A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my awesome writer pal JonEllison, who requested a chapter about Polly and Estimation Eddie!

I'm not sure if I ship these two or not, but I 10,000% headcanon them as being friends in their spare time, so this was fun to write!

I could probably say that I wrote this partially in honor of the World Series, but I completely forgot that it was even on until the very last day of it. Oh well. At least I have an excuse for calling Eddie's team the Bear Cubs. ;D #GoChicago #MostlyBecauseChicagoStylePizza #Mmmm...

Enjoy!

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Brr-brr-brr BRR-brr-BRR!

"It's one warm July here at the park, but we're still glad you could join us for the final inning of the Bear Cubs versus the Pangolins!"

Estimation Eddie, taking a much-needed water break with the rest of his team, glanced up to where a middle-aged man with fading red hair sat in the announcer booth. The man, upon noticing him, immediately grinned proudly and waved. Eddie managed a small smile at this, though not without rolling his eyes slightly as he joined the rest of the players to line up for the field.

There was a shuffling noise over the loudspeakers as the man got back to his microphone.

"In case you're just joining us—or maybe just starting to read the latest update of the story—it's the Cubs ahead with 9 and the Pangolins trailing behind with a solid 8!" the announcer's voice exclaimed. "With just the bottom of the ninth inning left, the crowds are in suspense—it's still anyone's game!"

The 'crowds', as Eddie's father liked to call them, mostly consisted of the players' families and a few baseball fans from around town—not really much more than forty people scattered around on the four long bleachers of the ballpark.

About ten per bleacher, Eddie mused, doing a quick scan of the onlookers to recheck his math. But that's just a rough guess, of course.

Someone tapped his shoulder from behind, however, quickly rousing him out of his thoughts.

"Um, you can pitch this round, right?" asked a slightly younger boy behind him. Eddie turned, and recognized him as the Cubs' usual pitcher, a thin boy with messy black hair.

Eddie shrugged, then nodded. "Your hand feeling any better?" he asked, keeping his one eye on the opposing team as it filed in to where they would wait to take a turn at bat.

The boy chuckled sheepishly and held up his right hand, the fingers on it curling up weakly. "Not really," he replied apologetically. "I think I twisted it when I fell. I might have to bench this one out."

Eddie nodded in understanding. "I'll do it," he answered. The boy looked relieved, and waved as he headed towards the unofficial dugout.

"Thanks," the boy called, just as the rest of the team had almost finished dispersing onto the outfield. Eddie grabbed the brim of his baseball helmet and tipped it slightly in acknowledgement.

Heading out onto the middle of the field, Estimation Eddie didn't quite hear the enthusiastic commentary of the announcer, and for the most part, he ignored the hot summer sun that beat on the back of his neck to the point where it stung. Instead, he touched his eyepatch, running through all the things he knew he'd have to do to pitch.

Judge distance, try for a curve, aim for a little on either side of home.

He let out a tired breath, trying to quell the slight nervousness welling up inside him.

It's fine. It's easier to pitch than hit, he told himself.

But even as he slipped on the mitt he'd grabbed from the bench and readied his stance over the pitcher's mound, he couldn't help but dip his head to gently trace a finger around his eyepatch.

I wish I could take this thing off, he murmured internally. People shouldn't have to depend on someone to throw who hardly has depth perception.

He was once again pulled most of the way out of his thoughts, this time by the familiar, optimistic voice of the announcer.

"...Number ~50 chosen as last-minute pitcher after what seems to be an injury to Number 15! The Pangolins' first batter, Number 43, is at the plate..."

Almost automatically, Eddie reached up and caught the ball that was tossed to him, even though his eye was watching the first batter come up to the plate ahead of him.

Even as he readied himself and threw, the hot sun licking at his back, his mind was elsewhere.

I wish I could take this thing off, he thought again, already feeling a bit disappointed as the ball left his hand. His aim was off.

It wasn't off by much, but the batter swung and hit it without too much effort, and with a loud crack of leather on wood, the baseball went flying towards the back of the field.

Eddie watched it go. He watched his opponent run one base, then another. He watched his team scramble for the distant ball, and he loosened his shoulders and let out a sigh.

He couldn't take it off.

Because under his eyepatch, a bright golden light flickered and glowed.

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Estimation Eddie felt that he'd gotten perhaps just a little overheated as he returned from what seemed like an equally hot water fountain to join his team in the shade of an old tree.

"Good game, guys," their coach said, before taking a big gulp of his sports drink—Shmumberade, of course. The other boys (there were eleven of them, Eddie knew, but if he hadn't, he would've guessed ten) lay sprawled on the grass or sat leaning on the tree trunk.

There were some tired comments of agreement, and Eddie smiled slightly as he sat down on the edge of the group. At first, no one seemed to pay much attention to him, until one boy looked at him and grinned hopefully.

"D'you think we could have hot dogs to celebrate?" he asked, causing almost all the others to stare at Eddie also, looking equally hopeful. One of the boys frowned at this wording.

"We didn't win," he reminded the other. The first boy rolled his eyes upward.

"So? We could still have hot dogs."

Eddie smiled briefly at the request, but shook his head.

"I don't have any with me today," he explained, shrugging apologetically. A few of his teammates sighed under their breath, their hopes of getting extra lunch dashed.

The first boy, however, wasn't giving up so easily.

"Can you do that thing with your eye to make some?" he inquired, tilting his head. Immediately, the rest of the team, coach included, glanced at him with eyebrows up in curiosity.

After a moment of thought, Eddie shrugged, gaze drifting down to the ground.

Without removing his eyepatch, he tried, just for practice, to concentrate on picturing a hot dog.

Just a plain hot dog. No mustard this time.

His covered eye became warm, then burning hot. He flinched, but tried to ignore it.

The energy built up inside that entire half of his head, threatening to give him a throbbing headache from all the pressure. He could feel a faint crackle of energy in the back of his head.

Snap! Fzzzz—snap!

Eddie quietly set his jaw, determined not to let it get to him.

I just want to do something for the team.

...It shouldn't be taking this much energy, should it?

Without warning, what felt like a jolt of electricity suddenly pulsed from his eye down to his feet and back to his eye again, where it exploded, searing his covered eye like he'd touched it to an electric fence.

Despite his best efforts, Eddie started and took in a sharp breath, his hands flying to his eyepatch.

He pressed on it almost desperately, and slowly, the pain subsided. But the sinking feeling of embarrassment was still there, growing stronger by the second.

He hesitantly glanced up, knowing exactly what he would see.

Everyone was staring at him.

I'm... sorry, guys.

He didn't quite trust himself to say that much.

"...Sorry," he finally managed to mumble, standing up and taking a few steps away. The team still stared at him, and a few faces became drawn or furrowed in concern.

Eddie took a slow breath, willing his nerves to unwind at least a little bit. His good eye felt both dry and slightly moist, and he quickly tried to blink away the stinging sensation.

It doesn't make sense to get upset. I'm fine.

Having calmed himself enough to regain most of his shaken composure, his gaze drifted down to the ground once again.

"No hot dogs today," he apologized, though to his own ears, his voice sounded a bit robotic. He glanced back up, and forced himself to smile.

"...I'll see you all next week."

With those words echoing in his head, and a lingering rock-heavy feeling of embarrassment still in his stomach, Estimation Eddie turned, picked up his bat and mitt, and began trudging slightly for the exit of the park.

To anyone else, he looked as collected as collected could be.

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Eddie sighed slightly as he approached the brightly-painted lemonade stand.

Ordinarily, if his eye was giving him trouble, he would go straight home. A cool washrag worked wonders for things like sore eyes—even ones that could zap things into existence.

But it was very warm out, even for July, so he decided to make a brief pit stop.

"Hi Polly," he greeted his friend in what he hoped was a normal tone. His mind was elsewhere, however.

Why'd it do that? Was it because I was tired after the game? It was only a hot dog. I've made those before.

His voice must've been more sullen than he'd wanted it to be, however, because the pigtailed girl behind the counter frowned in response.

"Hi Eddie," she greeted him, cocking an eyebrow. "Something the matter?"

Eddie glanced down at the chalkboard sign displayed below the counter of the stand.

Lemonade, 25¢.

How much would it cost if all eleven boys on his team wanted some lemonade? There were four quarters to a dollar. There were three groups of four in twelve. So it would cost about three dollars.

Estimation always made him feel a little bit better.

"...No, I'm fine," he replied at last, discreetly avoiding meeting her eyes. Instead, he reached in his pocket and began to dig around for change.

He probably should've answered her more quickly, because a quick glance told him she didn't look like she was buying it.

"Mm-hm," Polly mused, watching with one eyebrow slightly raised as Eddie pulled out a handful of coins and began counting them. Thankfully, she seemed to drop the subject. "...How'd your game go?"

"It went fine," he replied, busy sorting out the coins. Two groups of ten, three groups of one... no... there; one group of five.

Polly rolled her eyes at this, already pouring him a cup of well-chilled lemonade. The sight of it reminded Eddie of just how thirsty he was.

"I meant who won, Eddie," she elaborated, setting down the glass pitcher with a light clunk.

She slid his cup of lemonade over to him, but she was still watching him, he could feel it. Realizing that he would have to act a lot more ordinary if he didn't want her to think anything was wrong, he quickly glanced up to meet her gaze, nodding once.

"The Pangolins," he replied as he set his change on the counter. "11-9."

The memory of losing the game because of a few off pitches on his part made him drop his gaze again, and he picked up his lemonade in silence.

Polly was frowning slightly, eyebrows just barely raised, with that look on her face she only got when she was trying to decipher something.

"Bummer," she still sympathized, though not without watching him carefully.

Thanks for the concern, he thought vaguely as he glanced down and sipped his lemonade, but... I've been stared at enough for today.

"Yeah," he replied, tone void of emotion.

Whenever he thought about his trouble eye, it grew warm and glowed.

It was certainly warm now.

Against his better judgment, he let out a small sigh before seating himself on one of Polly's vibrantly colored, cube-shaped chairs.

Everyone acts like I'm so different, he internally murmured, already wishing he'd gone straight home. The lemonade tasted dry in his mouth.

You are different, Eddie, the less tactful portion of his brain responded. How many kids have to wear an eyepatch to keep from accidentally hurting anyone?

He didn't flinch. He wanted to, though.

One. That's how many.

And that does not need estimated.

A ruffling noise came from beside him, and he refocused his gaze only to realize he'd been staring at a crack in the driveway. He glanced over, and there sat Polly, frowning with folded arms.

"Okay, Eddie," she sighed tiredly, eyebrows furrowed at him. Her eyes were concerned, however, and they flickered with just the slightest bit of worry. "Something's the matter, and whether you tell it to me or not, you're not leaving until you feel better."

Something told Eddie that when Polly said he wasn't leaving, she was being entirely serious.

He was going to have to use all of his acting skills if he wanted to go home anytime soon. "I'm all right," he assured her, offering a slight smile. "But thanks. Just tired."

Polly smiled wryly back, eyes gleaming faintly. "Yeah," she replied, giving him a friendly but pointed look. "Say it a few more times and you might fool yourself into thinking that."

Eddie looked away and sighed, rolling his eyes in what he hoped was a good-natured way.

Can't fool her, can I?

"It's... just my eye," he finally relented, glancing down at the ice in his lemonade. He tried to look unaffected by the thought, but found that he couldn't help feeling a bit unhappy. Still, he managed a shrug. "It's better now, though."

"...Oh. Okay."

Polly raised an eyebrow slightly at him, though it looked to be more in curious sympathy than anything else. She was very smart, that much Eddie knew, but he got the feeling she didn't exactly have much experience in comforting people.

And I don't need comforted, so it all works out, doesn't it?

He tried to act like nothing was wrong, glancing up to meet her gaze when she frowned at him.

"Does it... hurt, then?" Polly asked, looking almost hesitant. Her eyebrows were furrowed quizzically, and she tilted her head at his eyepatch. "When you make things that way?"

Eddie couldn't help but drop his gaze.

"It's not supposed to," he replied, voice quiet and somewhat tired. Out of the corner of his good eye, he could see her frown in sympathy and glance briefly away.

"What's it feel like?" she asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. It was only then that he noticed she'd hung up a little chalk sign on her stand that read CLOSED. He should've felt a bit guilty at this, but he felt so tired on the inside that he really almost didn't.

He rested one elbow on his knee and gently rubbed at his eyepatch. It was very warm, and the silk was a bit scratchy, as usual. All sorts of descriptions came to mind, but none of them seemed like they would make much sense if you hadn't felt them before.

"...It's electric," Eddie finally decided, feeling the quiet, almost indiscernible hum of his right eye. "And fast. You can barely feel it when it's working right. But... sometimes it hits you hard, and it hurts."

Polly was watching him with eyebrows furrowed, so he looked away.

"...It only feels like that sometimes," he finished quickly. I'm alright. I can handle it. "It's usually just a warm hum."

That wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough, and he didn't want her to worry.

His friend still looked somewhat doubtful, but she nodded to show she understood.

"Sorry, Eddie," she sighed, looking back up at him. He could see her in his peripheral vision, but he didn't trust himself to meet her eyes, so he didn't.

"I'm alright," he repeated, almost holding onto the silly notion that if he said it enough times, it would be true.

Polly let out a quiet breath, glancing down at the driveway in front of them, seeming to be deep in thought.

He found thoughts drifting into his own head, also.

Why's it still bothering me? It's over now.

You don't know that for sure, another thought interjected.

It's bothering you because you don't know what it could do to you. That's how it is with odd powers—no one knows what they could do to you. What's stopping all that energy in your eye from backfiring into your brain? Hm?

He didn't flinch at the thought, but he did stiffen slightly, looking down.

Polly seemed to notice.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, so he glanced over, only to see her trying to give a comforting smile.

Another thought formed in his mind, and he decided that he liked this thought much more than he did the others.

It'll get better.

"I think you're just having a bad day," Polly deduced with her usual knowledgable air, putting her hands on her hips with a nod. She offered him a wry, friendly smile. "Everybody has them. Some are worse than others. But you know what?"

Estimation Eddie finally looked up at his friend, surprised to find that his unease was now absent. Instead, a warm, pleasant feeling was gradually taking its place—that of being cared about.

"What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"I've never had a bad day that didn't turn out a lot better than I expected it to," she replied, standing up with a smile. She turned to her stand and flipped the chalk sign around, from CLOSED to OPEN.

He watched her, before glancing down at the near-melted ice cubes floating in his cup.

"Can I get you any more?" Polly asked, raising an eyebrow in a friendly fashion. "It's on the house."

He quickly shook his head, not seeing how it was remotely fair of him to ask any more of her after she'd, well... listened to him.

"No, I couldn't. But thanks."

She shrugged, smiling wryly. "Suit yourself."

Eddie nodded, sipping the last of his lemonade to hide a small smile. The drink tasted much sweeter than it had when he'd arrived.

"Polly?" he finally asked, looking up at her.

She glanced over, eyebrow raised. "Hm?"

He wasn't able to help but offer a grateful smile. "Thanks."

Polly shrugged modestly, before relenting and giving a proud smile back.

"What can I say?" she asked, settling back in behind her stand. She grinned at him, bobbing her head.

"I take customer satisfaction very seriously."

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A/N: 1500 WORDS LONGER THAN I EXPECTED IT TO BE, BUT I GOT IT DONE! Whoop! Now, for the much-needed editing portion of the process. xD

Anyways! In case it isn't obvious, I know just about next to nothing about baseball. I'm really sorry if I got something completely wrong in the setup there; it's been a while since I've played and I still can't quite wrap my head around how most of the scoring works. xP

#titlepunsforthewin #ISN'T IT PUNDERFUL

Hopefully Eddie (not to mention Polly!) didn't seem too out of character? It's kind of hard to judge a character's, well, character, accurately WHEN THEY ONLY APPEAR FOR ONE SCENE OF AN ENTIRE SERIES. LIKE HEY. XP

Ha, kidding. I hope this turned out okay, JonEllison! Happy very late birthday, writer pal! :D

#I have officially finished writing this chapter at 2:43 AM

#this concludes our coherently awake broadcast day