Chapter Text
Emotions were hard.
Jet knew that, objectively. But he didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. Not the way cityborns did.
Sure, emotions were shit for everyone sometimes, and Jet was no exception to that. For cityborns, though, who’d been dosed up on BLI emotion suppressants from childhood well into their teenage years, it wasn’t as simple as dealing with the emotions themselves. To know what the hell to do with them, you first had to be able to correctly interpret what they even were. Something as simple as recognizing them — having the right name for them — was a struggle. Observing the rest of his crew grapple with the repercussions of BLI’s handiwork time and time again, Jet had never been so glad to be a desertborn.
And more often than not, they got it horribly wrong, and there wasn’t much Jet could do to help. Take Fun Ghoul, for instance, with his endless supply of black humor for inappropriate moments and a bad habit of succumbing to hysterical laughter whenever anything was going Costa Rica, even if he was the one who was writhing on the ground clutching a blaster wound or peppered with shrapnel from a detonation gone wrong. Kobra was no better off, poor kid; he was pretty closed off now, but early on, something as ordinary as experiencing happiness was so unfamiliar and scary it could send him into a panic attack because he didn’t understand what was happening to him.
Then there was Poison.
It was painful to watch sometimes how it took him hostage, possessed him. When he was amused he would laugh until he cried, or punch whoever was nearest in the arm so hard it bruised. When he was angry, you couldn’t shut him up until his voice was gone from screaming at you. Jet had never seen him sad, but, well, he’d heard him, because the diner wasn’t a very big place, and every time it happened it took every last ounce of Jet’s self-restraint to not tear down the doors between them and hold him, but he didn’t. Because he knew the last thing Poison wanted was for anyone to see him like that. Not even his brother; and especially not Jet. And truthfully, that part Jet could understand.
After an episode, Poison would be calmer and more laid-back for a while, but it rarely took much, or took long, to set him off again.
And regardless of how spent he was, he was never without that chip on his shoulder. Always at least half-daring, if not outright daring, anyone to knock it off.
Short-fused as Poison could be, what really hurt to watch was how completely unaware he was of his incapability to distinguish between different feelings and react accordingly. He had the emotional intelligence of a two-year-old and made it everyone else’s problem. Paired with Poison’s remarkable lack of physical boundaries, it certainly made Jet’s life more complicated.
Love and anger were a particularly difficult dichotomy for Poison to navigate, it seemed. More often than not, a fistfight he started would end with a makeout session rather than one of the involved individuals limping away bruised and bloodied.
It didn’t mean anything. Jet knew that. He saw the same trouble reversed in how Poison could easily rant for hours at his baby brother for doing something reckless, almost coming to the point of blows — completely unaware that he wasn’t truly angry at him, but afraid for him because he loved him.
Take Poison and Ghoul, for example. It was pretty much the same thing, if a little less brotherly. Okay, a lot less brotherly. They were notoriously close, able to switch in the blink of an eye from scuffling and screaming at each other to cuddling on the couch or sharing a blanket on cold nights or even outright smacking each others’ asses as part of some weird running joke they had. It wasn’t that Jet thought they were actually pastel for each other or anything. There was undeniably some sort of spark between them, though. They were compatible in a way that, so far, Jet was assured was platonic, but neither did he have any illusions that it would necessarily stay that way. Not even a week ago the two of them had been lounging despondently all over the diner, griping loudly that they were both out of cigs, until Kobra finally threw a joint at them from his stash to shut them up so he could finish soldering his motherboard in peace. Before long they were lolling on the dining room floor talking nonsense and giggling like a couple of schoolboys. Ghoul eventually whacked Poison for hogging the joint, so Poison just rolled over lazily to snag Ghoul’s jaw in his free hand and exhale his lungful directly into his mouth, practically kissing him, and Ghoul had just giggled and slung an arm around his waist and returned the favor when Poison finally relinquished the stub. They did shit like that all the time, and they usually didn’t even have to be high to do it.
Not actually kissing, though.
A kiss from Poison, Jet had observed over the years, was always a weapon. In one way or another.
Poison would suck face with any stranger who asked — or implied it, anyway. To distract, to disarm, as an acceptance of flattery. Or maybe just for the thrill of it.
The strange thing was, the rumors Poison’s many aspiring paramours spread seemed to be more than enough for him to retain his notoriety as a heartbreaker of formidable renown. (Which for some inconceivable reason appeared to be important to him.) But as far as Jet could tell, it was all smoke and mirrors. As cavalier as he was with his affection, that was, bafflingly, where he drew the line. Countless times when the crew’d been out at concerts or derbies or clubs Jet had seen him getting pulled toward a vacant sideroom or the back exit or someone’s dark car, and Poison would always smile that infamous smile of his and somehow make an elegant escape.
One late night at the Hyperthrust, Poison had caught Jet watching him as he carefully extracted himself from what Jet could only have described as some kind of motorbaby sandwich situation. He winked at Jet as he approached.
“Better than to overstay my welcome, ey?” Poison drawled in his ear — that soft, lazy drawl he acquired whenever he was more than a little buzzed — as he reached past Jet to retrieve the drink Jet was keeping an eye on for him, and laughed. It was as close a thing to an explanation as he’d ever offered.
Jet would swear that Poison’s apparent lack of boundaries didn’t bother him. And they didn’t, not exactly. Sure, Jet got yelled at by Poison as much as anyone (he was pretty sure his name was now officially Dammit, Jet). What nagged at him was how Poison seemed to actively avoid any gestures of platonic affection with Jet beyond the occasional shoulder slap or hair ruffle (the latter of which Jet obviously pretended to hate but secretly didn’t mind). He had to wonder why they weren’t as close — did Poison privately hate him or something? Resent him? Did Jet intimidate him?
Jet was resigned to the fact that he did come across as intimidating — the necessary addition of the eyepatch hadn’t helped with that — and sure, that public perception had its uses at times, but despite his deliberate efforts to never exert more force in his dealings with others than necessary, it still meant that more often than not, joys went scattering when he dared to so much as stand up unexpectedly in a crowded venue.
So Jet tried to make peace with the fact that he would likely never know what Poison’s deal with him was, and did his best to keep the crew a crew.
~~~
In the end it was technically Kobra’s fault that the incident happened, though Jet couldn’t blame him. Really, it was only a matter of time before Poison did it, and Jet supposed it could have been worse.
A few bad days for Kobra had turned into a bad month and nobody could rouse him. Week two he’d rarely left the diner. Week three he stopped speaking altogether. Week four he refused to leave the couch.
It happened sometimes. Jet did what he could and tried not to worry too much; Kobra had always come out the other side before. Poison, however, wasn’t taking it as well.
Jet was out back clearing junk from the shed when he overheard Poison’s muffled voice coming from inside, sharp with frustration. Ghoul was out on a bomb drop or something, Jet wasn’t sure — the less he knew about Ghoul’s explosives business the better, frankly — so there was only one person Poison could be talking to.
After a few minutes of unintelligible interrogation with no response, the back door slammed and Poison came stomping out.
“Witchcursed kid’s going to be the death of me,” seethed Poison. Not particularly in Jet’s direction, just at the world in general. His nails were bitten down to the quick and he looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. “He’s a fuckin’ corpse, I swear he gets like this just to piss me off.”
Jet kept his mouth shut. Poison didn’t mean any of it; he was just angry because he was scared, and scared because he loved Kobra, and Jet knew that. He had learned the hard way a long time ago to not pay any mind to Poison’s actual choice of words when he was like this.
“I don’t know why I even try,” Poison growled. “Fuckin’ halohead. And now Ghoul’s gone and the Girl’s off with Cola and Pony so none of them are around to help snap him out of it and I can’t get through to them on the comms and I can’t—”
“Poison. I watch him too,” Jet said.
“And what good has that done!” Poison glared at him, patted his pockets restlessly and came up empty. He started gnawing at the stump of his thumbnail instead, staring past Jet out to the horizon. “It’s the meds. Maybe. Maybe he needs a higher dose, or a different...”
Was that a bike revving?
Poison and Jet shared a look. The sound was unmistakable.
“Oh no he didn’t,” Poison said, and rushed back inside with Jet on his heels. “Dammit! Where the hell is he go—dammit. Keys. Where are they.” He looked around wildly.
“‘Am’s still out of commission,” Jet said. “You burnt out the brakes, remember?”
“Then what are you standing around for, fucking fix them!” Poison shrieked like it was Jet’s fault, and shoved his fists in his red hair. “Shit. Fuck. The bastard, when I find him I’m hauling his sneaky, lying ass to the Witch mysel—”
“ Poison. He’s up and around, that’s good.” Whatever Poison had said to Kobra, it’d riled the kid up enough to give him the energy to leave. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? That he was still capable of getting riled up at all? “He’ll be back soon. Let him get some sunshine and fresh air.”
“Without this? ” Poison spat, snatching up Kobra’s Good Luck helmet.
Okay, shit. That wasn’t a good sign.
“He’ll be back soon,” Jet repeated firmly.
After all, they didn’t have much other choice than to believe it.
~~~
Kobra did return, thank the Witch, only half an hour later, but it felt like forever with the way Poison was pacing and reaching for his radio every 10 seconds only to put it back, cursing methodically under his breath the entire time.
Jet just worked on the brakes. He’d known there was no way they’d be fixed in time to have any chance of catching up with Kobra, even if they could have figured out where he went. It needed doing anyway, though, and it kept Poison off his back in the interim.
Kobra killed the engine and dismounted without acknowledging either of them. He looked no worse for wear than he already did, except for the new layer of dust, but Poison flew into a fresh rage anyway.
Kobra didn’t react. He brushed past Poison to go back inside to the couch and Poison stormed after him.
“What in the motherfucking hell were you doing! By Destroya, I will strangle you myself unless you fucking swear to me that you won’t—hey! Don’t you dare walk away from me, asshole! You pull anything like that again and I’ll shatter your fucking kneecaps—”
Jet stayed outside. Brakes, he could fix. That was none of his affair.
The one-sided shouting went on for some time. Then, blessed silence.
A minute later Poison reemerged.
Seeming to forget Jet existed, he marched straight past him toward the bike on the ground where Kobra’d dumped it without bothering to use the kickstand, flicking open his switchblade as he went.
Jet set down his socket wrench. “Poison.”
Poison jumped, but it was too late to whisk the knife out of sight. “What?” he snarled, daring Jet to try to stop him.
Jet sighed. He was too tired for this. He stood and wiped the car gunk off his hands onto his pants. “Don’t.”
Poison’s jaw was set. He turned back to the bike.
Three long strides and Jet stopped him before he could sink the blade into the motorcycle’s back tire, hand nearly engulfing Poison’s tiny one.
Poison twisted around in Jet’s grip. He managed to wrestle his hand free, but not with the knife. All Jet got was a split second of warning as fury flashed across Poison’s face before Poison hurled himself at Jet. He was shouting things Jet could only register vaguely as he tried to keep the weapon safely out of Poison’s way.
You should know, Poison was yelling, you should know Kobra shouldn’t be out of anyone’s sight, out of Poison’s sight, and Witch help him but he’d do anything it took to stop that from happening; did Jet want something awful to happen?
Jet held him off easily, blocking what wild blows he could and taking the rest without fighting back.
“Not like this, Party. Not like this,” he said, grappling him into being still so he could finally click the blade in. “Talk to him.”
“I—” Poison squirmed in his grasp.
“Talk to him. Not yell. Ask. You can’t control him anyway.”
“Like hell I can’t!”
“He’s tough. He’ll pull through, he always does.”
Poison slumped into Jet, trembling, all the fight draining out of him with something like a laugh or a sob, and a muffled noise that almost sounded like I’m scared
“If it was real bad he’d say something. You got him to promise that at least,” Jet reminded him, gripping his arms, holding him away just far enough to be able to try to get him to make eye contact. “Now you have to trust him. He’s gonna be fine.”
Poison sniffed and nodded, so Jet relaxed his grip. And that was his mistake, because Poison seized that as an opportunity to reach up, grab the sides of Jet’s head, and pull him down into a desperate kiss.
Jet let it happen — but he knew what Poison was really after and kept the knife well out of reach.
With his other hand he pushed Poison down by the shoulder, breaking it off. “No así, Poison,” he said softly. “No así.”
A flipbook of emotions flickered over Poison’s face in rapid succession. Bafflement, dismay, betrayal. He seemed to realize he’d crossed a line; but he looked so distraught that Jet felt no anger toward him. Just a vague sense of disappointment.
“Take a walk,” Jet said, firmly but not unkindly, using the hand he had on Poison’s shoulder to turn him about. “Vámonos.”
Poison went.
Only when he was gone did Jet notice how hard his heart was pounding.
~~~
It had been impulsive, that was all. Not calculated, not seductive; Jet knew Poison had merely been desperate to get Jet’s guard down. Jet didn’t know why he’d let it happen at all; he’d had plenty of time to perform any of several evasive maneuvers. Perhaps he couldn’t help but sympathize with Poison.
From what little Jet had heard, Poison had always lived in the blur between love and war. Lines which, once crossed, weren't so easily untangled again.
Yes, Jet had definitely taken the best possible course of action given the circumstances. With Poison it was always better to redirect and de-escalate when he got like that than try to directly confront or reason with him.
So why did Jet still feel so uneasy?
In any case, Kobra had started perking up a few days later — seemingly for no reason, the same way he’d slipped into it to begin with. Ghoul and the Girl both got safely back, Cola even stopped by for a while, and soon everything was back to normal.
Normal as things could ever get at an abandoned diner in the middle of a dystopian wasteland with corporate zombies swarming said wasteland, anyway.
And Poison, true to form, acted like nothing ever happened. Then again, Poison often had a…well, a stubbornly selective memory.
In contrast, sentimental fool that he was, Jet couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It wasn’t him , he was pretty sure. In fact, he considered himself to be more immune to Poison’s uncanny magnetism than most. That was all Party Poison — the power his name had, the energy behind his voice, the leadership radiating from him that to some degree he leveraged deliberately and yet was also somehow entirely unconscious of.
Okay, fine, maybe Jet had always been a little awed by him.
It didn’t help that Poison was the prettiest ‘joy Jet had ever seen. Hell, Poison could stop traffic on the Getaway Mile (and frequently did, unintentionally). Yet it wasn’t just the posture or the blazing hair or high cheekbones or piercing eyes or dangerous smile; it was the freckles Poison hated that were still faintly visible under his tan, it was the slight quirk in one eyebrow, it was the delicate features that could somehow transform his face from that of an innocent wishkid into that of a clap-hardened rebellion leader whenever the situation called for it.
Poison was an enigma, the embodiment of a rallying cry, an impossible figure straight out of an action film. With just the set of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw, he could transform from Jet’s sweaty crewmate — who forgot to fill the gas tank and stole Jet’s favorite tshirts to cut up and blasted godawful deafening music at 3am — into a tragic hero, a martyr worthy of following through laserfire.
He was also an impulsive, immature brat . The duality of man.
It didn’t mean anything. Jet knew that.
~~~
It didn’t mean anything, the same way it hadn’t meant anything the time that all Jet had been doing was standing in the kitchen wrestling his hair back into a braid so he could get to work without it hanging in his face when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement and looked up.
Poison was there, halted mid stride in the doorway, expression mildly stricken.
Jet immediately turned to look over his own shoulder for whatever Poison must be staring at and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“What?” he said.
Poison pressed his lips together in a tight, apologetic smile, gave him a dismissive little shake of his head and kept walking.
Jet frowned after him and put a hand back up to his curls. Did he have motor oil in it or something? No. Had the Girl put stickers on his face while he was napping again? Okay, she had — he ruefully peeled off a couple of gold stars and some kind of dinosaur — but that was hardly an unusual sight. No cause for Poison to stare at him like that. Like Jet was (he had to snort at the idea) almost beautiful or something.
See, it didn’t mean anything. Poison thought everyone was beautiful. Not in an attraction way, even; just aesthetically. He was an artist, after all. Jet knew Poison saw beauty in everything. Maybe even particularly in the unusual or strange or conventionally plain.
It didn’t mean anything.
~~~
It didn’t mean anything, the same way it hadn’t meant anything the other time, with everyone fresh back from the Oasis and the guys were all razzing Jet for multiple other patrons apparently having been giving him googly eyes all night.
Jet had to laugh. “And people call me blind. No one was, they were all too busy watching Poison try to fucking outdrink Jacket Ripper.” Of all people.
“They totally werrrre,” Poison singsonged triumphantly. “I saw themmm.” He fluttered his lashes at Jet with mock coyness.
Oh please. “Right. Better watch yourselves.” Jet rolled his eye to the ceiling. “I’ll break all of your hearts.” He tried to say it with a straight face, but a chuckle escaped him. He hadn’t exactly been temperate that evening himself.
The others, he realized belatedly, were gone, staggered to bed to sleep off the noise and shitty alcohol, and it was just the two of them. Him and Poison.
Poison, lounging back against a diner table, wasn’t laughing. Sure, he attempted one, but just came out a sigh. “Oh, Jet. Sometimes I think you’re the only one who wouldn’t.”
The way he said it was casual. Almost too casual, with an edge to it that Jet couldn’t quite place. Bitterness? Wistfulness? Surely not.
Jet was at a loss for how to respond.
Thankfully he didn’t have to; Poison was already pulling himself upright. “Funny how that works, ain’t it,” he said lightly. He slapped the top of a chair awkwardly in lieu of a goodnight and walked off in an almost-straight line toward the hall.
Poison’d had a few too many shots. It didn’t mean anything. Jet knew that.
~~~
One time Jet almost even apologized for the knife incident — once, when they happened to be alone together again and for once Poison wasn’t in one of his moods — but he bit his tongue when he realized he didn’t know what he would be apologizing to Poison for.
So he firmly put the incident from his mind. If he didn’t, he might have to confront certain things that he couldn’t afford to admit. Like besides how captivating Poison could be, how he had a keen mind that hatched plots and tactics for raids that no one else would dream of or, if they did, would dare to try; or how his bravery and idealism was tempered with such a sweet and earnest kindness that he hid so well from the outside world; or how the magical way he saw ordinary sights and translated them into wild art could make you cry or laugh or inspire you to save the world; or however fiercely he hated, how he chose to love even more fiercely.
No. Best let bygones be bygones.