him. “Actual beaches. They're just a little further away.”

CV leaps to his feet. “Beach episode! Let's get the whole team together!”

“Now?” York says hesitantly.

Jesús shakes their head. “No, not now. Maybe sometime when everyone's up for it.”

“Okay. Cool.”

CV picks up a decently sized piece of sand, also known as a fairly small rock. “Well, one good thing about all these rocks is that we can skip them!” He launches it towards the water, where it sinks immediately. Beasley opens one eye at the splash and closes it again, deciding it's not worth pursuing. Budy picks up a different rock and helpfully drops it at CV’s feet, wagging his tail.

York raises an eyebrow. “You don't actually know how to skip stones, do you?”

“You just throw them, right? How hard could it be?”

CV looks to Jesús for support, but they just shrug. “Our water was mostly frozen where I came from. I never learned either.”

“Well, I did learn, because we do have actual rocks in Hawai’i.” York picks one up and studies it. “You need a good flat one, and you've got to angle it right…” He tosses it with a practiced flick of the wrist.

It also sinks immediately. Silence follows the splash.

“Guess I'm used to doing it with smaller hands,” York says, finally, quietly.

CV picks up the rock that Budy so graciously gave him. “Aw, who cares about fancy rock throwing anyway? Rock throwing is rock throwing. Or sand throwing. Whatever. YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” And with that shout, he launches it into the water, where it lands with a satisfying splash. This certainly gets Beasley's attention, but he doesn't seem particularly impressed.

“See?” CV says. “That was fun. I had fun. Try it!”

York side-eyes him, but then, if only for lack of a better idea, picks up another rock and follows suit. “AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGHHH!”

“So?”

He considers for a moment, then a small smile flashes across his face. “Yeah. That felt kind of good, actually.”

They both turn to look at Jesús, who flatly says “I can't believe I'm being peer pressured into venting my pent-up frustrations by throwing rocks and yelling,” and then proceeds to do exactly that.

CV’s not sure if this is a normal teenage bonding activity, but he doesn't care, he's having fun throwing rocks and shouting and not thinking about anything at all. The others seem to be having fun too, until somewhere along the way York's enthusiastic yelling morphs into crying, and he sits down on the very large sand that's not the right sand for him, and the dogs try to lick his tears away and he just sobs harder, his whole body shaking, and Jesús is saying nice comforting things to him and CV is just standing there because he doesn’t know what he's supposed to do to help, he already tried to help with fun and that clearly didn't work and maybe it even made things worse and now York is going to hate him for saying stupid things about sand and being insensitive and--

“S-sorry,” York says, finally catching his breath, all cried out. “Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” CV says incredulously. “I'm the one who upset you with… with my everything, and tried to make you do things, and--”

“You didn't try to make me do anything, CV.” York stares out at the water. “I know what that feels like.”

Yes. CV is officially the worst at welcoming people to teenagerhood ever. “York, I--”

“It's okay,” he says, even though it isn't. “You don't know what to do about me. Nobody knows what to do about me. Not even me. It's not your fault.”

“It's not yours either, York,” Jesús says softly.

“I… I did bad things…” He looks like he's about to cry again. “Why would you even want to be friends with me after that?”

“Because that wasn't you.”

York stares down at the rock-sand. “It might as well have been.”

“But it wasn't,” CV chimes in. “You don't want to do bad things to us, right?”

His head snaps up. “Of course I don’t!”

“So you won't.”

“I… I…”

“You won't,” Jesús echoes. Beasley and Budy bark their agreement. “Which is why we want you to hang out with us and play video games and go shopping and throw rocks and yell and heal and learn how to be a teenager, if you want us to be a part of that.”

“Okay,” York says after a very long pause, wiping his eyes. “Okay. But I don't want to be out here anymore. Can we go play Mario Plarty?”

CV tries to convey the biggest possible grin through the vapour, and absolutely no anxiety whatsoever. “Hell yeah we can.”

“Mooney?” CV pokes his head into the lab. “I'm here for--”

“Suit maintenance, yes, I know.” She swivels around in her chair to face him. “I wouldn't forget that.”

She looks… better? Her hair is still gone, and there are still dark circles under her eyes, and the lab is still messier than usual, but she seems more focused as she looks at him.

“How's it going?” he asks tentatively, opening the valve and floating out of the suit, bracing himself against the sudden sensation of being part of the air again.

“It's a slow process.” She digs in the drawer for her tools. “Lots of work still to do. Lots of hypotheses to test. But I'll find a way to get her back.”

“Uh, I kind of meant, like, in general. But that's… good?”

“Oh. I'm fine.” She doesn't look at him as she polishes the helmet. “Don't worry about me. Save your energy for York.”

“Are you worried about him? Should I be even more worried about him than I already am? I feel like I'm doing the wrong thing half the time, like I'm making things worse, maybe I'm not the right person to--”

“CV.” Mooney looks up. “You and Jesús and Dot are all good for him. I think that if he couldn't have been free of blaseball, or at least gone back to the Fridays, this was the next best place for him to end up. He talks about you, you know. He thinks you're cool.”

“Cooooooollllll.” CV draws it out, whooshing around like a breeze. “Cool. Yeah. Okay. Cool. But is he… is he going to get better?”

“He's been through a lot. But he has plenty of people to support him, and we’re all going to help him through this together, and I believe he will get better, yes.”

“What… what about you?”

“I'm supporting him too, of course.”

CV hovers in front of her face. “No, I mean, how can you get better? I want to help.”

She sighs. “I'm getting my wife back, CV, and then everything will be fine. It isn't something you can help with. Don't worry about me.”

“But I do worry about you.”

She frowns. “It's my job to worry about you. ”

“Well, tell me how to not worry about you so you don't have to worry about me worrying about you instead of just worrying about me!”

Mooney blinks. “What?”

“I want you to be okay!”

“I'll be okay, CV,” she says quietly. “Go have your teenage fun. Don't concern yourself with problems beyond your capability to solve.”

“What if it's beyond your capability to solve?” CV doesn't back down even at her gasp. “Everyone else is still here, you know. Everyone else still cares about you. If you can't get her back, you're still not alone. It won't mean you've failed her or anything. You're doing everything you can and more. Don't wear yourself out.”

“I'm the one who's supposed to be giving you advice.” Her hands shake as she tightens a screw.

“And you have! You gave me so much good advice that I learned how to give good advice too! So if you think I'm wrong, that's really the same thing as thinking you’re wrong, and of course you wouldn't think that.”

“I may have taught you some things, but I'm not sure where you learned your logic.”

“My logic is that you deserve to be okay.”

“Well, we don't always get what we deserve.”

Mooney sighs and goes back to working on the suit. CV, not knowing what else to say, waits patiently for her to finish so she can at least get one thing she deserves: a proper hug.

York does get better. Not quickly, and not easily, and maybe never completely, because how could anyone completely recover from something like that? Maybe he'll never quite feel like a normal teenager. Maybe CV never will, either. But being abnormal teenagers together is better than nothing, right?

Some days York’s not up for hanging out with them, huddling up in Dot’s apartment instead with his GlameBoy and Beasley where things are peaceful and safe. Some days he can't bear to be inside, and he gets them to lead him all around Halifax, finding new and interesting stores, mysterious long-sunken areas, places to catch Plokemon, places that remind him of Hawai’i, places that don't remind him of Hawai’i at all. Some days they just sit around and play video games together. Some days he joins in the streams, bright-eyed and laughing. Some days he gets tired, mumbling unnecessary apologies and slinking back to the apartment to rest. Some days he can't stop scratching the scabs and some days his hands are free and happy, gripping a controller or waving through the air as he talks.

“I think Dot’s tired of having me around,” York says one day from where he's flipped upside down on their couch, head hanging off the edge and legs kicked over the back. Dot’s taken Beasley out for some pitching practice, and York elected to stay inside.

Jesús frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“They told me they were happy I was spending so much time with friends close to my own age. Probably because before that I was just moping around their apartment. Like I’m doing now, I guess, except you guys are here.”

“That sounds more like they're just genuinely happy for you?” CV suggests. “They want you to fit in with your new team and get to know more people than just them, because that's better for you. Learn to be a teenager and all that.”

York shrugs. “Well, anyway, I can't live here forever. Workman's probably going to come back and stay here because that's where Beasley is, and it's kind of a small apartment.”

CV has nothing to say to that. York’s probably right; the Hall Stars have been gradually reappearing since the election, and it's only a matter of time before Workman comes back too. He just doesn't particularly like to think about this.

“You can come live with us!” CV blurts. “If you want to, I mean.” He then remembers it’s technically just Jesús’ apartment and he probably has no right to invite people to live there, but, oh well, he's just done it anyway.

York blinks. “Really?”

“We’d like that,” Jesús reassures him. “But our apartment’s actually smaller, you know. One bedroom. I don't think it's ideal for three people.”

“You can sleep on the couch instead of me!” CV suggests. “I don't need to sleep anywhere in particular, it all feels the same to me. I'll sleep on the floor. I’ll sleep out of the suit and just hover in the air.” He pauses to consider. “I don't think I actually need to sleep at all.”

“No, you were there first!” York insists. “Keep the couch, we can set up a hammock for me or something.”

In the background, the door creaks open, and Beasley scrambles in.

“We're not doing that,” Jesús says firmly. “If we really want this to be a thing, we'll find a bigger, better place.”

Dot steps into the room. “I may be able to help with that.”

The apartment Dot ends up finding for them isn't anything fancy, but it's got three bedrooms (even if they're very small ones), a balcony, a kitchen with enough room to do food crimes, a good internet connection for streaming, and it's enough floors up to be only slightly damp.

“Wow,” York says, opening and closing the cupboards. “You could fit a lot of Dloritos in here.”

“Please don't just eat Dloritos,” Dot says, sounding rather pained. “I promised your mothers I would continue to make sure you were eating healthy if you moved in with your friends.”

“We'll make Dlorito salads!” CV promises.

Jesús rolls his eyes. “I'll make sure we all eat some real food, don't worry.”

“You can stop by for dinner anytime and see for yourself!” York offers.

Dot smiles. “I would like that. Remember, you are still always welcome at my apartment too.”

York nods solemnly. “Thank you, Mx. Patterson. For everything.”

“It was no trouble at all, York. Honestly.” They stretch out their arms, the interdimensional ones having been a big help with getting all the furniture moved in. “I think everything should be good to go, but you can always call me if you need further assistance.”

They turn to go, and then York says “Wait!”

“Yes?”

“Can I hug you?”

Dot blinks, as if that was the last question they expected. CV doesn't think he's ever seen anyone hug Dot, even though all those extra arms and tentacles would probably make them the best hugger on the team. How sad, to get a cool new body and be too afraid to use it for something so wonderful.

They nod, slowly, and then York crashes into them, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face in their shoulder. They flinch at first, but then their face softens and they carefully wrap their arms around him too, as if holding him gently might help chase away the memories of the peanut’s iron grip, even for a little while.

The first night, they all awake to screaming.

York left his door open and his light on, so as soon as CV and Jesús come skidding around the corner, they get a good look at him sitting bolt upright in bed, white-knuckled hands gripping the blankets, wide eyes darting around the unfamiliar space.

“Don't!” he says as soon as they approach. “Don't get near me. I-I might hurt you.”

CV doesn't have a heart, and yet he still feels a sudden sharp little pain somewhere deep in the confines of his suit.

“What did Dot say about that?” Jesús asks, impossibly gently.

“Dot… Dot said…” York takes a shaky breath. “I'm not the kind of person who hurts people. The Shelled One is. And the Shelled One can’t use me to hurt people ever again, because it's gone. The Hall Stars defeated it, and the Moist One ate it, so it’s gone forever. And I’m going to be okay.”

He says all of this as if reciting from a textbook. As if he doesn’t really believe it. CV almost wishes the Shelled One would come back just so he could kill it again himself for what it's done to York. Kill it over and over to show him that it’s nothing, and it has no power over him or anyone anymore. Anything to make him stop feeling like this.

“But what if it isn't gone?” York continues. “Look at my eyes. Are my eyes red? They feel weird. I feel weird. If they're red then you have to get out of here before I hurt you.” He scratches at a scab.

CV gives him a proper look over. “They're brown. Nice and normal, not even a little bit of red, I promise.”

“He’s right,” Jesús says. “They’re normal.”

“But are you sure ?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

York blinks a few times. “O-okay. Sorry.”

“You don't have anything to be sorry for.” Jesús sits down on the edge of the bed. “We’re here for you. That's what friends are for.”

York scratches harder. “Yeah, but… living with me is different from just being friends with me. I'm not… I’m… I don't know. There's too much wrong with me. I'm not easy to deal with. Maybe this was a bad idea, and I should just go…” he trails off, knowing he can't go live in Hawai’i with the season about to start tomorrow, and he doesn't want to impose on Dot again either, not that Dot would mind.

Jesús shifts a little closer. “Do you think I was easy to deal with when I got dragged here from another universe and barely said a word to anyone other than the ghost in my head for months? Do you think CV was easy to deal with when he was brand-new to existing and we were all mourning? Do you think Dot was easy to deal with when they got out of that shell? Do you think Greer is easy to deal with, like, ever?”

York cracks a smile.

“People aren't always easy to deal with. That's kind of just the way life is. But that doesn't mean none of us are worth it. We’re a team, and we’re a family -- and we’re not your only team, and we're not your only family, but as long as you're here and even after that, we’re going to learn how to deal together, okay?”

He sniffles. “O-okay.”

How does Jesús do it? CV never knows the right thing to say. This isn't the kind of problem that can be fixed with video games and dabbing. Teaching York to be a teenager also means teaching him the important life lessons, and CV… well, okay, he still hasn't learned a lot of those himself yet.

Budy’s finally waddled into the room to see what all the commotion is about, so CV does the only thing he can think of: lifts him up and places him on the bed next to York. Almost instinctively, York stops scratching and reaches out to pet Budy instead, his mouth twitching into a smile again.

“He can stay in your room, if you want,” CV offers. “He’d probably like that. Humans are a lot cosier than containment suits.”

Jesús frowns at him, just a little.

“What? It's true.” It's not like he minds. Not at all. He could still hug York, if York wanted that. The emotion would be warm, if not the sensation itself. It's better than just being a formless cloud of vapour, right?

“You have a cosy personality!” York offers.

Jesús snorts. “That's one way to put it.”

“Me and my cosy personality can stay here too, if you want,” CV offers, pointedly ignoring Jesús. “It’ll be like a sleepover! You know, we wouldn't have invited you to live with us if we thought you were going to hurt us. We’re gonna trust you until you learn to trust yourself too, and even then we’re not gonna stop. We’re not going anywhere, okay? Unless you really want us to.”

York wipes his still-definitely-brown eyes. “M-maybe you can just stay until I fall asleep. Then you can go. But you don't have to go. And you don't have to stay! Whatever you want. Don't worry about me.”

“Of course we worry about you. Friends, remember?” Jesús says. “But we'd rather none of us have to worry, so whatever causes less worrying for you, we can do.”

The bed really isn't designed for two people, let alone three and a dog, but it's where they all end up anyway, York with Budy nestled in his arms, his head resting on Jesús' shoulder and his back pressed up against CV, three reminders that he's safe, and himself, and not alone in the darkness anymore.

Workman does come back, of course.

CV really shouldn't be surprised about it, but it was hardly the first thing on his mind when opening day rolled around. He'd been busy that morning trying to get all his gear in order (“you knew exactly when the season was starting, why didn't you make sure everything was ready beforehand?” Jesús called out to him as he was frantically skidding around the apartment looking for his batting gloves), and making sure Budy was fed, and looking at the schedule wondering whether Sun 2 weather was something to worry about, and taking a selfie to post to Tlwitter, and watching the way York hesitated before picking up the Vibe Check as if he still couldn't bear to wield it even with his own hands.

So, yes, he's a little surprised when he shows up at the arena to find Workman and Kiki surrounded by a crowd of very emotional teammates.

Even Jesús breaks away, runs over to join in the welcome party, as if finally getting to talk to Workman again for the first time in years is more important than standing next to CV and reassuring him that people still care about him even though their long-lost friend/hero/teammate/legend that CV has never been able to live up to is now back from the dead.

Because it is. Obviously.

York’s hanging back too, uncertain how to handle coming face to face with someone who he'd been forced to fight against such a short time ago, someone he's probably never even talked to before.

“Wanna go inside?” CV asks.

York jumps, startled, and then nods, reaching out a hand. CV takes it and lets York pull him away, not quite running, not quite panicked, but… brisk.

York’s been in the Gleek before, of course. Some away games as a Friday, and a handful of practices as a Talker. Still, it almost seems as if he's walking in there for the first time, his eyes darting around, his Crocs splashing too-loud in the moisture, his hand gripping CV’s tighter as they walk to the lockers.

“I don't want to do this,” York says, quiet, small. His other hand is clutching the Vibe Check, and he looks down at it as if he wants to drop it, leave it all behind, but he doesn't, because he knows he needs to be out on that field whether he wants to or not. “I'm tired of doing it for the fans. They’re the reason I ended up like this in the first place.”

CV looks over his shoulder. Where’s Dot? Jesús? Mooney? Anyone who’s better at helping?

“Don't do it for the fans, then,” he says. “Do it for yourself. For your team. For your friends and family. But most importantly…” CV pauses dramatically. “Do it for the Vline.”

York snorts.

“Seriously, though,” CV continues. “The fans don't care about you like we do. We've got each other. Not just me and you, but the rest of the team. We’re gonna support you, no matter what happens.”

“What if I…”

“You won't.”

Despite everything, a small smile flits across York's face. “I wish I had your confidence.”

CV doesn't think that's the kind of confidence York wants. All of CV’s is for the camera. For his teammates. It's never been for himself.

Well, right now, maybe having some confidence for York is enough.

“C’mon,” CV says. “We’re gonna go out there, the three of us and everyone else, and we're gonna have a great time. We don't have to win, we just have to look cool.”

York’s smile twists into a playful smirk. “What would you know about looking cool?”

“ Ouch.” He staggers backwards, feigning hurt. “Okay then, Mr. Cool Guy. Get out there and show me how it's done!”

A real, genuine smile this time. “Maybe I will.”

It is, in many ways, a good season. The weather does nothing to change the rosters, and everyone sails through the season unharmed, the promised peace and prosperity holding true for now. York doesn't hurt anyone, because how could he? He learns to smile again when he swings the Vibe Check and launches the ball far into the distance, the bad memories having less and less of a hold as the days go by.

The newly-formed Teen Squad does Flortnite dances on the field and invents elaborate secret handshakes in the dugout and dares each other to steal bases and does increasingly ridiculous things for the camera and, finally, gets to feel almost like normal teenagers more often than not.

Mooney doesn't show up to a game until she has to pitch her first one, the strange new sun overhead a constant reminder of what she’s lost. She does not fall apart under the black hole, not even as she gives up run after run; only stands there and looks up at it, waiting.

When the score ticks up to 10 and the black hole swirls like a hurricane, she watches, her gaze never leaving it, but still it offers no glimpse of what she longs for. She narrows her eyes and turns away, back to her research.

CV follows her to the lab, sticks around to make sure she’s okay. Maybe he can't help her get her wife back, or convince her to stop trying, but he can be there to make sure she doesn't burn herself out off the field, even if he can't do anything to stop her from burning up when she's on it.

Workman goes to the games, sometimes. CV sees them in the stands, sometimes with Kiki, sometimes with Beasley on the days he doesn’t pitch, always cheering. If he's not careful, he runs into them afterwards, and they smile, maybe a little awkwardly, and tell him how well he played, and that they're proud. CV never knows what to say to this, but fortunately he's learned that dabbing and Nlaruto running away is a very effective way of avoiding problems. Workman's here, and CV’s here too, which isn’t bad, but it’s weird, and he'd rather not acknowledge it any more than he has to.

They make the playoffs and get swept in the first round by the Magic, even with Dot back, even with CV having more batting stars than Workman ever did, even with York and the Vibe Check, even without the threat of weather that can hurt them.

Despite the absolute trouncing, they're in good spirits on the bus ride home, laughing and singing increasingly loud songs -- traditional Halifax sea shanties, campfire songs learned from the Magic, some of the Garages’ greatest hits, and just about anything else they can think of. Jesús and Ziwa pull out their guitars, and Ziwa shares a few verses of the latest Temperate Sea Monkeys song they've been working on. CV doesn't know the words to much of anything, but he makes up for it with enthusiastic dabbing and diligent filming of everything that's going on. He’s squished into a seat with Jesús, York, Budy, and a guitar, so the others seem less enthused about the dabbing, but sometimes the pogness just can't be contained.

No, they didn't win. But CV looks around at the scene he's filming, at Jesús seeming comfortable playing guitar in front of everyone, at York looking up lyrics to the shanties on his phone so he can keep up with his new team, at Mooney humming softly under her breath (but not so softly that CV can't hear from the seat in front of her), at Beasley curled up happily on the seat between Workman and Dot as they both sing along, at Jenkins and Greer trying to outsing each other, at Cedric pulling a different instrument out of his bag for every song. He looks at his team all gathered here together and thinks, well, maybe some things are better than championships.

Back in Halifax, Lachlan drags them all to his favourite donair place, where they shove a bunch of tables together and talk and laugh and stuff their faces and stay there probably a bit too long, but they're buying so much food that they don't get kicked out.

It was the last series they’ll play for a while, apparently. Maybe even the last time they’ll all be together in one place for a while. The new boss has announced a long siesta, so the team won't need to meet up all the time. Everyone probably has their own, more important things to do.

York confirms this when it's just the four of them walking home, his crocs squeaking loudly in the chilly night air, Jesús looking up at the stars, CV still kicking along a discarded pop can someone had left outside the restaurant, Budy following obediently at his heels.

“I'm gonna go back to Hawai’i for a while,” York says. “Stay with my moms.”

CV’s foot slips and the can goes flying out into the road, where it's promptly run over by a car.

“Oh. Well, have fun.” CV doesn't have another home to go back to. Jesús has another home, but he can't go back to it. They'll both just stay here, like they always do, and CV will stream, like he always does, and pretend there's definitely nothing else he should be doing.

“Just for a while! I mean, we've got a lot of time, right? I can go back and forth all I want. And I want to be here, too.”

“Good,” Jesús says. “Because we like you being here. Well, we like you being wherever makes you happy, so it's great that here can make you happy.”

“It's less the place and more the people.” York wiggles his way in between them, nudging them both. “You could come to Hawai’i with me sometime! See some real sand. Finally have that beach episode.”

“Smaller sand,” CV corrects automatically. He suddenly feels warm inside even though his suit can detect that the air is still cold around him. It would be nice to stream from Hawai’i for a change.

“Whatever ridiculous thing you want to call it!” York rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. “We'll go in the winter so I don't have to freeze to death here.”

“Oh, no way.” Jesús shakes his head. “We’ll go to Hawai’i with you, but you've also got to be here in winter so we can teach you how to skate. You're not escaping that.”

“Maybe we'll have lots of winters!” York spins in a circle with his arms outstretched, looking up at the sky, alive and free and bursting with possibility. “Lots of winters without blaseball where we can do whatever we want.”

Without blaseball. It's a foreign concept to CV. He's never had the luxury of that kind of life. He was, quite literally, born to play blaseball. Maybe York doesn't really remember a life without blaseball either, even when blaseball for him just used to mean watching Fridays games and having Nagomi pitch to him in the backyard.

Maybe they can all learn how to make a life without it, together.

Life without blaseball turns out to be not quite as exciting as CV would like.

“I’m booooooooooooooored.”

Mooney doesn’t even look up from the suit. “Do you want improved functionality before the Coffee Cup or not? I'll be done in a few minutes.”

“I don’t mean specifically now. Just, like, in general. There’s no blaseball anymore! What am I supposed to do? We can’t do super cool teen shenanigans all the time. Well, I mean, I definitely could. But apparently they can’t, which is pretty unpog.”

“Having no blaseball is quite a relief, in my opinion. I would appreciate it while it lasts.”

“I only exist because of blaseball. Are you saying it would be better if there was no blaseball, ever? If I never existed? Huh? I can’t believe you would say that to me. After all we’ve been through?” He wafts dramatically to the floor.

“CV, I’m perfectly willing to have a serious discussion about your existence, and how grateful we all are for it, and how to have a healthier attitude about it, but I know you’re being the opposite of serious right now.”

He wishes he had a tongue so he could stick it out at her.

“And while I appreciate that you’re at a point where you can joke about it,” she continues. “I think it would be best for both you and Workman if you finally had a proper talk about this situation. That’s something you can do if you’re bored.”

CV rises into the air. “Oh, wow, look at that, I’m cured of boredom! Thanks, Mooney! Let’s talk about something else now!”

“We could talk about your unhealthy tendency to avoid your problems.”

CV hovers in front of her face. “What about the Coffee Cup? Let’s talk about that. Can you believe they have you on the Shadows list and they're gonna make Beans pitch instead? Who the heck made these rosters? Parker? I bet he doesn't know anything about coffee. Who let that guy be commissioner, anyway? If I was in charge I'd put you first up in the rotation.”

Apparently even without official blaseball, there’s still going to be blaseball. Some people seem to be worrying about the upcoming tournament, but what could possibly happen? It's for fun, some nice casual blaseball full of peace and prosperity.

“I appreciate the sentiment.” Mooney holds a part of the suit up to the light to inspect it. “But I'd much rather have the time off to continue my work.”

CV tries to convey a frown with his entire body. “You'll come watch my games, though, right?”

“Of course I will,” she says, as if she couldn't imagine not cheering him on, and he curves himself into a smile.

Before there are Coffee Cups, or trips to Hawai’i, there is a morning where CV jolts into wakefulness, afterimages of flame playing out everywhere he looks even once the nightmare has passed. Maybe nightmares never really go away, not if they’re memories too. Especially memories that are both his and Workman’s, twice as difficult to chase away.

The memory does eventually quiet down, though, visions of fire disappearing into the soft orange of the sunrise. It's still early. He’s considering going back to sleep, or waking the others, but then Budy peeks his head into the room with pleading eyes. A walk it is, then. Shrugging on the jacket Jesús gave him even though he wouldn’t feel the cold in a way that matters, he clicks the door shut quietly and sets out for the park, Budy at his heels.

They aren’t the first ones at the park. There's another person, and another dog, playing blaseball together.

It's not that CV thought he’d never run into Workman all alone, with no one else around to make things less awkward and no good excuse for turning around and leaving. He just… preferred to think it might happen sometime in the distant future, when he’d be somehow better equipped to deal with it. Like if Mooney put an anti-awkwardness coating on the suit or something. He really should have asked her about that before he ended up in a situation like this.

His first instinct is to sneak away before Workman even notices him, but they've already looked up and waved and said “hey” and Beasley added a friendly “woof” and Budy made a perfectly normal bark in return and oh god now it's too late.

Should he dab and Nlaruto run away? He's halfway to doing it when he stops to think that it would be unfair to drag Budy away when he needs friends who are nice normal dogs like him, and Workman coming back shouldn’t mean CV never lets him see Beasley anymore. So CV turns the dab into an awkward wave and says “hey,” like a nice normal person.

“Hey,” Workman says, setting their bat down. Beasley's dropped his ball and eagerly gone over to sniff Budy.

“Where’s Dot?”

“Gone to Kansas City for a few days to reconnect with some old friends. I'll be heading to Charleston with Beasley in the meantime, actually. Just figured we'd get a bit of a workout in first.”

“Oh. I won't get in your way, then.”

“No, you won't,” Workman says cheerfully. “You're always welcome to stay. Hit some balls. Pitch some balls. Budy, too, if he wants.”

“He's more of a Flortnite kind of guy.” CV looks at Budy. “Hey, Budy! Floss!”

Budy gets up on his hind legs and does a very poggers rendition of the iconic Flortnite dance.

“Pretty impressive,” Workman says, sounding genuinely impressed. “Hey, Beasley, can you do that?”

Beasley spins in a circle, then sits down and wags his tail.

“That's good too.”

A progressively awkward silence follows.

“So, how's life?” CV asks, and then immediately realizes this is the absolute worst thing to ask someone who's recently come back from the dead.

“Still kind of unexpected,” they say. “Takes some getting used to. But it's nice to have it again.”

Are they mad that he asked that? CV doesn't think they look mad. Maybe more like… vaguely amused?

“Sorry,” he says anyway, just to be sure.

Workman's looking at him carefully. “What are you sorry for?”

“I don't know. Everything? You can't play blaseball anymore, I took your place and I'm not as good at it as you and--”

“Woah,” they say, cutting him off. “There's a lot more to life than blaseball. Sure, I miss being part of the league, I'm not gonna pretend I don't, but I can still go hit the ball whenever I want. I've got friends and family and my dog and my other hobbies and I'm alive again. I got to escape it. There’s nothing more the game can do to me. I got to come back, and that makes me luckier than most people. Don’t ever feel bad for taking my place.”

Do you remember how it felt to die? Because I remember. I remember how it felt when you died. It didn't feel very lucky.

CV can't say that, of course. So he just lets Workman keep talking.

“You know you don't need to prove anything, right, CV? You'd be just as worthy of existing whether you could break my records or you couldn't hit the ball at all. I'm already proud of you just for being you.”

“Why? Wouldn't… wouldn't it be better if I didn't exist? Then you wouldn't have died.”

“I could have died without you existing,” Workman points out. “Your existence didn't kill me. Any pre-existing person could have replaced me instead. But it was you. You started existing. Isn't that amazing? I'm not saying it was good that I died, or good that you were forced into a bloodsplort from birth, but now we're both here and alive and existing, and I think that's pretty good, at least.”

CV doesn't know what to think about this. “I… I… I don't know. I never thought about it that way. I don't think I really know how to be good at existing yet.”

“I don't think anyone ever entirely figures out how to be good at existing. You're not alone.” They smile hesitantly. “And I mean that in more ways than one. You've got us, you know? Existing’s easier when you've got people to help you through it, and I sure wouldn’t be able to get through this new life on my own. I know the two of us are in a kind of awkward situation, but I really do want to help you any way I can.”

“Why?” he can't help asking again.

“Because we're family, and that's what family does.”

“Because I was born from your ashes?”

“Well, yes. But also because we're teammates, even if I'm not on the roster anymore. That alone is enough to make us family, if you want it to be.”

CV considers this. “I guess you are kind of like my other parent.”

“Your other parent?”

“My parent!” CV says, dabbing in panic. “My biological parent. Is what you're like. Just like my parent. The only one that I have. That's what I said.”

“Sure,” Workman says, smiling way too knowingly. “But if you were to think of anyone else that way, I wouldn't mind.”

“Good to know! Let's talk about something else now.” CV flops onto the grass.

Workman joins him, moving a little slower. “We've got a lot to talk about, huh? And it looks like we'll have plenty of siesta for it. We don't have to hit all the serious topics right away.”

“Okay,” CV says, relieved. Part of him wants to, wants to jump back up and shout I have your memories and I don't know what to do about it, but there will be time enough for that later. In the distant future. If he ever wants to talk about it. Someday. Maybe.

“Workman? Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“Pog.” He almost asks about the memories anyway, but he pushes it down, asks something else, something he’s asked other people but still hasn't figured out.

“How do you know how you love someone? Not that you love them, but how. Like with you and Dot, because that's different from...” no, don't say Mooney and her wife, there is no Mooney-and-her-wife anymore “...romantic relationships! How do you know it is what it is?”

They raise their eyebrows. “Damn, and here I was hoping you'd ask me something easy like whether I could teach you to steal shoes.”

“Wait, would you really do that? The Thieves don't have top secret shoe-stealing techniques or something?”

Workman grins. “Hey, never said I'd teach you the top secret ones. We'd start with the basics.”

“Okay,” CV says automatically, his excitement at the idea rushing ahead of his trepidation at spending more time with Workman.

“Also, I'm not trying to dodge your actual question or anything. Just trying to figure out the best way to answer it.”

CV shrugs. “You don't have to answer it. It's stupid.”

“It's not stupid. Not at all. I think it's a question a lot of people ask themselves, and they don't always find the answer, but that's okay.”

“Do you realize most of your advice is just ‘nobody actually knows anything and that's okay’?”

“Well, it's what I like to tell myself. Always makes me feel better. Does it not make you feel better?”

CV thinks about it. Someone as cool and legendary as Workman Gloom actually not knowing what they’re doing either?

“Maybe it kind of does.”

They grin again. “There you go.”

“Anyway,” Workman continues. “How do you know what form your love takes? Well, sometimes you just know. And sometimes you don't know for a while, and sometimes you never figure it out, but that doesn't make the love any less. That's not a very helpful-sounding answer, I know, but that's the way life is. Complicated and messy. I don't think the how of it is the most important part, but if you're struggling with that, try asking yourself -- where do you want it to go? What do you think would make you happiest? It's more important to be happy than to spend all your time worrying about putting a name to the happiness.”

CV thinks about how Jesús makes him happy. Jesús inviting him to stay at the apartment and telling him they like having him around. Jesús playing video games with him. Jesús always ready to point the camera at him every time CV needs to show off something to the world. Jesús holding him close and making him feel a little better at existing. Jesús fireproof, safe every time the sun goes dark, one less person for CV to worry about. Jesús giving him the jacket he's wearing right now. Jesús calling him human. Jesús smiling as he plays guitar on the bus, squished up against CV. Jesús always knowing the right thing to say. Jesús laughing along with him and York, late at night in the new apartment, all of them tangled up on the couch in a mess of limbs and controllers and Dlorito crumbs, caught up in a game of Mario Plarty.

“What if what would make me happiest would be staying with them like this forever?”

“Then that's a good place to start, I think.”

“Hmm,” CV says, staring up at the sky. “Okay.”

They lie like that for a while, in contemplative silence, watching the dogs chase each other around until they get tired and flop over too, and then they all lie there a little longer.

“Guess we'd better head out to Charleston,” Workman says finally, getting to their feet, Beasley scrambling up along with them. “But don't be a stranger, okay? Come practice or hang out anytime, with or without Beasley and Dot, or your friends. We’ve got a whole long siesta to get to know each other.”

“Pog,” CV says again. “I mean, thanks. But also I do mean pog. Uh. See you later!” He quickly turns and Nlaruto runs away, Budy following.

That could have gone a lot worse, he supposes.

CV enters the apartment to find Jesús and York on the couch, controllers in hands, TV blaring.

“You're playing Mario Klart without me?”

“You were gone for ages, dude,” York says, not bothering to look up from the screen. “Thought you wandered into the Underarena and got lost forever or something. I was this close to calling dibs on all your stuff.”

“Where did you go?” Jesús asks. He does look up, which York immediately takes advantage of, fistpumping in victory after he crosses the finish line first.

“Out for a walk with Budy,” CV says vaguely, tossing a family-sized bag of Dloritos onto the couch. “And I brought snacks!”

Jesús gives him a you're hiding something and we need to talk about this later look. York eagerly opens the Dloritos and mumbles “thanks” as he shoves a handful in his mouth.

CV flings himself onto the couch, too, scooping a controller off the floor. Budy scrambles up on top of him.

“Oof!” he protests, shifting around so he can rest the controller on his dog. “Okay, fine, Budy. You do the items, I'll handle the steering. And the Dloritos.” He shifts around some more, stretching out his legs across York’s and resting his dome in Jesús’ lap.

“And the entire couch, apparently,” Jesús mutters.

“Hey, I brought Dloritos. Don't complain.”

And they don't, just sigh and grab some Dloritos, and start another race.

CV’s still thinking about Workman's words, more focused on that than on the karts looping around the screen. Him and Jesús and York and Budy here together, with Mooney and the rest of the team not far away. This is what he wants. What more could he ask for? What could he ever have that would be better than this?

“I want to stay like this forever,” CV says.

“I gotta pee!” York protests.

Jesús shifts underneath him. “My leg’s falling asleep.”

“I meant metaphorically !”

“Oh. We love you, too,” Jesús says. “Now please get up.”

Love. Maybe it's as simple and wonderful as this. Maybe it's one thing he can finally stop worrying about.

CV flops dramatically on the floor, holding tight to Budy. “Fine! Are you happy now?”

“Yes,” his two best friends say in unison.

Me too, CV thinks.