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Chapter Text

So much has changed since seasons 9 and 10. All through season 9 he was honestly terrified of the looming threat of elections, and season 10 was a blood soaked haze of siphoning whatever they could. Now, 7 seasons and a decade and a half later? They honestly feel like a completely different man. He's swapped over to catcher from outfield, taking full advantage of his stolen defensive ability, and he loves it. Season 10 feels like a lifetime ago.
All this to say that when Fitz's uniform shifts in the feedback from bright yellow to deep blue and red, and he hugs him goodbye, and turns to the opposite dugout to see who's heading over, he shouldn't be half as surprised as he is.
Jaylen looks relaxed. Happy. He doesn't think he's actually seen them off the pitchers mound in 17 years. She's loosened up, scowl more of a wry smirk, warpath march now a loose-limbed swagger.
It's a good look. They're damn happy for her.
He pours all that happiness into welcoming them back. Swaps are always hard, but once a thief, always a thief.

She's still a fantastic pitcher too. He knew it hitting against her, but it's different to see from outside the batters box. He's on rest from catching today to give his knees a break, and they lose the game 2-1 but watching her play, even from the dugout, is impressive. A lot of the time, it's easy for pitcher to accidentally skim the outside of the strike zone. Under- or overcompensate for the batter's height, the wind, whatever. Not her. She knows exactly where the strike zone is and their precision in going near the edges without being outside is uncanny.
He really wants to play with her.
He doesn't realize what's happening until day 24. The Tigers are in Charleston and Snyder's pitching. The heat is unbearable, and the humidity in the Choux doesn't help. Cornelius and Jaylen both showed up out of uniform to watch and talk strategy, Corn in his striped polo, Jaylen in a sleeveless shirt and basketball shorts, and both look like they're regretting it. Bottom of the eighth, his fourth at bat, and he can't even find it in himself to be disappointed with a groundout. He's just relieved to jog back to the relative shade of the dugout and collapse on a bench.
"You'd think you'd be used to the weather by now."
He tilts his head to glance at Jaylen before letting it loll back, listening to Cornelius fan himself with last season's programs. Too hot to care about social niceties like eye contact.
"Who me? Nah, I've always hated it. Give me shoveling snow any day if the week. May not be a yankee anymore, but damn, the weather suited me much better."
"You always did have poor taste." There's no sting to it, and Cornelius shifts his position so his fan blows partly toward him.
"Thanks, babe."
Jaylen stands. Not out of discomfort it seems, more boredom. "Hey, I'm gonna get some water, let me know if anything happens while I'm gone."
"Will do!"
They survey the field before they go, squinting in the bright sun. They wipe at their brow and just look irritated at the result. He's about to say something (he's not even sure what) when she grabs the bottom hem of her shirt to wipe her face and oh gods above, back and hips and abs and twisting scars and rippling muscle and powerful arms holy fucking shit.
She heads inside before he can restart his brain. Oh. Oh that explains some things. That explains a great deal. He swallows roughly.
"Hey babe?" His voice is strangled enough to sound like it did six months on testosterone.
"Darling?"
"You remember how we said we'd discuss reevaluating things if it was relevant?" He shouldn't even be nervous. They've promised to communicate about things like this. It's not even the first time since their marriage it's come up, and yet his heart is pounding.
"Yes?"
"It's relevant."
Cornelius turns to look at them, and a small part of Richardson braces. The rest laughs at themself.
"Did you finally figure out you have a type?"
"I-- what?! I do not!"
"Oh, two smoking hot pitchers who have a lot of confidence is just a coincidence, then?"
Richardson buries his face in his hands, "I can't believe you."
"Me?!" He blessedly lowers his voice to a more private level. His delighted grin is still audible. "Your first thought after the feedback swap was a resounding 'top me' and I'm the one you can't believe."
He sighs, musters the most deadpan voice he can. It's more flustered than he'd like. "You are a cruel husband. It's so, so hot out and now I'm blushing. Cruel."
Cornelius laughs, and it's just as beautiful as ever. He sets the pamphlets down and takes their hand and kisses it softly. It's a little gross, given how sweaty the both of them are, but damn if they don't love him a little more for it.

Chapter Text

They do have a proper discussion about it after the game. Cornelius, bless him, is fine with it as long as he gets "husband dibs" (Richardson's words, not his) priority on reserving dates for the two of them and all the hot gossip they're comfortable sharing. Cornelius himself has no attraction to Jaylen, but teasing his spouse? Is a different matter entirely.
They do, thankfully, have several opportunities to interact with her one-on-one. Pitchers get swapped so frequently that at a certain point changing his handsignals and code became absurd. As soon as he learned it, he would have to scrap the whole thing and start over, unless he wanted the opposing team to read him like a book.
So, he eventually stopped. Designed a specific code for each of the 3 pitchers he works with, with 2 backups he keeps for new additions. Fitz got swapped so he's shelving her code and building a new one from a backup with Jaylen.
Pitch type is the first signal. Her fastball is good and reliable, so he doesn't mind keeping that as 1 finger. Cutter is 2, slider is 3, since neither want to use it too frequently. He argues with her about the second sign, though.
"Listen, just throw some garbage in there, fake signs that don't mean anything."
"I'm not going to waste a half second on giving you garbage that won't do you any good. Here's my thought, now, stop me if I'm wrong." He grabs a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the break room table and draws a 3x3 grid and a line beneath for home plate, then turns it to face her.
"If I tell you to throw a ball here," he points to the outside edge of the lower left corner. "Can you do it?"
"With a fastball? Absolutely. Cutter, I can do the left and middle columns, cause it curves left through here," they trace out the path. "Middle top might be tricky though. Slider, I'm not that precise."
"That's fine, this is way more precision than I'm used to, so we'll use it. Okay so this grid is 3x3, right. 1, 2, 3, left to right and top to bottom. So second sign of 1-1 is top left..."
"3-3 is bottom right."
"Yes, exactly!"
"Yeah, that'll work." They lean back, foldout chair creaking obnoxiously. "Are you this meticulous with every pitcher? Seems like it would be impossible to remember the codes for them all."
"It depends I guess. I catch for Blood, Cornelius, and you, now. Used to be Gunther too, but 4 games in a row consistently was hell on my joints. For the other pitchers I have a generic system if I need to substitute in for Esme." Ramsey had taken up the slack once he'd had to change how often he played.
"So why do this with me? I'm going to be feedbacked within the season or returned in the elections, why waste this time?"
He's caught off guard for a second, hands pressing palms down on the table to center himself. Considers how best to answer that.
"I don't think it's a waste."
They pack up and head out soon after, letting his admission hang in the air between them.

"What the hell is that?"
They're on the way to Kansas City, and he's trying to wait for the bus to stop hitting quite so many potholes. "It's nail polish."
"Yeah, I got that, why does it look like bottled highlighter ink?"
"For hand signs. It's highly visible."
"I'll say," they slide into the booth across from him. "You planning to wear that to my game? Should I bring sunglasses?"
It's not even funny, but they smile despite themselves. "I do have other colors..."
"Such as?"
They nudge the bag towards her with an elbow, not wanting to risk his nails not being dry yet.
"Any of these not a good pick?"
"Clear and shear ones won't do much to help you. Black and dark can work in the day but are difficult at night if the game goes long. Your best bet is white or something else obnoxiously bright."
"Mmm."
He doses for a bit, the hum of the wheels and clack of nail polish bottles comforting and familar.
"Want me to paint the top coat?"
"Go ahead." His answer is automatic, he doesn't even open his eyes. At least not until three seconds later when he realizes what he just agreed to, and that painting nails on a bus almost requires that--
They pick his left hand up gently, and begin carefully painting the top coat. Her hand is steady and her eyes are intent and he should probably stop staring.
"Did you pick the color you want me to wear for your games?"
"Mmm, thoughts on the blue?"
It's one of his favorites, closer to cyan, and certainly visible enough, but that's not what comes to mind first. Instead it's flickering and ghostly flames and squiddish and Mild throws that bounce off the fences, force him to scramble in the dust and dirt.
"Shit, it's, it's not like that." She pulls her hands away from his. "I just thought it would match your uniform."
His laugh isn't as genuine as he'd like. "I'm that obvious?"
"I just know what to look for." She rifles through the bag again. "I also liked the white? Contrasts well with everything."
"I'll keep that in mind as a backup."
The rest of the bus ride is tense, quiet. She finishes the top coat. The day after when he steps out onto the meadow his nails are Shoe Thief Cyan.

He's read the papers, seen the broadcasts, he knows that from the moment the ball leaves the pitcher's hand to landing in his glove is usually less than half a second. Sometimes teams put the mound all the way out near second, or practically on top of home, but the Meadow is about the standard distance, so it should be about 425 milliseconds.
This means when he sees the look of shock and fear on Jaylen's face in the follow through, his hand is already reaching to tear his mask off.
He knows what Mild pitches look like, and he knows he needs to be able to see, because this one is bad.
It's off. Way off. Nearly 3 feet on the outside and slow as hell. They're damn lucky no one was on base, could've been an easy double.
He throws the ball back and signals them to walk the batter.
They shake their head.
Walk.
No.
Fine. Fine! Whatever! Who cares! Cutter high on the outside.
They ready, throw exactly where he asked.
Pop fly, easy out for Stu at shortstop. Bottom of the ninth, Thieves batting.
He waves her into the clubhouse tunnel. He's not having this conversation where the cameras can see.

"What the hell was that?"
"I didn't need to walk him."
"You should have!"
She looks taken aback, then annoyed. "Why?"
"Cause that's what I asked for?!"
"No," she pokes him in the chest. "Why did you tell me to walk him?" She waits. He doesn't say anything. "You know what I think?" Her eyes narrow, same way they do when she's judging the wind. "I think you wanted me to walk him 'cause you thought I needed it. You wanted to give me a break, let me intentionally walk him, try again with the next batter. I think you're mad that I didn't take the rest you offered."
Direct hit.
"Am I wrong?"
He shifts on his feet. This isn't how this was supposed to go.
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Thanks, Games." They try to duck past him out the door, they grab her shoulder before she can. "So what if you're right? Maybe I did want to give you a break! Maybe I figured we were in the lead, 2 outs, he was a slow runner, we're at the top in catching steals in the entire division, and the next batter would've been easy!! It wasn't an impulse decision!"
"Because I think about half of that was you trying to rationalize your own call after the fact!"
They don't even know if she's right anymore. They're so tired. "I'm sorry." All the momentum leaves him. "You're right, I thought walking him would be better for you. I should have trusted your judgement. But I'm worried that next time I'll be making that call to help someone else, or me, or because I think it's the better option strategically. And if you ignore me every time I do that, I don't think I can catch for you."
"Whoa, hang on, Games," she adjusts her cap, averting her eyes. "I-I'm just trying to get my thoughts in order here before you go saying things like that. I've had some people take it easy on me cause of 'all the shit I've been through' and that's why I got angry. I don't want that from you. I want to be able to keep playing without people treating me like glass, that's all."
He smiles. It's small, but genuine. "I'm willing to work with that."
She goes to open the door and he rushes to get the words out. "I was worried, but not because it was you. Two of my pitchers have mild. One has flinch, and so do I."
A deep sigh. "Games, I'm gonna be honest with you, 'cause you have with me. I'm not currently in the right place to believe you. But I'll trust you on it."
There's a roar outside. Game over. Thieves win.
"That's all I ask."

Chapter Text

He knew it was a bad idea. But it had been a while, he'd been feeling good lately, and surely he could increase his frequency of playing just a bit, what's the worst that could happen?
He's at the clubhouse, because he technically has to go out on the field and stand in the batters box each run through the lineup. He went out there first, held his bat with just his right hand, let himself get struck out, and limped back to the dugout, back to the lounge, trying not to tense his knees and worsen the bone deep ache lodged there, or bend his left hand at all. Stumbled out again twice more, and he hopes to the gods they're nearly done.
He shifts and freezes. The skittering of pain and numbness in his fingers are combined in unsettling ways and he's forgotten how bad it gets. He always fools himself that it can't have been that bad. But now there's no separation of time or memory from his nerves unraveling in his fingers.
The doorknob rattles, then there's a pause.
He's about to stand up and get it when his phone vibrates.

Jaylen👟🎧🎸

dont u DARE move dickson im borrowing velas lockpicks
im half convinced ur husband is throwing the game on purpose to see u

Even I cant tell the difference
Your guess is as good as mine
Dont bother asking him, he never tells

he does tho?? at least he did last week

Nah, he *implied* it, and if you ask again, youll get a different answer every time

It's a little funny that he finds the sound of a lock rake familiar and comforting, but. Well. Thieves.
"Why is your husband so dramatic?"
"You came back from the dead twice and had to repay a debt? Blaseball is just a dramatic splort."
There's a specific voice they use just for mockery. "If you aren't going to be weird as hell just get out."
"Exactly! Everyone has a shtick, as soon as they sign on! Even "normal" players are exaggerated! Caricatures!"
"You've been thinking about this."
"I have a theory that no one normal plays blaseball. That either you hatch batshit, or all the wild shit erodes your sense of normalcy."
She laughs, hums the tune of Nothing Happens. He's glad she's here, it's always easier to bear that way, pain just as present in the room, but now sharing his attention.
"I need to make that song sign a lease given how often it's living in my head."
"It's one of the few ones I can listen to. Don't like when they sing about me."
"Fair. When you get back, tell them to do more songs for us. Every heist we only have 7 themed songs we can listen to, and one is one of yours, and another is just Stale Popcorn."
Something plastic clatters, the microwave beeps. "You put a song about losing games on your heist playlist?"
"I told you, pickings are slim! It's not even half an hour of music!"
"Why not add other bands?"
"Tried that. 3 minutes and 27 seconds of silence until we got to the Garages song that was up next."
"You're joking."
"Nope. Phones, playlists, cassettes, whenever we're on a heist it's all Garages all the time."
"Gods, that's hilarious, wonder if the Spies have the same problem on missions."
"Jordan says they do, or at least that's what I gathered from all their grumbling when we were trying to fix it."
They set up at a table near the window, bright sunlight reflecting off the mug in their hands. The doorknob rattles and she's up, pointing at him in a half-threatening way to stay put. He raises his hands in defeat as she circles around behind the couch. He's able to grimace at his mistake while she's looking away.
"Oh, you've got a husband incoming."
"Hey, babe! How'd the game go?"
"No clue," Cornelius leans over the back of the couch to kiss him.
"Babe, you pitched it."
"I'm aware, I have no clue. Jaylen?" Cornelius looks up at her and they follow his gaze. She looks sleepy and comfortable leaning on the counter in the sunlight, and he feels a soft tug below his sternum. "See the diffuser behind you? The little jar with reeds in it?" Richardson sits up while Cornelius talks, freeing up a section of the couch. As soon as he's seated Cornelius tugs them to lean back. Their head in his lap, his hand in their hair. "Yes, that, would you flip the reeds upside down?"
It hits him then, and he's almost overwhelmed by this, which is absurd, but he can't exactly help it. Something about Cornelius instructing Jaylen on how to help with his ritual essential oils is just at the edge of what he's capable of processing at the moment. His joints aching, and Jaylen in the sun, and Cornelius holding him, and now this. They grab Cornelius' hand and kiss gently at the inside of his wrist. His pulse point. If the way his breath catches is any indication, he noticed.

Jaylen leaves to return Vela's rake pick, propping the door open with one of the many miscellaneous shoes.

"Thank you," Richardson whispers, partly so Jaylen can't hear, partly cause his throat still feels tight.
"They're a good person, I like them. I like the dynamic you have, and I like how she cares about you, and I like how I could feel your heart fluttering for a moment there. So will you stop worrying?"
"I don't even know why I do. It's, it's like it's easier."
"Than?"
"I don't know. Than worrying about anything else about it. How she feels, and the possibility of it, and I keep checking the forecast as far in advance as I can, and if she's feedbacked..."
"You'll never know."
"Exactly. But I'm used to worrying about you. So instead I'm worried about how you'll get along, if you'll like her, or hate her."
"But you know I get along well with her. Or rather, now you do. Darling," his thumb traces their hairline. "I think you might actually need to start worrying about the thing you're avoiding."
They chuckle. "Kinda exhausted my other options, huh?"
"Indeed."
"Damn."

Chapter Text

"Oh. Oh, okay, you're fucked up."

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying, everyone in blaseball is fucked up."

"Maybe, but not everyone is like this."

He's standing in the blooddrain, relishing it. The sour iron smell, the stickiness as he tries to wipe it out of his eyes, the burst of salt as it sneaks into his mouth while he's talking, it's as beautiful as ever.

He knows most of the others are a little disgusted with both him and the weather, but they feel too good to care. He feels invincible, like he could climb Mount Pleasant easily.

He pushes his hair out of his face, oh it's going to tangle up so much, it's absolutely soaked. They can't hold in a giggle.

Jaylen's still staring at him, safe under the dugout awning, a kind of morbid fascination creeping into their expression. "What does it feel like to you?"

"...Have you ever done something, weaving, carving, cooking, whatever, and thought 'I was designed to do this. Through evolution or design, this is what I was shaped to do.' It feels like my purpose is to stand in the blooddrain. It feels like rebirth, renewal." He knows what has been held back in his mind for years, but he's so caught up in the flow of words from his mouth and blood down the back of his shirt he doesn't even hesitate. He doesn't care. "It feels like I was made to consume other players. Take their flesh and blood and sinew and form my own out of it."

"Does it bother you?"

"Occasionally, when it's not raining. Right now I can only see the beauty, the symmetry of it." He holds his hand out, palm down towards the turf, watches the rivulets trace down his fingers, pooling in the creases of his knuckles. "Does that bother you?"

"Not really." A wry smirk audible in her voice. "Forming yourself out of them? Yeah I'm comfortable with that."

"Well, that makes 3 of you! You, Jordan, and Cornelius. Jordan is a siphon too, and I think Cornelius only puts up with it because I love it so much."

He almost misses it, a low mutter lost in the rhythm of the blooddrain and the wind, but there's a gap in the gusts just in time for them to hear "I get why." And he looks up in surprise and they're looking him up and down, uniform still drenched in blood, hair and hands dripping, and suddenly his heart is pounding in time with the storm and he feels lightning crackling along his spine. There's a distant roll of thunder miles away over the ocean and it sounds like the way she's looking at him.

Kissing them in the blooddrain would be a bad idea. They would probably find it incredibly gross and unpleasant, and he should stop thinking about it right now before he forgets that fact. He can't think about tracing their neck, about the tacky feeling of blood-- STOP. Stop. None of that.

He does the only thing he can think of. Forces a laugh, and ducks back into the clubhouse, trailing bloody footprints behind him, bare feet sticking to the concrete floor. He's glad he had the good sense not to wear shoes that would get soaked and give him blisters; he'd lose them the moment he took them off anyway.

He's toweling his hair in the showers when he hears the dugout door. Listens to Jaylen walk past, cleats ringing out in the empty hall. He tries to finger comb his hair before giving up, pressing his palms over his eyes.

If this doesn't work out it'll be rough.

Chapter Text

Season 17, Day 31
Charleston Shoe Thieves @ Yellowstone Magic
Jaylen Hotdogfingers and Milton Telephone pitching

Thieves lose 0-4

"Fuck off, Games." The ball hits the tarp with a solid thunk.

"Sorry, as captain I'm ethically obligated to check in with you."

She blinks, looks back. "Thought you were your husband." Stance. Windup. Release. Thunk!

"I am technically a Games, no need to correct you." Thunk.

"How long do you need to talk to me before you can leave me alone?"

"That depends," thunk. "On whether I think it's a good idea."

"What? To let me have some peace and quiet?" Thunk.

"There's a difference between wanting quiet, and wanting isolation."

"Aw, don't give me that bull, you know I work fine alone." She reaches down for the next ball and finds only an empty bucket.

"You might. I don't give a damn about that. You can be the best soloist ever, but this team needs cohesion. There's a reason we picked up those noise-cancelling headphones."

"And now look how that turned out. Stuck with me, headphones confiscated by the Boss." They chuckle and kick a stray peanut shell off the mound. Turn their gaze skyward to trace where the treetops meet the milky way, sigh, and pick up the bucket to collect their baseballs. "Okay, fine, fine, I'll come back in soon. Within the hour. I actually do want some quiet, first."

"No problem, long as you follow through." He walks off to the sound of the tarp rustling and baseballs landing in the bucket.

Chapter Text

The first perfect game in blaseball was pitched by Jaylen Hotdogfingers in Season 1, Day 90 against the Hades Tigers. One week later she burned.

The second perfect game in blaseball didn't happen until season 8.

After that it became exponential.
Season 16 had six perfect games. 17 is on pace for the same. The league was getting very good, very fast with new players arriving every election. Jaylen had been back for 7 seasons with no repeat performance of that beautiful sunny day way back when.

But now?  Richardson is starting to wonder if this might be it.
It's a no hitter so far, no one reaching bases, bottom of the fifth. Not everyone has noticed just how good this game is going. There's still the ubiquitous chatter and sizzle of George Foreman Stadium, but beneath that? There's an excited hum from a handful of seats. The kind that resonates between his jaw and ear. Some of them know. Some of them are watching.

Jaylen has absolutely noticed. She keeps adjusting her glove, a recent trick to hide when she's taking her pulse.
3 strikeouts in the game so far, the other outs down to fielding.
Allison Abbot steps into the batters box.

Strike.

Strike.

Breathe. He signs the next pitch to Jaylen, gets a nod. Wind up, beautiful throw. Strike out, looking.

He feels like he can't look away from them.

The next batter hits a couple fouls, then becomes the fifth strikeout of the night. The third hits a bunt that he gets, throws to first easy.

Top of the sixth. They're not up to bat anytime soon. They both spend the half huddled together in the dugout. In the last couple innings he's started resting his hand palm up on his own thigh, an open invitation. This half, without looking, she finally reaches over and rests her fingers on his pulse. He knows he's nervous, excited, but still hoping they're at least a bit less than her, that his heartbeat will steady her.
Her fingers press against his veins and tendons and he distantly wonders if they can feel the uptick in his heart rate around her.

Next half. 
Groundout.
Strikeout.
Groundout.
Thieves batting.

He's up first. Strikes out, and fast walks back to the bench. She grabs his wrist before he's even sitting. Fingers tracing his bones, then slotting to his pulse again. Exactly as it should be.

"I really want this game." They whisper it to the centimeters of bench between them, cleats softly tapping out the rhythm of his pulse for anyone who cared to listen.

"I know," he quietly answers, looking only at the guard rail. "I know. I want you to have it too."

Bottom of 7. McCloud up. Foul, intentional ball, ground out to Stu. She winked at him as they made eye contact. Gods, he must look a wreck of nerves.
A pop fly and another out looking. He's not sure if time is going faster or slower or if it's just the shifting of the salmon in place.

He's barely even aware of the top of the eighth, at some point realizes he's actually muttering the Dallas lineup aloud. Name, handedness, strengths, weaknesses, patient or impulsive, plate discipline, everything he can. He doesn't even know if Jaylen is listening, but he can't stop. They trace gentle circles on his wrist the whole time.

Three ground outs. Top of the ninth.
They can't hear anything over their own pounding heart. They get the sense of wishes of good luck from the rest of the team, has no idea who it even was. He hopes he wasn't rude to them. He's still listing the lineup. Quieter now, but Jaylen is still close enough to hear.

Bottom of the ninth.
Connor Haley. 5 batting stars, 0.344 batting average last season.
Breathe in. Sign. Nod. Pitch. Hit! Ground out caught by Jordan.
His heart's in his throat and he has to keep wiping his palms.

Kline Greenlemon. Bit over 4.5 stars. 0.229.
Strike swinging, looking, swinging.
His hands are shaking so much he's worried she can't see what he's signing. All good? Yes. You sure? Yes. Their nods to him are sharper than usual, eyes wide, elbows pulled in tight.
Two outs, only one more for a perfect game. This is it.

Dickerson Morse. 2.3 stars. 0.221. Ritual: hanging on by a thread.
Wipe his palms. Fastball near the knees. Nod. Strike looking.
Slider near the middle. Nod. Beautiful windup.

The bat connects with a crack and Morse is off like a shot, but Jordan is scooping the ball up and at that point he can't see anything else because he's tearing off his mask and sprinting to the mound as fast as he can. He hears the roar of the crowd and Jaylen has both fists raised in victory, grinning as bright as he's ever seen her as she steps off the rubber. Then he's slamming into her at full speed for his slight catcher's frame and she's picking him up and spinning and laughing despite him knocking the wind out of them both.

"A perfect game! A perfect game for the Charleston Shoe Thieves and Jaylen Hotdogfingers, first for the team and first for her since returning!"

The others are crowding them now, yelling and hollering, but his brain has been so focused on her for hours, it feels like it's all he can do. She still hasn't let his knees and thighs go, holding him up despite all the jostling from the team. They're normally near the same height, but with her holding him like this, he's nearly a full head taller. He feels like he's overflowing with joy, that even with all the enhancements brought on by blaseball, people werent designed to hold this much within themselves. So he finally gives in to the elation bubbling up in him and grabs her. Her cyan and yellow cap tumbles into the dirt, disapearing underfoot, and he ducks down and finally, finally kisses her.

Their hands tighten on his legs, a low hum he can feel more than hear rising through them. They're both grinning. Smiles too wide to kiss properly. When he pulls back because of this, she leans up anyway, playfully chasing him. He laughs and buries his face in her shoulder instead. It doesn't seem like she's planning to set him down quite yet. He wants this moment to last forever. Feels the press of the other Thieves around them, clapping him on the back, tugging at his uniform. The noise is deafening.

"Gods, you were stunning," he's speaking against her neck, can't even hear himself over the din, wouldn't be able to tell he was speaking aloud if the echoing vibrations weren't there to feel in his collarbones. "Absolutely incredible. Beautiful."
She drops them then, lets go of their knees. Just as his cleats land in the turf she grabs him and kisses him hard right before she's buried in the dogpile.
Stu leaps on him from behind, grabbing him in a headlock and delivering a noogie with all the force she can muster.  He wriggles free, grabs Hildebert, yells something about those plays, they saved the record!

They're all herded into the clubhouse with promises of a whole hog barbecue  celebration later. Jaylen is ushered through first, and he's waylaid by Cornelius bursting from his office to dip him, the overdramatic fucker. He snags his hand and tugs him along to join the team.

The Steaks' vistors' clubhouse is full of well-worn couches and recliners. Vela, Blood, Ollie, and Stew are at the front, debating if the next movie up in the rotation is The Wiz or Holes, "because we watched The Wizard of Oz last time and--!"
Jaylen is in the middle of the central couch, looking a little crowded and overwhelmed. Esme's perched on the back of the couch, hovering protectivly, Stu's sprawled across her lap, flirting in her casual cocky way, trying to ignore Snyder poking her in the ankle. Between Snyder and Haley, who is glowing bright enough to make the light bulbs look dim, Gunther, sans-mech, is loudly adding his input to the ongoing debate.
Jaylen smiles softly when they spot them, Stu cackles, rolls off Jaylen and onto her feet. "Go get her, loverboy." Her playful shove jostles him. She heads to the fridge, ignoring Snyder's beer requests until they give up and follow her.
They go to sit next to Jaylen, and she grabs his wrist, guides him, like they're leading a dance partner, in front of them. Stops. He's feeling the tension return in waves. Her hands move. Stop. Move. Cornelius sits next to her, deliberately looking at the increasingly loud debate playing out, and something about that galvanizes them. She meets their eyes and, intentionally, tugs her dusty cap down, looks away embarassed, then tugs her ear. Help me out, come here.
He swallows around the tightness in his throat, reaches out, leans towards her, and it's fluid from there. She pulls him forward and down. He steps in, sits on her lap, settles his knees on either side of her hips, face in her shoulder again, and the sense of weightlessness he didn't even recognize leaves him. He sighs deeply. Holes starts playing behind him, the lights turn off, and he blindly searches for Cornelius' hand, something else to ground him. He provides it obligingly with a gentle kiss to the knuckles. Jaylen's hands are fisted in his uniform and she's uncommonly stiff and holy shit is she shaking?
He waits for the movie to get louder, whispers a question. She turns her head. His body is blocking her face from everyone but himself and Cornelius if he looked. Whispers so quiet he's half reading her lips. "I shouldn't have gotten it. This isn't right. I didn't deserve it."
He can't even think. Ends up pulling her impossibly closer with one hand and half growling half whispering his exact thoughts on that bullshit into her curly hair. It all comes out jumbled up and incoherent, but he doesn't let her stop him or slow him. Cornelius is running his thumb across the back of his hand the whole time.
Her shaking gradually slows, then stops. Her hands are less clutching at them than holding them secure.
"All good?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Some things caught up with me."
"Mmm." The exhaustion catches him off guard, ambushing him once he gets the all clear. He leans forward against her.
"Hey now, don't sleep, we have a party in an hour."
"Don't care. Wake me up then." It's muffled in the shoulder of her uniform. She freezes beneath him, but unless she pushes him off or tells him to move outright, he's not going anywhere.
He feels Jaylen take a bracing breath, lower her head a bit closer.
"Thank you. Your calls made this happen." Her hands sweep absentmindedly between his ribs and pelvis, along his spinal muscles.
"Shut up. You won the damn game, it's yours." He lets her heartbeat and motions soothe them to sleep.

Chapter Text

The jersey under their cheek is gritty with dirt and sweat-salt. Stinks of exertion and anxiety. He hasn’t been able to fully sleep, but he absolutely isn’t fully awake.

Cornelius brushes his hair off his forehead. “Darling. It’s rude to not attend a party in your honor.”

“Mmmm, not my party.”

“It’s for the whole team. You’re on the team. Your party.”

“A seventeenth of the team. They can deal.”

Jaylen shifts under him, “he usually this wiped after a game?”

“No, but this one was intense. Come on, darling, at least let Jaylen get some barbecue and congratulations.”

Richardson acquiesces, but not before pressing a hot kiss to the underside of her jaw. He stumbles when he rises, knees stiff and swollen. Corn’s hand presses into his hip, easy and familiar and reassuring. Richardson braces against his shoulder and stretches his legs gently, trying to ease the stiffness out. Imperfect, but it will let him keep going for a few hours. Corn keeps steady and gets a thankful kiss afterwards.

“Hey, captain?” Jaylen is attempting, unsuccessfully, to get the dirt out of their cap.

“Yes?” Corn sounds so pleased it almost makes him blush.

Jaylen gives up on the hat and pulls her braids back as she puts it on. They recline, slow and easy. Confident. Eyes lingering hot and heavy on Richardson. Damn. Damn. She smiles and doesn’t look away.

“Captain, would you mind if I borrowed your husband tonight? After the party?”

Richardson manages not to swear aloud, but it’s a near thing.

“Not at all! I might even be able to cover for you both if you want to leave early. Just let me know before you leave, so I know when to start giving excuses.”

“Will do.” She rises smoothly, reaches for Richardson’s hand and oh fuck kisses the pulse point of their wrist so, so gently. “Later, Games.” It feels like a promise.

Richardson takes a few seconds after she leaves to collect himself. Cornelius doesn’t bother hiding his amusement.

The party is excellent of course. The Steaks are always wonderful hosts and cooks, and their sense of hospitality gels well with Charleston’s. The food is incredible, and the vibes are impeccable.

None of that matters to Richardson because Jaylen has been giving him Looks for the last half hour and he knows his face is bright red, but he can’t bring himself to stop staring. Everyone cleaned up after the game, but she still looks both wired and worn. The adrenaline rush and subsequent lull giving her a glow. She meets his eyes from across the room and gives him a smirk that makes him shiver in the warm Texas night.

“Darling. Beloved.”

“Yes?” He turns to find Cornelius grinning widely at him.

“For the love of Gods, get the hell out of here. You didn’t even see Vela steal your food.”

Vela holds up a peace sign from across the table, where she works diligently on finishing off their sandwich.

Richardson grabs Cornelius’ tie, kisses him hard, and practically trips rising from the table. Corn shoos him away with a laugh and a slap on the ass.