Chapter Text
Spider takes a shower, long enough to get his skin and hair clean, short enough he won't get tempted to scrub himself red and unseemly. He crouches on the damp floor, wedges the plug inside with gritted teeth--he needs to get used to it now, adjust to walking gracefully with it wedged up inside. He shaves his legs and armpits, peels the sticky off, hissing, because they don't trust him with razors.
The Stanford shirt is cool against his skin and he does not let himself think about old photographs of Kiri's mom, Norm, Dad. He does let himself think about Tom Sully, about the way Jake's eyes light up when Spider wears the shirt and nothing else. It goes to his knees, more like a dress, technically more covering than his regular clothes but he hates the brush of air between his legs, over his--
He faces the mirror, carefully arranging the shirt so it hangs as well as it can. He reaches up and pinches his nipples, sucking in a breath, trying to make them poke through. He catches himself thinking about the ice cubes from that one time, decides risking a trip to the fridge isn't worth it.
Spider pinches his cheeks until they're rosy, bites his lips until they look raw, vulnerable. He props a photo of Mom on the bedroom mirror (alive, not burned up, not smoldering in a cockpit they couldn't pry her corpse out of) and fusses with his unbraided hair, trying to make it look like hers, wishing for a second that they had a curling iron like the girls in that one movie.
He smiles, pouts, smirks, bats his finest bedroom eyes and sways his hips. He whispers to himself, English and bits of Spanish, testing what sounds believable. He plays with a bit of Southern drawl--nothing too strong, not like Dad's, it'd look put on, ridiculous, just enough to remind everybody he's the colonel's boy.
He does these things and he pretends not to notice when the door opens and Lo'ak stares in at him, eyes hollow, unblinking. Dressed in his tewng--Spider had toyed with talking him into borrowing something more covering from Dad or Jake, deciding the risk of him being caught and stripped wasn't worth it--but his hair is messy and the dark circles are more prominent and Spider's sickeningly, agonizingly grateful.
He's wondering whether he should brush his teeth again when Lo'ak says, Na'vi soft on his tongue, "You're doing this for me."
Spider blinks at himself, slowly, carefully not meeting his own eyes or Lo'ak's. "There's this cool thing called knocking, you know. You're turning into Jake."
It's a low blow and he's glad when Lo'ak flinches, wants him to slink out of the room so Spider can finish peeling himself off and pulling on Tiger's rippling skin, preparing himself for hours of holding his booze and laughing at shitty jokes and serving drinks and slapping away wandering hands with a playful laugh, silly, that's Daddy's property.
Lo'ak doesn't take the hint, though, always was too fucking stubborn. "You're doing this for me," he repeats, in English this time, like another language might change things, somehow.
Spider rests his forehead against the mirror, staring at a warped blur. He can hear the music start to blast in the common room, hear the beats switching as Z-Dog and Wainfleet fight over the song, hear the cheers when Prager arrives with the booze, hear a snatch of Mank's rare laughter, his dad's hearty chortle, the cheery thump of Jake's feet
They've celebrating, apparently, a long week of brutal training in the sim room, recovery from the Dragon clusterfuck, physical and psychological checkups to make sure they haven't started to turn out like Lo'ak's dad. Celebrating because really they like having an excuse to celebrate, and the RDA likes giving them a way to blow off steam that doesn't end up with dead technicians and walls that have to be power-cleaned.
They're got booze, games, drugs, everything they could ever need, but they want more, they want entertainment. And their two little mascots are expected to provide.
It's Lo'ak's first serious party night--Spider hasn't had to endure one since the Dragon, some half-assed, sadistic play at honoring the dead tulkun (Roa, Lo'ak says her name was Roa, she was the Metkayina Tsahìk's spirit sister and she composed beautiful songs and she had a little calf and Spider is not going to think about her anymore).
The thing about these parties is that while the look-don't-touch rule applies, the way it always does for the rest of Recom Squad, it can get blurred. Inebriation makes Dad generous and Jake's usually distracted, especially since he always takes too many of the fucking pills and ends up staring into corners and muttering tattered monologues about high school and dead brothers.
And Lo'ak will be more at risk, not quite as firmly squeezed in the jaws as Spider is, which Spider will admit to himself is both a blessing and curse. Not to mention that the squad has made it very clear who they blame for all the recent psych evals they've had to bullshit through, and if Toruk Makto isn't here to punish, his son still is.
(There's only one Jake Sully who feels anything when Spider Socorro suffers and he's already down here with them, joining the party. Spider's doesn't care about that, though, because if he did there'd be something wrong with him).
"Remember what I told you," he says, lifting his head from the mirror. "Stay near Jake." Lo'ak scoffs, but Spider pushes on. "I'm serious. He'll remember you're there if he's close and he'll be protective. Chances are he'll be too busy biting the others to do...anything." Unless he wants to stake a public claim, which is why Spider needs to keep him--keep all of them--too distracted.
He'll look each one in the eye, like he sees them, like he gives a damn. He'll put on a good show, tease them with the humanity they left behind, the one advantage he has over all of them. He won't push too far and make his daddies mad by being a real whore, but he'll let everybody know he's been well trained, well loved. With any luck, Lo'ak will fade into another blue face with fucked-up eyes and twitching tail, just another watcher.
It’ls not like there's much he hasn't already seen. It's not like Spider has any real pieces of himself to lose. It's not like...
His hands are shaking on the sink. He relaxes them, mustn't risk fucking up the nails he filed so carefully
Lo'ak comes up behind him and Spider closes his eyes. He waits for the words whore, slut, traitor, looking at you dressing up for them, look at how far you've fallen, I can't believe I got trapped in this hellhole because of your nympho ass. He waits (hopes) for fists, teeth, bruises and blood staining his pretty face until no one will ever want to look at him again.
But Lo'ak stands behind him and there are tears in his eyes (and that's the only time he never, ever reminds Spider of Jake, because Jake never cries, neither one). "Please, bro," he whispers, and it's obvious what he's begging for.
Spider stares at his face, the ghost smeared across the glass. "I can't--" Can't fuck this up again. Can't fail you again. Can't drag you any deeper into this fucking mess than I already have. But if he says that, Lo'ak will tell them it's not Spider's fault like he does every time and that will truly break Spider into pieces, shatter him like he kind of wishes he could break this mirror.
Instead, he stares at it until Lo'ak moves away, the door closes again. The music grows louder, buzzing through Spider's bones, and soon the door will open, they'll be dragged out into the light, showtime.
He bites his lip, hard, until the blood starts to flow.