Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Party Poison never wakes up screaming. 

The nightmares will always startle them awake, every muscle clenched as if still an inch from danger. Frozen in primal terror, heart beating jaggedly as a desert hare attempting to escape the sight of a hawk. Their breath leaving their parted lips in arhythmic huffs. The memory of the nightmare searing their consciousness like an iron brand. Petrified or anguished or grief-stricken, but never screaming. 

Poison gasps, suddenly back in their own bed, eyes trained on the water damaged ceiling of their motel bedroom and the glow-in-the-dark stars Ghoul and The Girl had stuck up there last summer. Poison throws off their covers and wriggle out of bed. They pull on a pair of tennis shoes, not bothering with laces or socks, and slip out. The bedroom door loudly squeaks on its hinges, and Poison winces as they slowly push it closed. 

This has become their near nightly routine: spend an hour wrestling to fall asleep, finally be unconscious for a while, get woken up by a nightmare, go outside to smoke or pace in circles or mutter every curse word they know, go back inside having given up on sleep, and try to find a useful task until the sun rises again along with their crewmates. 

Poison leans heavily against the back wall of the motel, scrubbing at their eyes with the heels of their palms. Being up so late makes their eyes sting and the stars in the sky smudge. A quiet crunching of gravel makes Poison turn their head to see Jet Star shuffling around the corner of the building to join Party, hair barely contained by a scrunchie and faded pajama shirt collar slipping to reveal one freckled tan shoulder. 

“Why are you up, doll face?” Poison asks. They often pepper her with pet names and words of affection since she started transitioning. It had been a few months since Jet Star had asked the Fabulous 4 to refer to her with feminine pronouns. She’d asked shyly, as if anyone would dream of giving her grief about it. Since then, the other three and The Girl had been laying it on thick, complementing her at every opportunity, and Jet would respond with her signature exasperated but affectionate eye roll. 

“Heard you get up and thought I’d check in,” she mumbles, words still a little slurred from sleep. She leans against the stucco wall with Poison, close enough for their shoulders to brush together. Poison turns to lean fully against Jet’s chest and tuck their ear against her collar bone. They stare into the dusty distance and feel Jet’s curls brush against their forehead. Jet drapes an arm around Poison’s waist. There’s a coyote baying somewhere far off. 

“I think we cheated,” Poison whispers. 

“Huh?” 

“I think we cheated death when we escaped BLI with The Girl. There was no way we were supposed to make it out, not out of the initial clap or out of Batt City. We’re living in the wrong timeline, Jet, like something out of Kobra’s comics. I think the Witch, or Destroya, or fate, or some sunovabitch is coming for us now because this isn’t how it was supposed to end. I think we were supposed to die a long long time ago.” 

Chapter Text

It had been half a year since the Fabulous 4 had stolen back The Girl from Battery City. Fall had faded into a crisp winter, and now spring was blooming across the desert. The mountains in the distance sported a smattering of purple wildflowers, and the spiny lizards would sun themselves on rock piles at high noon. Even the prickly pear cacti were starting to droop heavily with ripe fruit. 

They had escaped BLI by the skin of their teeth, left bleeding and raw. Ghoul’s face now sported a jagged scar from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Kobra’s rolled ankle left him limping for weeks. Jet kept a patch over her right eye most days after getting too close to a flashbang detonation that caused her eye to be permanently bloodshot and watering. The Girl had a few bruises, a scraped knee, and a chipped front tooth from biting the hand of a Drac until he bled. Poison walked away without any marks at all. 

Instead, they toss and turn every night, until nightmares pounce on them like a bobcat snatching up a mouse. Every dream is a different version of how the shootouts with BLI might have gone. Sometimes, they don’t find the girl alive. Sometimes, Jet has blood streaming from both empty eye sockets. Sometimes, Poison tries to drag Kobra’s unconscious body into the Trans Am. Sometimes, Ghoul wraps himself around The Girl to protect her tiny body from a hail of laser fire. Sometimes, all of them lie dead on the floor. 

But in tonight’s dream, Poison had once again been staring into Korse’s cold beady eyes. The Fabulous 4 had managed to get to the lobby of the BLI building after snatching back The Girl, but now they were caught in an all-out clap. The crew had almost made it to the last door, the Trans Am patiently waiting for them just outside. Korse had grabbed Poison by the throat, pinning them up against the wall, ray gun pressed roughly under their chin. Poison knew in real life, Kobra had been there to shoot Korse first before he got a chance to shoot Poison. But in the dream reality, Kobra was caught up fighting a few Dracs of his own. Korse leaned in close to laugh in Poison’s ear. His breath smelled of rot, a vulture feasting on dead flesh. Poison let out an animal howl and dug their nails into his pale hand. Korse’s gaze returned to Poison, mouth twitching up into a malicious smirk, and pulled the trigger to shoot them dead. 

~~~~~~~

Now Poison is hunched over a cup of instant coffee, trying not to scowl too much at the floating chunks of coffee bean that seem determined not to dissolve. Jet is opening instant oatmeal packets into five bowls when The Girl stumbles through the diner’s back door. She walks over to Jet and presses her forehead against her hip. Jet pets The Girl’s hair as a silent greeting and continues preparing breakfast, pouring hot water over each of the chipped bowls. 

Poison remembers when The Girl was so small that she could barely reach Jet’s hip with her pudgy baby arms raised above her head. She would waddle as fast as her little legs would allow her to grab the belt loop of the nearest killjoy and let out a squawk in demand of attention. But here she is, her once comically long pink pajama pants now outgrown to clearly show her ankles. Poison has to look away to stay focused on stirring their morning coffee. 

Kobra is next out of bed. Poison focuses on their brother’s steady gait across the diner, and they try to replace the dream image’s version of Kobra pistol whipping a Drac in a manic furry with this version of him, content if sleepy. “Morning,” he mumbles to the room in general. He bends down to place a kiss to the top of The Girl’s mane of curly hair before grabbing a bowl of oatmeal off the counter and plopping down in the booth seat across from Poison. 

Then Ghoul follows shortly behind. His shaggy black hair falls across his eyes. He mirrors The Girl’s position of leaning against Jet Star. His forehead rests on Jet’s shoulder, sandwiching The Girl between them. “Stooooooop,” she whines, pushing a hand to Ghoul’s knee cap without looking behind her, but her voice betrays a wide smile. Instead, Ghoul only slumps down more, creating an arch over The Girl. She squeaks and squirms when he loops his arms around her chest and picks her up just enough for her toes to tangle off the kitchen floor. Ghoul sways back and forth while The Girl’s legs swing in the air and she continues to screech indignantly. 

“Both of you, grab your oatmeal and scram,” Jet redirects with affection, shoving a bowl into each of their hands. All three make their way to the booth seats. There are four booths in the diner, but the one with the most intact vinyl seats was the group’s dedicated dining table. The others are covered in supplies: a crate of PowerPup, a few spray paint cans, a pile of stained t-shirts Poison swears they will get around to turning into cleaning rags one of these days. So every morning, the Fab 4 piles tight together in the dedicated booth’s bench seats under the amber glow of the desert sun. 

Poison doesn’t miss the slight hesitation in Ghoul’s steps when his muscle memory seemingly directs him to sit down in his normal spot beside Poison before shifting at the last minute to sit across from them. After their unresolved incident on the roof a few weeks ago, Poison isn’t surprised anymore when Ghoul quietly keeps a space between them. They just wish it would have stopped stinging by now. 

Jet plops a bowl down in front of Poison, and they give a grateful half smile. The crew takes a few bites in silence, not quite awake enough to start playfully bickering just yet. It’s Jet who breaks the silence. “I think we need to go to the market today,” she volunteers. “This was the last of the oatmeal packets, and we could do with a top up on the medical supplies after yesterday’s . . . accident.” 

“I told you I was fine. I didn’t need you fussing over me like a mother hen!” Ghoul protests, but his mostly missing eyebrows and stubby eyelashes beg to differ. While experimenting with a new supply of black powder, Fun Ghoul had detonated what he insisted was only a small bomb on his work bench, burning away the hair on his face in the blast. 

“If I hadn’t used the rubbing alcohol, you could’ve gotten the wound infected. On your face! Do you know what a staph infection on the face looks like?” Jet argues back. 

“I don’t know, maybe it would be sick to be a zombie with mushrooms growing out of my face.” He mimes fungus protruding from the space where his eyebrows should be, and his jaw drops slack in an imitation of the brainless undead until The Girl bursts into giggles and Jet swats Ghoul’s hands back down to the table. Poison can’t help but snicker and try to hide it with another bite of oatmeal. 

“I could use a trip to the market for some brake pads for the motorbike,” Kobra adds, seemingly hoping to steer away from infection discussions over breakfast. 

“Oh oh oh! I want a book,” The Girl blurts out. 

“We’ll see what the book vendor has this time,” Jet assures her. 

“Then let’s goooooo,” The Girl whines, suddenly anxious to get the show on the road when she had been dead asleep 10 minutes earlier. She climbs over Ghoul’s lap to escape the booth. Then she is racing out the back door and to the neighboring motel building, presumably to change out of pjs and grab her shoes. 

“Looks like it’s settled then,” Poison says. “We’re heading to the market.” 

Chapter Text

After yet another terrible night of sleep, the gentle rumbling of the Trans Am’s engine almost has Party Poison nodding off in the driver’s seat. They crack their knuckles against the steering wheel and blink heavily in an attempt to keep their senses focused on the world outside the windshield. Sunbeams shine off the road in the distance, creating mirages of puddles on the edge of the horizon. A dozen Joshua trees blur past the car, and from between Ghoul and Jet in the backseat, The Girl points out a striped woodpecker perched on top of a cactus. Kobra is sitting shotgun, absentmindedly chewing on a star shaped rubber charm attached to a cord around his neck. 

All piled into the car, the crew speeds down the cracked highway to the daily market. It's become an unofficial routine for anybody with anything to sell to set up shop inside the Zone 4 warehouse building from dawn to noon. There were the regular cooks with grilled meat skewers, mechanics with metal gears of every size, and booksellers with crates of paperbacks from before the Helium Wars. Occasionally, a killjoy crew would have something to trade and set up shop for one day. Then there were smugglers from Batt City. Not killjoys but not citizens, they made a living transporting essential goods beyond the metropolis walls to resell for hiked prices in the zones. No one trusted them but everyone relied on them. 

The crew finally reached the packed dirt parking lot and spilled out of the Trans Am into the already sweltering morning, Fun Ghoul makes an exaggerated show of stretching his arms over his head like he had been trapped in the car for hours instead of 30 minutes and loudly yawns. His sunflower yellow shirt rides up to reveal the tattooed swallows on his hips. The black waistband of his underwear is just visible above the top of his jeans, and the silver pendant at his throat shimmers in the sun. Poison glaces around at nothing in particular and pushes their sunglasses further up their nose before turning to address the group. 

“A’right,” they start, but they have to clear their throat when Ghoul uses the hem of his shirt to wipe away the beaded sweat on his upper lip, revealing even more tattooed skin. A smattering of stars, the twin birds, the word “and”. 

“A’right,” they repeat, “Jet, you’re on medic supplies, right?” 

She nods, crumpled paper list sticking out of her back pocket. 

“Kobra, you’re gonna grab bike parts?” 

“Yup,” he replies, tucking his chewed necklace back below his shirt collar, “I should only need a few things.” 

“Perfect, then you two stick together as a team. Ghoul, Girly, and me will see what the bookseller has before grabbing some dry pantry items like more oatmeal. As always, buddy system. No one’s getting lost or in a scuffle on my watch.” 

Kobra snorts, “If anyone’s getting in a fight, Destroya knows it’s you”

“And that’s why I’m coming with them,” The Girl pipes up. “To keep them in line.” 

Ghoul makes a quip about how she’s one to talk with how often she’s getting into scraps all on her own, and then he’s off chasing her in the direction of the market building. Poison is filled with the same fondness for their family they felt that morning at the diner booth. They aren’t in a dream; they all survived. The Girl is dodging Ghoul’s outstretched arms, and the rest of the crew is following behind.  

Poison feels the hair at the nape of their neck stand up as they cross the threshold into the market; something is already off. But The Girl is chattering away about the most territorial species of lizard to Ghoul, and Kobra is listing supplies on his fingers as Jet gives input. Poison forces a deep lungful of air into their body. Nothing is wrong. Nightmares are only dreams. Their crew is all safe, and nothing is wrong. 

Once inside the market, Poison is hit with the smell of frying food. A tall bearded man is flipping flatbreads on a hot skillet with his bare hands while a stocky woman next to him is shaving meat off a rotating spit. The crew continues past other stalls of brightly dyed clothing, bottled tinctures, and painted costume masks before reaching the bookseller’s shop. Kobra and Jet break off to run their errands while Ghoul, The Girl, and Poison browse. 

The Girl has already made a beeline for the stack of picture books. She’s sitting on the ground with a pile of them in her lap, probably looking for one on bugs or reptiles. To Poison’s right, Ghoul practically has his nose pressed to a crate of novels as he fingers through them. Occasionally, he lifts one up to read the back cover summary. Poison is rifling through a box of well-worn comic books without a particular goal in mind. They enjoy the book’s smell and weight in their hands. They are about to pick up an issue with an outlaw and his cat drawn on the cover when they see something white flash in the distance just beyond Ghoul’s shoulder. 

Then it appears again: a ghostly pale but featureless face in the crowd. 

Poison grabs Ghoul’s wrist, panic suddenly filling their chest with electricity, “Did you see that?” 

“What?” he asks, frantically scanning Poison’s face. 

“No, over there!” They point beyond Ghoul into the crowd. But the face is gone, swallowed up by the meandering sea of people. Poison’s eyes desperately search back and forth through the crowd. 

“What was it?” Ghoul bobs his head, trying to catch sight of whatever Poison saw. 

“I thought-” Poison chokes on their own words. The Phoenix Witch . They swear to the heavens they saw the mask of the Phoenix Witch. 

As the guardian of souls and the guide to the ghosted, killjoys revere The Witch. There are mailboxes scattered across the desert in Her honor in the hopes She’ll give peace to those who have been lost. Her likeness is painted on murals, tarot cards, and prayer candles. She’s the mother of the desert, goddess of the feral children who live within it. 

Poison’s arms break out in painful chilly goosebumps. With a suddenly unshakeable faith, Poison knows She’s here for the lives of the Fabulous 4. Why wouldn’t She be? They’ve already dreamed of their deaths 100 times. 

“Ghoul, it’s The Witch. The Phoenix Witch is here to kill us.” 

“ What? ”

The masked face reappears. Poison points, and Ghoul turns his head fast enough to get whiplash. The crowd has thinned out enough for Ghoul to see exactly what they’re talking about. 

But this time, it’s clearly a teenage boy in a plastic mask. He raises his arms and wiggles his fingers at a group of friends as they laugh. The masked boy does another little jig before removing the mask and placing it back on the shelf with the others at the mask maker’s booth. 

“What the fuck, Pois? That’s it?” Ghoul asks, but his voice sounds like it’s from deep underwater. They realize the background noise of the entire market is warped and muffled. The Girl has come over to investigate the commotion, and Poison can see her hand on their elbow, but they can’t feel it. 

Instead, their heart beat is pounding in their ears. Even though the danger’s over, even though it was just a kid, Poison can’t get their body to understand it was a false alarm. They can’t suck in air fast enough to stop the tightness in their chest. They almost feel light headed. Poison sways a little on their feet, and the floor below them seems to undulate like a wave.  

“Whoa there, hold your horses,” Ghoul says, nervousness pitching up his voice. Then he’s got an arm around Poison to help them slowly slide into a sitting position on the floor. Ghoul kneels down next to them. There are black and white dots floating on the edges of their field of vision. They still can’t fucking seem to breathe deep enough. 

“Hey Girly,” Ghoul turns to The Girl. She’s watching the whole scene with her big hazel eyes. Poison wishes they had the breath to explain that it’s all alright. That they’re just a little fucked in the head. “Do you know where the medical supply stall is? Can you go get Jet and Kobra please?” 

Poison’s head shoots up, “No, we have to stay in-” 

But she’s already running down the hallway. “She’ll be fine for a second, Party. What’s up with you?” 

“I thought, I thought I saw -” They have to gasp to get enough oxygen to finish the sentence. They hate the way passersby keep staring at them sitting on the floor. They dig the heel of their hands into their eyes for a moment to block out the world while trying to concentrate on speaking. “I thought I saw The Phoenix Witch. And I thought she was here to take our souls.”  

“Oh ok,” is all Ghoul replies with, seemingly too stunned to come up with a longer answer. Once Party peels their clammy hands away from their face, they can see he’s got a frown on his face and keeps glancing around, clearly hoping Jet and Kobra will show up with a better idea of what to do. 

Poison knows they and Ghoul aren’t together. No matter the butterflies or the sparks or whatever the poets call that feeling when someone makes you feel giddy and comforted at the same time. But Poison needs Ghoul right now, even after that sweltering late-spring evening on the diner roof, so they reach out their hands, palms up, in a silent question. 

And he answers the question without hesitation, holding Poison’s hands in his own. Poison watches the chipped black polish on his nails and the inked lettering on the back of his sturdy fingers as he brushes his thumb across their knuckles. Slowly, Poison feels their breathing return to normal. The gasping for air becomes deep steady inhales, and the tightness below their ribs unwinds. 

“I thought I saw The Phoenix Witch,” Poison starts. Ghoul glaces up at them. His eyes are the same pale green as wild mountain sage. “Because I keep having dreams we were all supposed to die.” 

Ghoul’s eyebrows crease, and he opens his mouth to reply. But then Jet and Kobra are bursting around the corner, led by The Girl. They all look winded and a bit panicked. Poison feels a rush of relief. Even if the whole incident wasn’t the real Phoenix Witch, they needed the visual confirmation to assure themselves the other half of their crew hadn’t been snatched. 

“Oh Destroya, you’re in one piece,” pants Kobra, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees. “Girly made it sound like you were dying a horribly painful death.” 

“Did not!” she protests loudly. 

Jet looks serious as a summer storm. Her eyepatch does nothing to hide her focused worry. She places the back of her hand on Poison’s forehead, then presses her fingers to the pulse point on their neck. She hums disapprovingly. “Was it a panic attack?” she inquires softly. Poison can only nod and look at the smile lines in Jet’s cheeks, too ashamed to make clear eye contact. It was just a kid in a mask. “That’s alright,” she assures, light as a breeze, as if it’s not fucking ridiculous the fearless leader of the Fabusous 4, the most dangerous band of killjoys in the world, is sitting on the floor of a public market because someone danced around in a mask. 

Jet nods at Ghoul to give the all clear, and still holding hands, Ghoul helps Poison return to their feet. Hesitant to let go, Ghoul lingers by their side in case they start wobbling again. “Ok, we’ve had enough excitement for today,” Jet declares to the group. “We’re gonna go home.” Poison wishes they had the energy to argue, but damn does getting out of this crowded market sound like an amazing idea. 

They make it all the way out to the car before anyone pipes up. In his best attempt at patience, Kobra asks, “Can I at least go back inside to finish the errands?” He’s holding a single bottle of rubbing alcohol and exactly no new bike parts. 

“No please,” Poison begs. The words burst from behind their lips before they can disguise their desperation. They can’t lose sight of their brother, not when they thought for a moment they saw the goddess of death about to snatch him away. 

“Hey, he won’t go back.” Jet quickly jumps in to soothe Poison’s spike of panic. “We’re just gonna head home, yeah?” She shoots a glare Kobra’s way. Poison forces down the shame in their throat. It tastes like motion sickness. 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Poison sighs heavily, heading for the driver’s side door. 

“Absolutely not,” objects Jet. She already has a hand out to block Poison’s way and get her own body between them and the driver’s seat. 

“But I dr-” 

“Not today” 

Poison can only nod in defeat while feeling the burning shame spread from their throat to their cheeks. The Girl opens the passenger door for them, saying something about the fresh air up front helping them. “Appreciate it,” they mumble genuinely. Poison sinks into the seat, leaning their head back against the car’s headrest. Ghoul leans across the center console to place a hand on Poison’s shoulder. He softly rubs his thumb up and down a few times on their warm skin before retreating.  

“Thanks,” Poison mouths. Ghoul gives a small smile and nod. Jet and The Girl are already deep in conversation about the books she wanted from the crate she was looking through. Kobra starts the car’s ignition to take them all home. 

Chapter Text

That night, Poison dreams of the incident in the market all over again. 

Their hand brushes the top of the comic book when a glint of white catches their eye on the right side periphery of their vision. They turn to see Her standing there. There’s no mistake this time. 

The Witch is still as stone in the center of the market floor, the bustling crowd parting around Her like a gentle river. She’s unnaturally tall, easily a head above even the tallest killjoy. The outline of her Her pale mask contrasts starkly against Her inky feathered hood. She makes her way forward languidly, and Her cloak shimmers iridescent as an oil slick. Her bird claw feet click with each step on the concrete floor. 

Poison grabs Ghoul’s wrist and shakes him. “Ghoul, Ghoul, we have to go!” they scream. “The Witch is here. She’s caught up to us.” 

But this time, Ghoul doesn’t seem to care. “Uh huh,” he replies nonchalantly, easily slipping out of Poison’s death grip on his arm. 

“No, Ghoul! She’s here! She’s going to ghost us all,” Poison insists. “We have to go, please please. Please trust me, it’s real this time!” 

Ghoul doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead he calls, “Oh hey Girly, look at this,” holding up a novel with a red carousel horse on the cover. 

“What’s that?” she asks, looking up from her own browsing. 

Poison glances up again to see The Witch only yards away and getting closer. 

“No no no no, please.” They can feel their airway constricting all over again. All the panic is tingling like pins and needles in their hands and fingers. Poison presses their back to Ghoul’s shoulder, trying to place their own body between him and The Witch, but She’s already made it to the book vendor’s shop. She easily reaches over Poison to tap a single finger to the top of Ghoul’s head. 

He hits the floor as a dead weight. His eyes stare into nowhere. His mouth is agape, but there’s no breath leaving or arriving in his chest. 

The crowd screams and pushes away from the bookseller’s stand and the suddenly dead killjoy. Poison wants to drop to their knees, cup Ghoul’s face, beg him to wake up, but their body is already running to reach The Girl, parental instinct replacing the blood in their veins. She’s standing frozen, clutching a picture book to her chest. She looks like a toddler again, the same age as when she first saw the Fabulous 4 clap with Dracs, suddenly understanding the world is violent but unable to defend herself against it. 

Poison has to get to her. They have to carry her away to go find Kobra and Jet. They have to save the rest of their family. Then Poison trips over the fucking book Ghoul had been holding, the one with the red carousel horse on the cover. Their palms scrape the ground as they pitch forward and land hard on their hands and knees. 

The Witch has already reached The Girl. She carefully places a single finger on her head, as if to make a ripple in a glass of water. Girly’s eyelids flutter shut. Her knees lose all ability to keep her upright. Her head slumps to her shoulder as she collapses. Poison is letting out an animal wail, and then- 

~~~~~~~~

Poison’s ear is pressed to the diner booth table. They can feel sweat slicking their cheek against the smooth plastic. Their feet ache in their boots from trying to pace the length of the dining room to work themselves into an exhaustion enough for dreamless sleep to whisk them away in a gentle riptide, but it had only succeeded in angering the blisters on their heels. They stare at the opposite wall and blink heavily. Sunset is illuminating the tile floor in a dusty orange haze. Poison tries not to think about how they also watched the sunrise this morning. 

They glance up when they hear bare feet padding towards them. It’s Ghoul. Much to Poison’s delight and dismay, he’s in sweatpants and a faded hoodie advertising a long-dead baseball team; he’s the epitome of cozy domestic bliss. “Hey,” he says quietly, stopping at the end of the table. 

“Hey yourself,” Poison replies, aiming for casual but coming off as cold. 

Ghoul takes a moment to blink and stuff his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to help me trim my bangs.” He rocks back on his heels. 

Poison takes in the sight of their crew mate. Ghoul’s hair is a shaggy bob ending in soft curls at his shoulders, but his bangs have grown to brush his cheeks. “Sure,” they smile up at Ghoul, hoping it reaches their eyes. For his credit, Ghoul grins back genuinely. The gagged scar on his cheek crinkles up. Poison peels themself off the sticky vinyl seat and heads to the back door with Ghoul following close behind. 

When the Fabulous 4 added a fifth member in The Girl, they had collectively decided they needed a permanent residence. Crashing in abandoned buildings didn’t provide the stability required to care for a baby. The diner and motel are so far on the outskirts of Zone 6 that Dracs and Battery City pigs are rarely ever in the area. The diner facing the street acts as the crew’s kitchen, dining room, and storage space while the five room motel a dozen yards behind it is each of their bedrooms. 

The diner and motel have become cluttered with personal artifacts from their trips on the road, and the walls are decorated with scuff marks from play fights and a few of The Girl’s finger paintings as a toddler. The crew has changed the diner as much as it’s changed them. Poison turns the knob to the back door and unconsciously knows to pull it open with a quick yank because the top of the door always gets caught on the ill-fitting door jam. They never stayed in one place long enough to know homey details about the broken down cars they slept in with Kobra or the patches of trees they hid from the sun under with Jet and Ghoul. 

Poison leads the walk to their room across the courtyard. “Sorry, I didn’t think I would be having company,” they offer as a lame joke. They kick a pair of shoes and smattering of loose pencils into a pile of other possessions as Ghoul follows them into the bedroom. The pair make their way to the bathroom tucked in the back of the motel suite. 

Ghoul plops down on the closed toilet lid while Poison bends down to retrieve their hair cutting kit from below the sink. They unzip the bag on the vanity counter, taking inventory of their scissors and combs before picking up a loose razor blade. “The usual?” they ask, turning back to Ghoul. 

“You know me too well, just a feathered trim.” Ghoul nearly goes cross eyed watching Poison pick up a central lock of hair and twirl it between their fingers. Poison wishes he wasn’t so damn endearing all the damn time; it would be easier on their cardiovascular system. 

Poison has gotten most of the way through the haircut when Ghoul decides to ruin it by talking. They are holding the outermost pieces of bangs in their hands to measure for evenness before trimming when Ghoul says, “Jet told me you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

“Narc”  

“I’m serious, Party. She worries about you. And after yesterday’s trip to the market, we all do.” 

“Did she tell you why I’m not sleeping?” 

“No,” Ghoul folds his hands in his lap, suddenly timid. “She said it’s something you should explain.” 

Poison sighs. They have to consciously let the air out slowly instead of in a single frustrated huff. They tell Ghoul what they had told Jet; the Fabulous 4 and The Girl had all cheated death when they escaped BLI alive, and now it was going to catch up to them. Ghoul thinks for a minute before answering, “That sounds like a really shitty sci-fi plot. I don’t think there’s any gods or fates out to get us any more than the average Scarecrow.” 

“No, none of you are believing me when I say something is fucking wrong ,” they reply sharply, scraping the razor blade along Ghoul’s hair, watching the trimmings float to the bathroom floor. 

“I believe you think it’s The Witch, Party! I just think that the actual something wrong here is your mental state.” Ghoul’s got big empathetic eyes, but it doesn’t stop the sting of his words. 

Now Poison is fuming. “Oh! So you come to me to ask for a free haircut and then call me sick in the head!” They make another slash in Ghoul’s hair, but the blade slips too low, biting into the side of Poison’s left pointer finger. Bright red droplets of blood drip onto Ghoul’s sweatpants, and he stands up abruptly. 

“Oh shit!” Ghoul shouts. Then he’s searching around under the sink for something to stop the bleeding. His uneven bangs flutter in his face, loose trimmings sticking to his cheeks. 

A few more drops of blood hit the floor before Poison thinks to stick the wound in their mouth. “I’m fine, Ghoul. It’s not that deep,” they mumble around their bleeding finger. He stands up with a handful of cotton balls, but his shoulder brushes the hair cutting set on the vanity and it topples over. Scissors, combs, and more razors hit the floor and scatter with metallic clinks. A comb skitters away to hide in the dark recesses below the vanity. Ghoul stands still in the mess of tools, hair trippings, and blood, still holding the cotton balls.   

“I’m fine,” Poison spits again. “Now get the fuck out of my room.” 

Ghoul can only shuffle out and leave Poison alone in their disaster.  

Chapter Text

Poison is still attempting to pick up the last traces of Ghoul’s loose hair on the bathroom floor when there’s a soft knock on their motel door. They raise their head in surprise but stand, and their neck pops after hunching over for so long. Poison opens the door to a chilly breeze.

The sun has sunk below the horizon and is replaced by a fat bright moon, floating in the sky like a low hanging fruit, its cold light illuminating the cacti and sepia colored sand beyond the motel. The Girl is standing on the stoop outside the motel door. Barefoot in one of Kobra’s old shirts and her arms ridgid by her sides, her face is deadly serious. Poison opens the door wider. 

“It’s late, Girly. Why are you up?” 

“I wanted to say sorry” 

“About what?” Poison inquires. They try to think back. Ghoul hadn’t mentioned anything was missing from his work bench, Poison couldn’t smell smoke, and the Trans Am still had all its tires last time they checked. 

“For telling Jet and Kobra you were dying yesterday,” she blurts out. “I know I kinda make things seem way bigger than they are. Well, I do, I know because I do y’all tell me it all the time, like that time with the bee on my leg and you told me to stop screaming but I wouldn’t stop screaming. But yesterday, I didn’t know what to do because you did seem like you were dying. Your knees were doing a kinda funny wiggly thing before you sat down. And I just wanted to make Jet and Kobra come fast when Ghoul told me to go get them. So I’m sorry about that, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.” 

Poison is stunned for a moment. “Motorbaby, I’m not upset. That’s not something you have to say sorry for.” 

Then The Girl’s chin wobbles. Poison bends down to quickly scoop her up into a hug. They feel her tiny frame shake in their hands, clearly trying to hold back the tears and failing. “Shh, it’s alright, girly. Shh, you did the right thing.” They rub circles into her back, and she grabs Poison’s shirt collar in clammy fists. There’s no parenting classes in the desert, but they always hope they're doing a decent job, at least better than the little affection and lots of discipline they and Kobra received as kids in Batt City. But here their baby is apologizing for being a scared child. Maybe Poison is a fuck up of a parent? Maybe they should’ve tried harder to wrestle down the panic attack so it wouldn’t scare their family? Maybe they should never be trusted to care for The Girl’s emotional welling again? 

Poison pulls back a little. They tilt up The Girl’s chin. Tears roll down her reddened cheeks, and her eyelashes stick together in clumps. “Hey, thank you. Thank you for getting Jet and Kobra. You really helped me out.” Poison tucks a stray lock of curly chestnut hair behind her ear. 

She sniffles and dives back into Poison’s embrace for another hug. Then she asks, “What happened at the market?” Poison keeps holding her tight against their chest, rocking a bit, hoping she won’t look up to watch the hesitation flicker across their face. How do you explain a panic attack over mistaking a teenager in a mask for the goddess of souls arriving to take your loved one’s lives? How do you explain that surviving BLI by the skin of your teeth fries your brain cells in irreparable ways? How do you explain your own human fallibilities to your child? 

“Uh . . . well. I saw someone wearing a really scary mask, and it made me so scared that I had to sit down for a bit.” Then they add on, “I’m sorry to have made you worry over something so silly.” 

“Oh,” The Girl blinks up at them with her big puppy dog eyes. Poison would swear the habit rubbed off on her from Ghoul. “That’s alright. I’m glad you sat down when you needed to.” 

“Thank you,” Poison feels prickles in their nose moving back towards their eyes, so they blink hard and muster forward. “Is there anything else you wanna talk about before you go to bed?” 

The Girl glances down at the motel room’s concrete front step. “Could I sleep in your room tonight?” 

Poison’s mind flashes back to all their sleepless nights over the past 6 months. Nights pacing, cursing, tossing and turning. “I don’t know, Girly . . . If I get up earlier than you, I don’t want to wake you up.” 

“It’s fine! You know Jet always says I sleep like a log.” 

“She’s not wrong.” The Girl had fallen asleep across the backseat of the Trans Am while driving over potholes and gravel roads too many times to count. 

“And I -” The Girl shuffles her feet anxiously. “I want to make sure you don’t get scared again and need me to get someone for you.” 

How can Poison deny her? Why did they ever imagine they could? 

“Alright, sleepover it is.” 

Her entire face lights up like they had promised to snatch the moon and all the stars in the sky just for her. “Yessss! Let me go grab my stuff from my room.” She takes off across the towards her own motel room to fetch her belongings. Poison walks back into the bathroom to finish where they left off cleaning. 

The Girl returns in a clamorous rustling of fabric, throwing her purple blanket and faded butterfly print pillow down on the thin mattress of Poison’s bed and then hovering in the door frame between bedroom and bathroom. “Whatcha doing?” She’s fully returned to her normal nosy personality, no hint of the previous apology or distress on her face. Her stuffed plush lizard is tucked under her arm. 

“Just cleaning up ‘cause I gave Ghoul a haircut,” Poison stands up to brush the last bit of hair out of their hand into the trash can. 

“He likes you a lot” 

“What’s that?” Poison’s heart skips several beats like a motorcycle burning rubber in desert dust. They had been trying desperately to hide the residual tension between them and Ghoul from the rest of the crew, but they knew the sudden transition from overly friendly to eerily distant after the incident on the roof wasn’t fooling any of the other adults. Jet would follow their gaze as they longingly watched Ghoul from across a room, and Kobra would grunt in frustration at the new diner booth seating arrangement where Ghoul’s knobby elbows would knock into Kobra’s long limbs, but neither of them had questioned Poison about it directly. The Girl hadn’t seemed to notice or at least mention any of the changes. 

“Ghoul likes you a lot. It took us forever to find these stars.” Poison glaces up at the bedroom ceiling where the glow in the dark stars are still shining. “Everytime we went to the market last summer, he would look real hard for the stars. He said you told him that you and Kobra had them on your ceiling when you were growing up in the city. He thought it’d nice to get you some.” Poison can only stand there, loose dark hairs still stuck to the palm of their hand, unsure what to do with this new information of Ghoul’s quiet dedication to their happiness. Then The Girl is already changing the subject, “Could you give me a haircut tomorrow?”

Poison breathes in deeply through their nose, recentering their focus on their surroundings, dismissing flashes of a cursive tattoo, a calloused hand, a high breathy laugh. “Sure thing, motorbaby.” 

The Girl seems to fall asleep the second her head hits the pillow, breathing through parted lips and sleep shirt already twisted around her torso. In the darkness of the bedroom, illuminated only by the artificial green light of the plastic stars, Poison lays flat on their back. They can’t keep doing this; they can’t keep barely outrunning death. The incident at the market was just a coincidence. The sunovabitch Witch was still out there. If death was going to catch up with the Fabulous 4, then Party Poison was going to make sure the Fabulous 4 would be prepared to cheat it once again. They love this crew too much to let it go without fighting tooth and nail like a rabid animal. The Girl rolls over and mumbles in her sleep. It only stings a little that their family doesn’t trust them to know what’s wrong. 

Chapter Text

To his credit, Kobra had been hiding it well, but he was never going to get anything past his sibling. 

It’s about two weeks after the incident at the market when Poison is stirred awake by the muffled sound of Kobra coughing from the other side of their bedroom wall. Poison slowly floats back to consciousness and uses a blunt finger nail to scrub away the sleep crusted to the inner corners of their eyes. Poison’s sheets have mostly fallen off of them and are wrapped around their ankles at the foot of the bed. They must’ve had another bad dream, but they can’t remember it right now. Kobra hacks out a few more strained coughs. 

The few days before, Poison remembers their little brother clearing his throat often but had shaken it off as caused by the pollen floating in the dry desert air. Kobra has always been more sensitive to changes in the weather, catching summer fevers and winter chills even as an adult. Now Poison sits up against their headboard and scolds themself. They were still trying to relentlessly look out for any danger headed for the Fabulous Four. They couldn’t brush off anything anymore, not even seasonal sicknesses. It’s their responsibility to be the watchdog, the final defense between their crew and death. They have to be ready to tend to their crew at any time. 

Poison reaches a hand above their head and softly taps on the bedroom wall separating their space from Kobra’s. A few seconds of pause before Kobra calls out, “I’m fine, Party. Go back to sleep.” But he can barely finish the sentence before he has to pull air into his lungs to cough again. It trails off in a high-pitched wheeze. 

Poison swings their legs over the side of the mattress, slips on their tattered tennis shoes, and opens the motel door to greet the blackened sky like they had every other sleepless night for countless nights before. But this time, the first in a long time, they hadn’t woken up because their dreams shook them awake. Instead, they can stride to the diner with purpose and clear direction. They retrieve Kobra’s favorite plastic cup from the kitchen shelves, the one with the big eared cartoon mouse, and fill it with cool water to the brim. They return across the crunching gravel of the courtyard between the diner and motel, carefully keeping the cup steady, and knock at Kobra’s bedroom door. 

Poison doesn’t hear any rustling from Kobra’s room. They knock again and forcefully whisper, “Open up, gear head. I got you water.” This time, there’s a shuffle, and Kobra’s face appears as he cracks the door open a few inches. His extra thick quilted blanket usually reserved for winter months is wrapped all the way around himself, leaving only his face and ears exposed, which stick out from the sides of his head like cactus pads. 

“Here, take it,” Poison pushes the glass of water through the gap in the doorway. Kobra’s mass of blanket shifts around until a hand snakes out to retrieve the cup.

“Thanks,” Kobra’s voice is a hoarse croak. 

“Anything else I can get you?” 

Kobra has to duck his head behind the door to work through another coughing fit, this one also ending with a high-pitched wavering inhale. “Maybe tea? In a few hours, when I’m actually awake?” Poison promises to make tea, watches Kobra meander back into his bedroom, and closes the door softly. 

There’s no point in Poison going back to sleep now that they’re already awake, and this is a perfect opportunity to get ahead of the infection before the other killjoys start their day accidentally spreading the illness to each other. Maybe Poison’s shoulders ache from the tension they keep in their neck and maybe their hair is greasy from running worried hands through it repetitively, but they finally have clear directions on how to save their family from this latest threat. At last there’s something they can do besides let the lurking fear of the future rattle around in their brain. 

By the time the sunrise is pinkish on the horizon, Poison has sanitized every tabletop surface and vinyl chair cushion in the diner with bleach. When Jet yawning wide strolls into the diner, Poison is sitting at the booth wiping down every dish in the kitchen with a rubbing alcohol soaked cloth rag. Every plate, bowl, and utensil is stacked on the small plastic table. Jet is used to finding them already in the diner before dawn more mornings than not, but she seems surprised by the sheer amount of kitchenware pulled out of the cabinets, eyebrows tilting up towards her hairline. Her eyepatch is missing, exposing her bloodshot right eye to the world. 

“How’s it going?” she inquires softly. She reaches for a coffee mug, but Poison slides a clean one across the table to her before she can interfere with their precisely arranged piles. 

“Peachy,” Poison doesn’t bother looking up from the spoon they’re cleaning. 

“I thought Kobra did an alright job doing the dishes after dinner last night,” Jet jokes lightly.

“That’s kinda the problem. He’s got a cough, the one that makes you suck in air after each coughing fit. So I’m redoing all the dishes, just to be safe.” They drop the spoon in their hand into the clean pile, tip the alcohol bottle to dab a bit more liquid onto the rag, and reach for another utensil. 

“I thought kids from the City couldn’t get that illness.” 

Poison finally looks up from their task. Of course everyone in the zones knew Party Poison and Kobra Kid escaped from Battery City as scrawny teens, but of course everyone in the zones also knew not to talk about the City with any of its survivors. Common courtesy to not pry at a killjoy’s past. 

“Yeah, we got the shots, but it’s not a guarantee. It helps prevent getting sick and makes it less severe if you do get it, but not impossible.” Poison has tried their very best to forget their years living like a caged animal inside Batt City, but they also forget desert-born killjoys don’t know the details of what it was like to grow up under BLI. “I mean, I’m glad we got them, but the actual shot was hell,” Poison loses awareness of the world around them, gaze unfocused on their reflection in the spoon. “My mom had to pin me down so the nurses could reach my arm with the syringe. I think all my squirming made it hurt worse . . . Fuck, I hate needles.” They shake their head in disgust and set down the spoon. 

Jet considers Poison with her uneven eyes. The injured one is already starting to water from the light sensitivity of the rising sun. Her right hand crawls up her opposite arm to brush over the blueish black ink above her inner elbow. While swapping stories in the first year of being a crew, Poison had learned it was the initials of a lover from many years earlier. “Is that why you haven’t got any tattoos?” Her gaze wanders over their bare skin. 

“Yeah, guess so,” Poison lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t wanna relive the trauma.” 

“But Kobra’s got some, what happened there?” Jest asks quietly, leaning a hip against the diner table and facing Poison with her arms casually crossed. She really is a mother hen sometimes. 

“Well, he’s always been the braver one. I guess it probably helped that I was there too during his shots in the City, squeezed his hand and told him to hold still so it wouldn’t hurt as bad. You know, typical sibling stuff.” 

“I don’t know about that, Party,” A toothy grin crinkles her face up. “When I was a motor baby, my older sisters were real dust devils. They would play hide and seek but not come look for me, or insist it didn’t actually hurt while they were brushing the knots out of my hair. I think your dirty little secret is you’re just a good sibling.” Jet uses her wide hand to swoop back all the red hair from Poison’s forehead in one smooth motion and presses a comically loud kiss to their temple, making a wet smacking sound on the release.

Poison can’t stop the delighted giggle that bursts from their chest, even as they raise their arms to playfully shoo Jet Star away. This is how it should always be with their crew. These are the moments they cherish dearly and play like a film reel on the back of their eyelids when they can’t fall asleep. These moments are warm and soothing as the fresh cup of instant coffee Jet places on the edge of the table for them a few minutes later, still careful not to disturb the sanitized dishes. These moments are why The Witch is going to have to try harder if She wants to take this all away from Poison.

Chapter Text

The following weeks of Kobra’s illness pass by in a blur like the Trans Am rip roaring by clusters of Joshua Trees. Poison loses themself in a cyclical to-do list of sanitizing dishes, wiping down every frequently touched surface, washing Kobra’s sweat soaked bed sheets, and otherwise disinfecting anything that trades hands from Kobra back to the crew. Poison is determined to keep the cough from spreading to any of the other killjoys, and the fear of one of the non-vaccinated killjoys contracting the it leaves their lungs gasping for air as if it’s already gotten to them. Even as the workload keeps them in perpetual fearful motion, for once, they feel useful and able to do something to keep the Witch’s wish for death at bay. Fuck that old bird anyway. 

It’s also a full time job to keep The Girl away from Kobra’s motel room. Now that he’s off limits, he’s the only thing she’s interested in. Poison had caught her on more than one occasion trying to stack plastic lawn chairs as a make-shift ladder to peer into his bedroom window. Since keeping her away completely is backfiring, the other killjoys supervise visits between Kobra and The Girl. She sits in the doorway to his room, not any closer, and is allowed to talk to him from there. She tells him all about the orange butterfly she saw drinking from a desert blossom, how she had toast with Power Pup for breakfast, and that they should build the world’s longest hopscotch game when he feels better. Kobra sits up against his headboard and nods along with a slight smile on his face. When Poison tells The Girl it’s finally time for lunch and closes the bedroom door behind them, they can hear Kobra finally hacking out all the coughs he’s been keeping hidden from The Girl’s line of sight and gasping for air like his lungs have holes in them. 

Poison has similar talks with Kobra after the sun sets. They make sure anything Kobra has touched is soaking in a tub of cleaning solutions, The Girl is being read to by Jet in her bedroom, and Ghoul is working on one of his explosives projects in the detached garage. Then they check again. Then maybe again. Because did Kobra touch that spoon on the counter and Poison left it out by accident? Better to be safe than sorry. So they put it in the chemical bucket with the other utensils and wipe down the counter again and scrub under their fingernails with bleach until the skin is peeling. After that final round of cleaning, Poison rationalizes they spent a long time in the kitchen, so now they need to check if everyone else is still where they last saw them. Then Poison can finally sit down to chat with their brother. 

They always ask how he’s feeling, even if he only gives them a shrug in response. Both shoulders means it’s actually been a better day and the cough isn’t taking too much of a toll on his energy. One shoulder means he’s in pain but doesn’t want to be babied. The worst days are when Kobra gives the smallest shake of his head. Those are the days when Kobra can’t keep the coughs away while The Girl sits in his doorway, and she has to be ushered away early to give him some space. He hacks up thick yellow bile until tears escape the corners of his eyes and he has to stumble to the bathroom to quietly throw up from the pain. All Poison can do is gently rub circles across his back and insist he drink a few sips of the tea Jet brewed for him. Then they soak their bare hands in the chemical tub so they don’t infect anyone else. 

The moon is thin as a blade of grass tonight. Kobra had a disjointed day, swinging between clearly ill to almost no symptoms and back. He started by covering his head with his quilt and refusing to even try to drink the glass of water Poison shoved at him, but he had enough energy after lunch to have an animated conversation with The Girl about their hopscotch aspirations. Now he’s almost sleep-deprived drunk, so tired from coughing that he’s become loopy but needing to clear his throat so often it prevents him from falling asleep. 

Kobra rolls over to face Poison in their chair next to his bedside. Poison looks up from picking at the peeling skin around their nail beds. Instead of chewing their nails, their new restless habit is biting the dead skin shedding from their fingertips. Sometimes they pick off a bit too much and expose the raw second layer of skin below the dead one, but that quickly dies in the bleach and also begins to slough off their body. 

Kobra watches Poison’s hands for a moment and the bad luck beads dangling from their wrist before he starts, “Do you remember the school nurse? From the city?” The words crackle out of his sore throat. 

The question catches Poison off guard. They snort, “Yes, of course. You were in there so often she had memorized your first, last, and even middle name.” 

Kobra’s eyes return to staring at the ceiling, “What do you think she’s doing now?” 

“Tending to some other punk with asthma probably. I don’t know, why?”  

A faint smile touches Kobra’s lips, the kind reserved for sibling inside jokes. He coughs again and lets a beat hang in the air before continuing, “What do you think Mom is doing?”  

Poison feels their entire physicality change. Their shoulders draw up and in, their eyebrows scrunch together in a glare, and they trip over their words. “I - It doesn’t matter.”  

Kobra sighs, “Dad’s probably gone. He already had that heart condition before I was born.”  

“Yeah, probably.”  

Kobra continues, “I wonder what she would think of us now. A pair of good for nothing killjoys, her worst nightmare.”

Poison snaps back, “That woman wasn’t our mother. I don’t know how she could– Now that we have The Girl, I don’t understand –” They have to stand to allow a deep inhale of oxygen to reach their brain before they say something they can’t take back. They cross their arms tightly across their chest. “She didn’t act like any mother I want to claim as my own. I mean, fuck , this desert has shown us more tender loving care than her.” 

They fiddle with the charm at the end of their bad luck beads and lower their voice back to a suitable level for addressing their sick kid brother . “We raised ourselves and each other, Kobes. Don’t waste any time thinking of yourself as her son because she didn’t use her time with us to be a mother.” 

Kobra looks up through his sand-colored lashes and nods. There might be tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, but Poison will let him have his moment in privacy if that's what he needs. Poison rearranges the pillows behind his head so he can comfortably fall asleep at an inclined angle. They collect a few stray comic books off the floor and return them to the stacks on Kobra’s bedside table. Poison watches their brother settle back into the bed and then closes the bedroom door with a final good night. 

Despite the weariness dragging at their bones like a tranquilizer, Poison is sure to make their final inspection of the diner before heading to bed. Jet and The Girl are together in the motel, Ghoul is in his garage workshop, the kitchen is clean, they clean the kitchen again anyway, Jet is tucking The Girl into bed, Ghoul is putting away his toolbox to also turn in for the night. They flick off the diner lights, and they imagine the building itself has fallen asleep.  

At last in their room, Poison’s boots haven’t even left their feet when they flop down on their mattress. Instead, they kick off their shoes and white jeans without getting up, throwing the clothes to the floor in the dark. They wriggle out of their undershirt and opt to spend the night in that day’s boxers and oversized tee. 

The edges of their consciousness are growing dark and fluttering like a moth's wings. The pillow beneath their cheek is soothingly cool. They did it, they protected their family another day. They were on top of it. They finally deserve this night’s rest. And there’s a soft rumbling static noise accompanying the surrender to sleep. The sound is almost like the Trans Am’s purring engine. 

But then the static is morphing. It’s becoming wetter and uneven. It’s coming in gargling spurts. The noise is coming from the other side of the bedroom wall. 

Kobra is choking. 

Poison leaps from bed, knocking their sheets and pillow to the floor. They take sprinting strides to throw open their bedroom door, pivot sharply barefoot in the gravel, and throw open their brother’s door. 

The bang of the door slamming into the wall makes Kobra shoot upright fast as a laser beam. He lets out a short scream of surprise and dissolves into a coughing fit. Poison falls to their knees beside him and grabs his face to scan for signs of choking. He keeps coughing and sucking in air in high-pitched wheezes but is clearly getting breath into his throat and not at all choking.  

Jet Star is next to burst through the doorway. She’s a flurry of tan limbs and auburn curls, entering the room raygun first. Her head snaps between Kobra sitting up in bed, Poison kneeling on the floor, and every corner of the bedroom, searching for the source of the emergency. 

Ruffled dark hair abruptly appears over Jet’s right shoulder. Ghoul whips his head back and forth like Jet did to find out why Kobra screamed, but without any immediate danger, he ducks back out of the room. Poison watches his silhouette jog past Kobra’s window in the direction of The Girl’s room, presumably to check her safety and to soothe her fears. Tomorrow he’ll have to explain Party Poison, fearless leader of the Fabulous 4 killjoys, has hit rock bottom of insanity. 

“Explain what the fuck is going on,” Jet snaps.  

The words are stuck in Poison’s throat, vocal cords as useless as if they are the one choking. Only sounds that resemble the beginning of sentences are tumbling out, “I heard–  It was–  Kobra, he–” 

All this time, Kobra is still in the depths of a coughing spell. He’s nearly doubled over and a thin shimmer of drool is tracing down his chin. 

Jet firmly but not aggressively takes Poison by the shoulders. She guides them up off the floor, across the room and outside the motel. The pair take a few steps away from Kobra’s door into the gravel courtyard. “Party,” she draws in a measured breath through her nostrils, “go to sleep. I’ll take care of this.” The moon is still pale and thin as paper. Poison schools their face into neutrality, nods, and forces their feet to carry them back to their own bedroom.  

They collapse next to their bed, distantly feeling their spine smack against the edge of the metal frame. Poison grips their knees to their chest. They nibble at the peeling skin of their thumb and feel the dead flesh split open beneath their teeth. They pull at it, creating a wound from fingertip down to the first knuckle. The skin seeps clear liquid. They stick their thumb in their mouth and feel the bitter taste of residual bleach hit their tongue. 

The visions of the killjoys’ deaths have slithered from the dreaming world into the waking one. 

It’s a fucking curse. The shame running through their blood yet the inability to bleed themselves of the source. Despite how deeply they want to, Poison still can’t shake the feeling they all cheated death. It’s destroying them slowly, and they in turn are destroying their family. 

Chapter Text

A single turkey vulture drifts in lazy circles over the flat expanse of gold desert. She never flaps her wings, simply carried by the upward drafts of hot air wafting off the sand. Her ivory and umber feathers contrast against the cloudless sky. Poison thinks about all the illustrations of vultures circling over lonely cowboys they saw in picture books as a kid. 

Poison’s always wondered what it would be like to have wings. They would fly in ever widening loops around the diner to survey for any killjoys or ‘crows driving across the roads toward their crew. It would be wicked as hell to drop like a rocket from the sky and at the last minute spread their wings wide to snatch a mouse from its burrow before it even noticed anything was wrong. 

Kobra would be a deer, all observing brown eyes and long legs. Ghoul is a skunk because of his tendency to puff up when he’s mad and the time he shaved and bleached the sides of his head like skunk stripes. Jet is a bit harder, but Poison’s had time to think about it and settled on a bobcat. She has the same big paws and motherly instinct to keep her loved ones close. No doubt The Girl is a lizard with her ferocious bite and knack to wriggle out of sticky situations. 

There’s time to ponder all of this when Poison is riding Kobra’s motorbike at a rip roaring speed deep into Zone 3. Ghoul is perched on the bike behind them with his arms held tightly around their waist. His arms aren’t quite long enough to wrap all the way around Poison’s torso securely, so he’s gripping onto the pleather fabric of their cobalt Dead Pegasus jacket. 

This part of the zones transitions from flat sandy expanses into jagged red mountains. There are clusters of suburban homes tucked into the foothills, all sun bleached pale as bone. The pair speed past barren front yards, overturned garbage cans, and boarded up windows. Poison slows down significantly as they reach the road climbing up the mountain, and they begin to maneuver the bike around sharp turns that wind back on themselves around the rocky outcroppings. No one has repaired the asphalt since long before the Helium Wars, and there are large sections of road crumbling into oblivion down the cliff face. 

Poison feels Ghoul loosen one hand from their waist to twist around and look at the path behind them. They both have good reason to anxiously survey their surroundings. After an extended moment, Ghoul returns to wrap both arms around Poison's middle. He gives them an extra squeeze as reassurance and presses his helmeted forehead against their shoulder blade. They must be in the clear for now. 

Kobra’s coughing sickness never passed as they all had hoped it would. Instead, it sat around in his throat like a thistle thorn for weeks. His fever and coughing fits never truly broke; they would mellow down for a few hours or even days but always returned before Kobra could start to recover. Poison watched any hint of roundness disappear from his face and his ability to focus on holding a conversation grew hazy as his sore throat only allowed him to take a few bites of food before his pain outweighed his hunger. Poison could see the confusion in The Girl’s face when Kobra asked her the same question about her new boots twice in a day or couldn’t recall what they all had for breakfast that morning. 

Yesterday, Poison and Ghoul went back to the market. The corrugated steel building with its doors open wide loomed over Party in the way they imagined it would feel to stick your head in a lion’s jaws. Every hair on their arms and neck stood up so fast it was almost painful. But their need to ease their brother’s misery compelled them forward. Their legs seemed to lock up under them even as they tried to take confident sure-footed steps into the building. Poison assured themself the incident here had just been a teen in a white mask. Their dramatic reaction was a blemish on the reputation of the Fabulous 4 as a unit. How could they face a real life or death situation when they couldn’t face this false alarm? They rationalized this current discomfort with their knees threatening to buckle and skin turning clammy was a fair punishment for the embarrassment they had caused their family. 

Inside the market, the zone runner smugglers agreed to find the medicine Kobra needed to get better. In fact, they would even be able to deliver it as soon as tomorrow evening, for an extra fee of course. Poison doesn’t ask any questions about how they get the medication from Battery City. They know better than to ask. They don’t want to know if they’re stealing from someone else’s brother who needs it just as badly. It’s not like the runners would tell them anyway. 

Jet Star had scowled in frustration when she did the calculation that Poison would have to be the one to go on such a risky trip with Ghoul only days after their half-asleep hallucination of Kobra choking to death. She paced around the dinner and talked to herself under her breath but eventually agreed it was necessary. The trans am had to stay wherever Kobra and The Girl were in case they needed to make an emergency exit. Jet was inexperienced in driving Kobra’s motorcycle, especially on the hazardous mountain roads on the edge of Zone 3. She also couldn’t ride on the back of it with Ghoul driving because the difference in weight between her and Ghoul would throw the bike off balance while steering if she was sitting right on top of the back wheel. All she could do was give Poison and Ghoul a stern look that knitted her bushy brows together and tell the pair they were strictly forbidden from getting ghosted while out of her sight. Kobra waved them off through his bedroom window with his chewy star necklace between his teeth. 

Just as the zone runners had asked, Poison and Ghoul arrive at the designated outlook at sunset. The spot used to be a small pull out off the side of the highway for tourists to watch the dying sun melt into the surrounding redrock hills, back when tourists existed and anyone had enough leisure to enjoy simple pleasures like a sunset. The road they had just ridden up was clearly visible below them, making sneaking up on anyone nearly impossible and the sound of their engine echo up the mountainside. Since there were no other landmarks as far as the eye could see, Scarecrows had no reason to patrol the area. The outlook at sunset was a designated zone runner rendezvous for a reason. 

Now that Poison and Ghoul had arrived, they only had to wait for the smugglers and their medication to do the same.  

~~~~~~~~

The sun barely remains as a sliver on the horizon when Poison throws their bike glove down on the dusty road. The runners had clearly stated to meet here at sunset. The last bit of tangerine colored daylight is quickly being replaced with an indigo evening, and there is no sign of anyone else for miles. 

Poison growls between their teeth as they tear off their other glove and launch it in the direction of the first one. Usually Ghoul is the impatient one, but he’s taken up post leaning against a lone gnarled oak tree, flicking his gaze between the road leading to the outlook and Poison pacing in agitated figure eights. The air hangs stagnant without a cooling breeze to soothe the furious flush heating up Poison’s face. 

They push the heel of both palms into their eye sockets and press as hard as they can. When they open their eyes again, black dots hover on the edge of their vision like airborne ash from a bonfire before fading within a few blinks. These stupid sunovabitch zone runners. This stupid waste of their time. Kobra’s stupid ass immune system. Ghoul watches them pace a few more laps out of the corner of his eye. 

Poison realizes they had absentmindedly been picking at the peeling skin on their hands when they are brought back to the present by a deep sting radiating down their right pinkie finger. They had peeled away healthy flesh instead of just the dead tissue, and a deep pocket of skin is missing from next to their nail bed. Poison pauses their pacing to watch cherry red blood fill in the divet. Ghoul’s head turns back in their direction at their sudden halt, so they wipe the blood away on the corner of their black t-shirt and go back to tracing figure eights. They don’t know if it’s the worry or they forgot to eat lunch or something else, but their stomach is also starting to cramp something awful. Their wounded finger continues to pulse. Destroya , they just want to lie down in their bed without hearing Kobra fighting for every breath from the other side of the wall or dreaming about it. 

Ghoul pushes off the tree and disheartenedly drags his feet over to the bike. He picks up his helmet and turns it over a few times between his hands. Poison knows he’s about to suggest they go home since this mission is clearly a wash. They can logically reason the absence of the zone runners has no connection to their own actions. The fuckers clearly travel as they please. Still, reasoning doesn’t stop the itch at the back of their brain that asks if this was caused by The Witch. Will She kill off the Fabulous Four with this strangling disease while the cure is pressed into pills only 100 miles away? Poison is overwhelmed with the urge to apologize to Ghoul for dragging them both this deep into Zone 3. They should have known The Witch in all Her revenge would disrupt their plans. 

But both their heads perk up at the sound of an engine rumbling up the rocky mountain road. 

The pair rush to the cliffedge and peer over. Sure enough, a black truck is climbing steadily up the winding path. If Poison squints, they can make out a crack running horizontally across the windshield glass. The defect seems so familiar they must recognize this truck from somewhere else, but no particular memory is bubbling up to the surface of their consciousness. 

It takes another 10 minutes for the pickup to reach the outlook where Poison and Ghoul are waiting. There’s no sun in the sky at all anymore. 

A butch woman with her hair shaved nearly to the skull jumps out of the vehicle from shotgun. She’s clearly a smuggler and not a killjoy from her nondescript clothing of tan work pants, a grey boxy shirt, and duffle bag slung over her shoulder, none of the items colorful or personalized in the slightest. The driver's side door opens, and brown leather boots step out onto the dusty road. The man wearing them is a bit shorter than average and stocky with greying sideburns, a circular face, and wide-set small eyes. He's similarly dressed in work pants and a stained probably-once white shirt. Poison is violently reminded of where they’ve seen this truck before. 

Poison would never say they were ashamed of how they earned money. There’s no shame in carrying enough credits in your pocket to pay for PowerPup and a few picture books from the market. Doesn’t mean they’re fond of their choices either, and they absolutely keep their work and family personas separate. Their crew knew about their late-night excursions with men they don’t bother to ask the name of, but they also know none of the details. 

They’d first met this zone runner probably a year ago in a dive bar serving lukewarm whiskey and sporting notoriously sticky floors. It hadn’t been bad the first time, so Poison had agreed to meet him again the next week. But every session after, he asked more of them and made a bigger show of reluctantly handing over the money. The smuggler never quite got rough enough for Poison to walk out on him, but they had decided they weren’t going to risk it happening by accepting his damp, pocket-warmed credits ever again. 

Everyone standing here at the rendezvous notices the tension in stages. Poison is first, shoulder muscles tensed up to their ears as if caught in one of their nightmares. The john is next, a cruel smile crawling across his features. Ghoul catches the look between them and shuffles half a step up to place himself as a barrier between Poison and the smuggler hungrily raking his eyes up their hunched body. The butch flicks her gaze between all of them and crosses her arms over her chest but doesn’t comment on any of it. 

smile crawling across his features. Ghoul catches the look between them and shuffles half a step up to place himself as a barrier between Poison and the smuggler hungrily raking his eyes up their hunched body. The butch flicks her gaze between all of them and crosses her arms over her chest but doesn’t comment on any of it. 

Ghoul is the first to say something, “So you got the medication we need?” 

The man seems annoyed that this pint-sized killjoy is pulling his attention away from Poison. His tongue darts out to wet the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I suppose. You got the money we need?” 

Ghoul reaches into the pocket of his cargo shorts and retrieves a drawstring bag of credit coins. The plastic coins inside click like poker chips. He opens the bag while keeping his gaze on the zone runners to be sure neither of them make a sudden lurch forward and snatch the pouch from his hands. He counts out about half the coins, passes the bag over to Poison, and takes a few steps forward to meet the smugglers halfway.  

The john also steps forward, hand outstretched. Ghoul shakes his head, “Show me the meds first.” 

“C’mon, you know I’m good for it.” His cold smile grows into a toothy grin. “Your pretty friend over there knows I always pay up.” 

There’s no space to breathe. Poison’s lungs have collapsed into nothing inside their chest, leaving a gaping emptiness. Maybe they should have some self respect or indignation in this instance, but the first idea rushing through their brain is the wish this confrontation could’ve happened while they were alone instead of making Ghoul witness this autopsy of their previous poor decisions. 

But Ghoul is puffing out his chest and throwing back his shoulders. He takes another step forward with an accusatory raised finger pointed right at the smuggler’s chest. “ The fuck did you just say? ” he spits out between gritted teeth. “You’re a sick fucking freak, ya know that? I’ll send you home in a body bag, motherfucker. Watch me!” The hand that isn’t pointing at the man wanders to hover next to his left hip where his green raygun is strapped to his thigh. 

At the sight of Ghoul potentially pulling out his weapon, the man quick draws his own raygun and aims it dead on at Ghoul’s forehead. “Make one more move and I’ll make ghosts of both you and the redhead. Watch me!” 

“Holy fuck,” the butch speaks for the first time. She seems frightened but not exactly shocked at the actions playing out before her. “For fuck’s sake, stop being a useless ass, and let’s just give them the meds.” 

The man keeps his weapon raised for three whole breaths before he lowers it to aim at the ground. He still doesn’t place his back in the holster. He barely turns his head but nods at the butch, and she swings her duffle bag around in front of her to dig through the contents. Only the muffled sound of items shifting within the bag fills the strained silence. Poison thinks they would be able to hear a rabbit sneeze a mile away in this awful quiet. 

No one makes a move until the woman retrieves an industrial orange pill bottle filled with rattling tablets. She underhand tosses it to Ghoul. In turn, he crouches to place a pile of credits at his feet and then backs away from them quickly. He and the butch share a single nod in acknowledgement the deal is finished. 

But the john’s feelings must still be hurt. “I could give you a discount if you’re willing to stick around,” he calls to Poison. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I could buy you a drink.” 

“No way, we’re out of here.” Ghoul herds Poison back in the direction of the bike. Poison fears their joints might now be made of nothing but dry brittle twigs, but they manage to get to the motorcycle without toppling over like a newborn baby deer. 

“ Cheap whore”  

As soon as the whispered insult leaves the zone runner’s lips, Ghoul spins so fast the red rock dust under his feet kicks up in a cloud. His hands are clenched into tight fists. Poison swears they hear him snarl like a feral creature. 

Poison thanks Destorya the fear in their body transforms from the kind that makes you freeze into the kind that makes you move. They reach out fast enough to grab the back of Ghoul’s jacket before he gets farther than a few steps away. They make fists in the fabric and yank Ghoul back towards him as hard as they can. His feet slip out from under him, and he lands hard, graceful as a sack of rocks, on the toes of Poison’s motorcycle boots. 

“You motherfuckers!” shouts the john. He’s got his raygun raised again at the pair of killjoys. 

In the process of snatching back Ghoul, Poison had dropped the drawstring bag of credits to the ground. They unfist one hand from Ghoul’s jacket and regain the pouch. Gripping it from the bottom, Poison flicks their hand holding the bag, flinging coins in a wide arc across the road. 

“There you go!” Poison shouts back. “Fucking have it if you’re so concerned I’m cheap.” They have to hope walking away with at least double the credits he expected to earn from this run is enough to convince the smuggler it’s not worth the trouble of shooting two of the most famous killjoys in the zones. 

They wrap both arms around Ghoul’s chest, right under his armpits, and hoist him back to standing. On his feet, Ghoul spits in the direction of both the zone runners and mutters more threats under his breath. But the man doesn’t have his weapon raised anymore, and the butch is crouched picking up the furthest coins. 

The john aims his words at Ghoul, “That’s right. Listen to your mistress, dog. I bet you’ll get it real good tonight if you behave.”   

Ghoul flails again in Poison’s arms, but they’re already back up towards the bike and dragging him along. They use one hand to pick up a helmet and roughly put it over Ghoul’s head. The determination leaves his body, and he reaches up to adjust the helmet. Poison puts on their own helmet, pushes Ghoul to swing his leg over the bike, and then follows suit, slotting into place between Ghoul and the handlebars. They don't kick off until Ghoul’s got his arms securely around their torso. 

Poison doesn’t pause the entire ride home. Maybe they drive a little faster than necessary, and maybe they lean into the corners a little deeper than necessary. Maybe they recite vile mantras about themself  a little harder than necessary. Once parked in the garage, Poison throws themself off the bike and marches inside, forgetting to take off their helmet until they’re already inside the diner filling a cup with tap water. Ghoul follows behind them and lingers from a distance. Poison can clearly watch the words forming in his head but dying on his tongue before he can start a conversation. 

They don’t think they’re mad at Ghoul, even if he was reckless in endangering them both with his indignant outbursts. Of course they’re mad at the john for being a sunovabitch . They’re even a bit mad at Kobra just for being so sick, but they know absolutely none of this is his choice. 

“I’m going to bed now,” they announce before Ghoul can find his conversational bearings. They leave the bike helmet on the counter and pull open the backdoor of the diner to the motel courtyard. 

“Hey, Party,” Ghoul’s concerned whisper is soft as a rabbit pelt. “Sleep well. Please let me know if you have dreams again.” 

Poison nods. They know the dreams will come again as they do every night, but hopefully they don’t have to dream of these events so soon. 

“And don’t believe anything that bastard said. He doesn’t deserve to have ever even met you.” 

Most of all, Poison is mad at themself. Just as they should have known The Witch would delay the zone runners, they should have known their occupation would come back to sink its teeth into them and their family. How soon will the details of this supply run get back to Jet? Will Ghoul tell their brother? They are watching all their confidence in themself circling the drain like the red water that bleeds from their hair after a fresh dye job. 

Poison nods again and lets the door fall closed behind them. 

Chapter Text

Their name is Party Poison afterall. Not even the madness of The Phoenix Witch is going to keep them away from a good party. So when Cherri Cola happens to roll by the diner just as the radio waves carry news of a true killjoy desert bash in Zone 5, nothing is stopping them. 

Cherri Cola had been passing through on a regular supply run for new music and new equipment for Dr. Death’s radio broadcast. He’d been on the road for days and eagerly agreed to babysit in exchange for a hot meal and a real mattress to sleep on tonight. Kobra, now mostly recovered from his illness but not enough to enjoy a party, will stay back with Cherri to maintain the Four’s strict rule of always sticking together in pairs of adults. 

Now JetStar is grilling meat and veggies over the motel courtyard’s central firepit while Cherri sits in a lawn chair with his hands flat on his knees to allow The Girl to painstakingly paint every fingernail a different color of the rainbow. Ghoul is crouched on a log stump next to Cherri and tearing into a bowl of roasted cactus pad and peppers, which Jet says her mother refers to as nopales . 

Poison watched all this from their open bedroom door while they tore apart their entire wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. After so long tucked away in this motel, picking their party attire filled their body with giddiness. They spent an hour the night before touching up the roots of their red hair dye; their fingertips and the back of their neck are stained crimson. Tonight in the haze of a drunken crowd, they can choose their disguise. Choose which kind of person they want to be for all these strangers on the dance floor. They need these other killjoys to give them the benefit of the doubt after their crew has so vividly seen all their flaws and their inability to be a sufficient guard dog against the world.When they finally emerge from their bedroom in fishnets, tiny shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, and a cropped compression top, they don’t miss the way Ghoul adjusts his pants and sets down his nopales bowl to cover his lap. 

After each one drops a kiss to the top of The Girl’s head, profusely thanks Cherri, and Poison crushes their kid brother in a bear hug from behind, the party-goers are off. Ghoul drives the Trans Am while trying to flip through the book of CDs, out loud debating with himself which one to pop into the stereo. Jet complains about his music selection but doesn’t put an ounce of fight behind her words. Poison is too busy in the back seat trying to time their makeup application with the potholes in the road so they don’t violently stab themself in the eye with a mascara wand. The contents of their makeup bag are scattered across the seats, and lipstick tubes keep rolling over the edge to the car floor. The setting sun washes the clouds in shades of blue and purple and pink. Poison feels a little lighter in this moment, a little more like a vulture circling the updrafts. 

Everyone notices when the Fabulous Four arrive. All eyes are on the white car with the spider scrawled on the hood pulling up in a plume of dust. As they step out of the car, the light of bonfires and neon LEDs reflect off the ruby red glitter Poison applied under their eyes  Here in a sea of strangers they can melt into the persona of their leadership role. Here they can be a beautiful blank canvas for every other killjoy to paint their best expectations into. Here they can be their name and nothing more. 

Jet immediately recognizes a group of tall women gathered together in impractically strappy dresses and jingling bangle bracelets. She pops the trunk to grab a few beers and runs over to join them. Poison calls after her, “Enjoy yourself, doll face!” and she blows them a kiss in return. Every woman takes their time to hug Jet fiercely and place lipstick kisses on her cheeks. One woman with pink hair leans in to tell Jet a joke, and Poison watches her throw her head back in laughter. They remember how she had ducked her chin to hide her Adam's apple for all the years they’ve known her until she felt brave enough to come out as herself to her family. Poison glows with pride for her and her transformation into herself. Beautiful butterfly of the desert. 

Ghoul and Poison lean against the hood of the Trans Am, still hot from the drive, and sip their own drinks while surveying the party. The makeshift parking lot is located on a short bluff overlooking the dance floor. A DJ booth has been established on a raiser and surrounded by speakers fueled by solar powered battery packs. Someone has hung strings of neon twinkle lights from the speakers to illuminate the dance floor in bright fluorescent shades. The outer edges of the party are marked by fire pits where groups of friends have gathered to smoke, trade gossip, or find someone to slip away into a dark corner with. By now, the sun has hidden from view for the night, leaving every party goer’s silhouette lit up with contrasting neons and gold fire light. 

Poison has always been embarrassingly lightweight when it came to alcohol, and they can already feel the pleasant buzz in their skull after only one can of soda with a slash of stiff liquor. They are nodding their head along to the beat blasting through the DJ’s speakers. The man behind the turntables is playing a good mix of slow and fast, old and new, poppy and moody. When Poison hears the start of a song they particularly love, one about a man sneaking into an old-timey peepshow, they leave their empty can on the hood to race into the crowd. 

The dancers around them shift to accommodate Poison’s new presence and include them in the sway of the crowd. Poison half closes their eyes to retreat into a dark, safe part of their mind. Here they exist simply within the moment. Here there is no need to incessantly make plans for the future or revisit events of the past like a carnivore worrying away a bone. Here they shed all their layers. 

A few more songs pass, and Poison gradually opens their eyes to appreciate the shifting technicolor cast on the surrounding dancers by the LED lights. They’ve become familiar with the people dancing next to them, particularly those who dance with their arms in the air at a height that could have their elbows hit them in the nose and those with shifting eyes seeking out a dance partner. A girl in a plaid skirt and pigtails several feet away keeps glancing in Poison’s direction but looking away and giggling with her friends every time they make eye contact. 

The music shifts into something slow and sensual, high backing vocals and thundering bass. Poison casually migrates through the surrounding dancers to get closer to the girl with the pigtails. She finally maintains eye contact with them before giving their body a long up and down. The good kind of shiver runs up from the base of Poison’s spine. 

Poison positions themself behind the girl, and she eagerly responds by pressing her back against their front. Her dancing has switched from jumping around to almost all swaying hip motions. The edge of her skirt swishes against Poison’s fishnetted thighs as she sways side to side. Her narrow shoulders lean back into them, and they can smell a faint trace of her sugary, probably bubblegum scented perfume. Poison tries to find a polite spot to put their hands and ends up lightly placing them over her hips, just enough to make contact but not become outright sexual.  

From the parking lot packed with motorcycles and cars, a silver flash catches Poison’s eye. They try to ignore it for a few moments, but it continues to make itself known. Poison gives in to glancing over. The round polished dog tag dangling from Ghoul’s choker catches the neon lights and reflects back onto the dance floor. He’s still sitting on the hood of the Trans Am where they left him. He intermittently fidgets with his lighter, the one Poison had painted his initials onto as a small birthday present the month before the clap in BLI headquarters. But mostly, Ghoul watches the dancing crowd with kicked puppy eyes. 

How can Poison deny him? Why did they ever imagine they could? 

In comparison to Ghoul’s inclusion in the fun of a killjoy party, this random girl’s satisfaction matters much less to Poison than it did a moment ago. They give her shoulder a squeeze to grab her attention and wave as they fade backwards into the cluster of dancers. Her lips quirk down in disappointment, but she turns back to her group of friends instead of trying to put up any kind of argument. Poison maneuvers through the throngs of people. Ghoul’s still shimmering choker is their North Star, guiding them back to him. 

Poison climbs up the rocky embankment, and Ghoul acts surprised to see them even though there’s no way he didn’t spot their bright red hair moving through the crowd towards him. They hold out both their hands to Ghoul, but he remains on the hood of the Trans Am and tilts his head quizzically at them. “C’mon, Ghouly, you gotta dance with me,” they insist. 

He shakes his head quickly. His shaggy hair ruffles around his face. “No no, I’m fine.” 

“Pleeeease,” Poison drags out the word like The Girl does when she wants a piggyback ride or bite of whatever the killjoy in front of her is eating. 

“I’m good right here, Party. I want you to enjoy yourself.” 

“But I want you to enjoy this dance with me.” Poison crowds into their crewmate’s space. Ghoul doesn’t tuck his hand into their back pocket like they would’ve expected him to six months ago. Their fight on the roof of the diner months ago is still affecting how Ghoul treats them. He’s closed off and cautious in ways he never was before. It’s on Poison to make every move forward, to assure him any ounce of touch is permitted. 

Poison leans in an inch from Ghoul’s ear and lets out an open-mouthed breath. “I want you to have fun, baby. I want to watch you dance.” Maybe the little bit of liquor circulating through their own veins is making them bolder, or maybe this is what they always wanted. This kind of closeness with Fun Ghoul.

He mutters a curse, something about Poison being a pain in the ass, but he still throws back the last of his drink and stands to join them hand in hand. They lead him back to the dance floor and into the fray of killjoys. 

Ghoul melts into Poison’s touch. His hands easily find Poison’s waist, and his pinky fingers possessively hook into the belt loops of their tiny shorts. He pulls their bodies close together, chest to chest. They can feel his body heat through their compression top. The motherfucker always runs hot. They gaze down at all his sunspots, neck tattoos, and freshly regrown eyebrows. Ghoul’s wide eyes and choker pendant shimmer in the neon lights. He’s never been more beautiful. 

In return, Poison’s body falls into a rhythm their mind wouldn’t dare let them explore if they were anywhere else besides this crush of bodies and music on a sweaty early-summer night. Their arms softly drape around his shoulders. They tilt their head to rest their cheek against Ghoul’s mop of black hair. He’s being a good sport about their height difference tonight. It’s just like the good old days. No Witch or death debt or balancing their brain on a razor blade. 

~~~~~~~~

They dance until their feet ache, magnitudes longer than Poison danced with the pigtails girl or even alone before joining her. After what must be over an hour, the blasting music is starting to feel abrasive in their ears. Their compression top is constricting their breathing. Worst of all, the jostle of sweaty dancers around them is starting to feel suffocating. A stray hand brushing their arm or a bump against their back is too reminiscent of the zone runner pushing their body around in the back of his truck during their last paid encounter.  

Ghoul notices Poison’s body eventually growing tense under his hands and their movements becoming less in tune with the music. He squints up at them, and they glance away from his openly concerned expression. Even the pink scar on his cheek crinkles with worry lines. Ghoul exaggerates his words in mouthing “You okay?” 

They shrug their shoulders and look away. They want Ghoul to keep having fun if he’s still in the mood to party. They don’t want their own troubles to upset their crewmates again. How many times have they already done it since the disaster in the market? Or even before then? 

Ghoul takes one of their hands and squeezes it. He seems to make the executive decision to lead them out of the crowd. Ghoul walks on his tiptoes to see over the shoulders of the other dancers and maneuver their way back in the direction of the Trans Am. 

He makes Poison sip lukewarm water from a plastic bottle, and the pair returns to sitting on the hood of the car like they had been when they first arrived at the party. From this distance, the music is subdued enough to have a conversation. Ghoul lets the silence hang for a bit. He’s playing with his lighter again, tumbling it over each knuckle. Poison knows the habit all too well of keeping your body moving to distract from the racing thoughts in your own head. 

Ghoul crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the dusty hood of the Trans Am, surely covering the back of his shirt in sandy grit. He gazes up at the night sky and sighs, “You know, I’m sorry about the whole zone runner thing. I should’ve said something sooner, defended you better, I don’t know. I’m so fucking sorry.” Poison wonders if Ghoul ever gets insomnia too. 

“It’s not your fault. Thanks for stepping in when you did.” They don’t know what they would’ve done next without him. 

“Are you feeling better now?” Ghoul turns his head over towards them. 

“Yeah, needed this breath of fresh air.”

“I know I already offered . . . but I’m still here if you want to tell me about what’s going on.” Ghoul seems to measure his words closely. “I know this desert isn’t very forgiving. We’ve all survived this long because we learned how to toughen up. But just know I’m here for you, we all are. So do you want to talk?” 

Ghouls eyes are wide and green as mountain sage. Poison wants to crawl inside them and sleep forever. But they remember pressing bloody bandages against the gash in his delicate face after the BLI clap while Ghoul tried so hard not to sob from pain. They remember the fright flickering across his features when they collapsed from their panic attack after thinking they saw The Witch. They remember his silhouette rushing to check on The Girl after Kobra screamed in surprise as Poison burst into his room. 

Party Poison has already placed too much on their crew and this man they love. They can’t place these heavy anchors drowning their brain in dread and terror on him too. So they just shake their head and gaze up at the faint stars. They seem lifeless and dull in comparison to the light in Ghoul’s eyes. 

“Here, I’ve got a little surprise I’ve been saving for the right moment.” Ghoul gets up off the hood and crosses around to the passenger side door. His shirt is covered in a thin layer of car dust. He kneels on the ground and sticks his entire arm up to the elbow under the seat. “I left it somewhere around here . . .” 

Suddenly, he springs to his feet, holding a small tan object in his raised hand. Poison gasps in surprise. While cigarettes are expensive but ultimately accessible, weed is a rare gem in the zones. You certainly have to know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. Ghoul is holding up an entire fresh joint like he won the lottery. 

“Are you sure you want to start that now? Not a more special time?” Poison disputes.  

“Any time with you is special,” Ghoul tosses out the words far too casually in comparison to the way it makes a gentle blush rise along Poison’s cheeks. “And we deserve to relax a little.” 

Ghoul holds the joint in his lips while flicking the lighter. He gets the flame to start a few times, but it goes out before he can sufficiently light the joint. Poison leans in to cup the flame. Their faces are so close. The pair make eye contact, grin, and look back down. The joint is finally lit, and Poison regretfully has to pull away. 

Ghoul takes a long drag and hands it over while blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth away from them. What a gentleman. 

The first time Poison ever tried to smoke anything was a single cigarette shared between 5 teens under the high school bleachers during lunch while still living in Battery City. One of the boys they shared it with said putting your mouth on a cigarette after someone else was the next closest thing to kissing. It's never felt more true than right now. 

Between the bonfires, the LED strings, the stars overhead, the cherry of the joint, the silver pendant hanging from Ghoul’s throat, and the familiar glint in his eyes, Poison notices how surrounded they are by beautiful lights. They hope they remember this moment for a long time. They sure are going to miss this when The Witch finally decides to steal their soul away.