#i need to write the fic where they and sarah find that 2076 world series bat

[nishaapologist]

Proved You Right (Fallout 4, Sarah Lyons/NB!LW - First Sentinel AU)

a small note: this mentions having a basement in Home Plate, but that’s actually because i have a mod that lets me stick basements down to have a bit more space to breathe. for the sake of I Did It In My Game So It Counts, there’s also a basement in this au too! so yeah. anyway have this gay shit.

(sarah’s pronouns are she/her, rookie’s are they/them)

—

“This probably comes as, like, no surprise, but man... I love this city.”

Finding out there was a balcony, of sorts, on the roof of Sarah’s home in Diamond City — home plate, as they call it, which was a name that’d flown right over Sarah’s head until Rookie had gleefully explained the term — had been a pleasant surprise when Sarah had thrown down the two-thousand or so caps to buy the place, clambering up the rickety old ladder to the roof on her first inspection of the house only to find herself in a little sitting area that overlooked the market. She hadn’t made great use of it right away, more interested in the basement underneath that would later become her new base(ment) of operations in the Commonwealth, but then Rookie had shown up to Diamond City on the coattails of a local merchant, and now they spend near every evening sitting in the shell of an old caravan that’s been welded down to the corrugated sheets of the roof, drinking lukewarm beer as they listen to Myrna holler anti-synth slogans, or quietly singing along to songs on the radio until exhaustion makes all the words collapse into mumbles.

It’s a moment of peace, of relaxation, in a time increasingly fraught with battles and tension, and Sarah actually looks forward to tinkering with weapons or armour on her lap at the end of the day, Rookie beside her and resting on an old sunlounger as they hum along to the radio. It helps to put things into perspective, rather than grinding herself down to a sliver as — many years ago — she would have always done.

“I mean, I don’t like the mayor, or his whole ‘no-ghouls’ bullshit or anything,” they quickly add when Sarah glances up from under her eyelashes, head bowed as she turns the extended magazine of a 10-mil pistol about in her hand. Back in the Citadel, over a decade ago, weapon modding was never really a thing Sarah had needed to do, but it turns out that after years of maintaining Power Armor she has quite the knack for it. It’s just a bit more fiddly than she’s used to, is all. “But I really like everything else. The people, mostly. The market. The stands. All that stuff.”

Sarah snorts under her breath, squinting back down as the sunlight slowly dims on the horizon, a cool evening ushering in a breeze and making the hairs on her arms prickle. Spring is approaching the Commonwealth, the months quick to pass, and soon the most hardy of trees will be flush with life again, Ragstag fawns wobbling on unsteady legs, Yao Guai slowly waking from hibernation. It’s a new year, and 2288 is already shaping up to be an exciting one. “You sure that’s not just ‘cause we’re on a baseball field? Pitch?” Sarah screws up her nose. “Stadium?”

“Baseball park?” Rookie offers, though there’s no surety in their voice. “We called it the baseball diamond back in the Vault, since that was pretty much all we had space for.”

“Baseball diamond, then. You sure it’s not ‘cause of that? Isn’t this, like, your wildest dream, or whatever?”

Rookie kicks one leg out at Sarah, too far away for their foot to even hope of landing anywhere near her, but she jerks backwards to dodge it anyway, laughing at their grimace as they retract their foot. “Oh, please! I have bigger dreams than arguing with Moe fuckin’ Cronin about how ass-backwards he got his baseball rules!”

That first argument with Moe had been quite the spectacle, and one Sarah knows Diamond City won’t forget any time soon; Rookie had been checking out his stock with wide eyes, giving each bat a practice swing to feel the weight and heft as it arced around, and when he’d leant down to tell them how crazy Pre-War baseball had been — one team would beat the other team to death with things called Baseball Bats, and the best bats were called Swatters — Rookie had given him a public dressing-down that even Sarah had sidled away from, lest Rookie’s faithful bat, grasped in increasingly irate hands, accidentally found an arc directly into her skull by mistake. It had ended most excitingly with a lot of swears, intervention from the guards, and Rookie’s solemn declaration that they were never gonna buy bats from ‘such a dipshit’, and even now they and Moe glare daggers at each other from across the market, much to Sarah’s ongoing amusement with the whole thing.

As if remembering the same incident, Rookie takes a swig of beer, glowering off at the floodlights that shine down onto the city. “At least Alex agrees with me about him. This shit’s a dying art, apparently.”

Sarah pauses for a moment, and she can’t help the way her gaze tracks towards the far stands, glancing through one of the glassless windows to where ramshackle abodes sit, suspended, above the common rabble. Alex — or the Sole Survivor as some call her now, after her story about the Vault got published for hundreds of eyes to see, and for many more mouths to gossip about — had been granted a house in the upper stands by Mayor McDonough out of the kindness (or manipulation) of his heart, offering her a safe place to adapt to the new and unforgiving world she’d found herself in. Since they’d met, Sarah had struggled to get much more out of her than single-syllable words and pleas for her to find her son, but it was only when Rookie had shown up that her sturdy, Pre-War walls had finally begun to crumble, just a little.

Really, it’s because they’re a Vaultie, too — different experiments be damned — and it helps that they’re someone who was also thrown into the topsy-turvy world of the wastes with nary an idea for the horrors within. They might not quite be out of time, but they do understand being out of place, and when it turned out that Alex is (or, perhaps was) quite the baseball buff herself, they’d forged a connection that made her, initially, a little warmer. Nowadays, Alex is very nearly sociable.

But she still very much keeps to herself, and it’s enough to have Sarah worry. She sees a lot, maybe too much, of Rookie in her — back when they met in Chevy Chase, still new to this world — to be strictly comfortable leaving her to her own devices, but there’s not much else to be done. It’ll take years before she’ll ever really adapt, Rookie had said, years until she can really grapple with the world she doesn’t know. It’s just tough shit.

“Yeah,” Sarah murmurs absently, drawing herself from her rabbithole of thoughts, and Rookie follows her eyeline carefully, knowing exactly where she’s looking. “Well, hey. I guess you have to think of it this way; you and Alex make up two people who know how to play baseball, right? How many more do you need for a full team?”

Rookie laughs at that, sombre face breaking out into a toothy grin, and they slide even further down the lounger as their hat slips over their eyebrows. “Hah! Find me six more Vaulties, and then we’ll really be talking. I’ll be able to hit the first homerun in two-hundred fuckin’ years.”

“Wait,” Sarah says with a frown, doing the maths. Even to her ears, it doesn’t seem to add up right. “Only eight people? You sure?”

Rookie snorts, and then they reach up to take their hat off with a lazy pluck, eyeing Sarah up seconds before her vision goes dark as it’s tossed, haphazardly, onto her head and over her eyes.

“Baby,” Rookie coos fondly as she splutters, nearly dropping the magazine to the ground whilst she scrambles to whip it off her head. “Bold of you to think you can worm your way out of being our pitcher.”

The hat gets launched back at Rookie’s face, the brim making a dull impact on the bridge of their nose, and their shout of pain and laughter echoes right across the city.