Chapter Text
3 Days
Three days out from the Ritual, Lash swings by to see his mom. Florence Lash is the sort of mother who knows her son is perfect in every conceivable way but understands that the rest of the world may have some illusions about him. She’s also an excellent cook, which helps coax him back into her house regularly.
Besides, he figures she should hear about the Ritual. He’s gonna win it, but in the unlikely event it goes ass up, maybe she deserves to know he was there, at least.
She clutches her chest dramatically. “I carried you in my belly for almost eleven months. The doctor had to evict you. This body has never been the same. I raised you, I kept a roof over your head, I fed your endless appetite, and this is how you repay me? It’s not enough to risk your neck in your ferkakte fight club every week. Now you wanna throw your life away? No. I won’t stand for it.”
“Uh, you can’t stop me. I’m a grown-up,” he says, like an adult.
“You’re right. You’re a big, strong boy who can do anything he wants, like give his mother a heart attack.”
“You’re not having a heart attack, Mom.” He rubs at his brow for a moment. “The Bear Pit paid off your house,” he reminds her. “Imagine what I can do when I win a Patron’s favor.”
She softens then. “I’m not asking you to do it for me.”
“And I’m not. I’m just saying the benefits of being the Lash’s mother will trickle down like they always do.”
She makes him go back and forth for a while, but after dinner and a couple drinks, she comes to see it his way, as always. Or at least she stops telling him about how he’s killing her with stress over the shit he’s gonna do anyway. Good enough.
She presses a kiss onto his cheek and a tin of cookies into his hands and sends him on his way. The cookies are more than he could possibly eat by himself, as usual. But he can be magnanimous. Maybe the cookies will make his teammates loosen up.
What he finds at the top of the elevator suggests that they don’t need his help in that department. Music hits him the moment the doors slide open. Celeste and Paige, conspiring nearby, glance up like he’s interrupting something. Then Celeste says, “Oh!” with delight at the sight of him, which is his second clue something is very different here. “I bet the Lash will dance with me. Ooh, are those cookies?” She snatches the tin from his hand before he has time to answer.
“You’re welcome,” he grumbles. One of those freaky cultists is manning a refreshments table that is about 95 percent alcohol, and beyond them in the training room he can see Viscous trying to move his feet to the rhythm. “When did you decide to throw a party?” For whatever ‘party’ is worth to these people.
“Like three hours ago,” she says with a shrug. At least it takes the sting out of not being invited, you know, if he were going to be bothered by that sort of thing, which he isn’t.
Paige appears, drink in hand. “You would’ve known about it if you weren’t late. Again.”
“The Lash had important business to attend to.”
“Like a hot date with a honey who bakes?” Celeste asks, then shoves one of the cookies in her mouth whole, licking sugar dust from her fingers. “Oh my God, these are incredible.”
“Of course they are,” he says, peeved that she would imply he’d bring inferior cookies. “I’ll let her know.”
He’d like to be more skeptical of the whole cult situation, but when the cultist at the refreshments table hands him a piña colada, he’s not sure why he should protest. Deeper into the training room, there’s Viscous wobbling along to the music, and Mo and Krill watching.
Lash almost asks where Pocket is, but he’s not that lame. Instead he gives Celeste a quick twirl around the room, then Paige, then Viscous, who’s trying his best, then Celeste again. He’s one and a half piña coladas and three dance partners into this joke of a party, and still no Pocket. He passes Celeste off to Paige and drains his drink, valiantly fights brain freeze, and uses the empty glass as an excuse to disappear.
After a quick refill at the refreshment table, he finds Pocket in what is, in hindsight, the most obvious spot, sulking on what Lash definitely does not think of as his and Pocket’s couch. They look up at him with big, unguarded eyes, but he’ll be damned if he can tell what that look means.
When he sits, they adjust so they’re not being swallowed by the cushions anymore. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” they say. Their words all kind of slip together. Combined with the flush in their cheeks, Lash can guess at their relative state of mind.
“Waiting on the Lash to make your night, huh?”
“Maybe you’re just predictable.” Their bottom lip looks like it’s been chewed on, and now it’s dangerously close to a pout. Maybe if they were sober they could play coy, but not like this. “Did you really go on a date?” they ask.
Lash is ready to throw a parade. “What are you gonna do if I say yes?” he asks.
They stare into the fireplace. “Nothing,” they mumble, then take a big sip of their drink. “Judge her, probably.”
“Hey, you be nice to the Lash’s mom.”
“Your—” They stare, slowly piecing the words together. “You were with your mother?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell anybody. Can’t let ’em think the Lash is soft.”
“I’ll keep your secret,” they whisper very solemnly and very loudly. Then their mouth tips sideways into a too-easy-for-them smile. God, it’s cute.
“What’s even in that glass?” he asks, snatching it away from them. It smells like straight gin. “That’s awful. At least mix it with something.”
“Like coconut?” They make the universal blech face in the direction of his glass.
Lash snickers. “You’re drunk.”
“Pfft. You’re drunk.”
“Not really.”
“No?” They blink owlishly at him.
“The Lash has a powerful metabolism. And had a big dinner. And also weighs, like, twice as much as you.”
Pocket’s voice changes as they try to match his. “The Lash’s liver filters poison twice as fast. Yours will never compete.”
“It’s cute that you think you’re funny.”
“I am funny,” they protest.
“Hilarious,” Lash says to placate them. “I like you like this.”
“I think you like me all the time.” They say it like they’re revealing the solution to some great mystery.
“Can’t believe I’m in the presence of a genius.” They shrug and Lash snorts. “What gave it away?”
“Probably all those times you’ve tried to sleep with me.”
“The Lash has been told persistence is one of his many charms.”
“Who lied to you?” Normally this would come out sardonic, but Pocket slips into a laugh right at the end. They really are drunk.
“My mom never lies.”
“Must be nice,” they mutter, then take a big gulp of their drink. “Sorry,” they slur. “This is why I’m banished.”
“From your parents?”
“From them,” they say, flinging a hand vaguely in the direction of the other room. “She called me a buzzkill.” Lash doesn’t answer that with more than a grunt. He knows a trap when he sees one. “But I’m not a buzzkill,” they say. “I can be fun.”
“Oh, I wanna believe you, but where’s the proof?”
They stare too long while they process it, lips parted the whole time, which is distracting as hell. “I know what you’re doing,” they say finally. “You’re trying to get me to…” they trail off, making a floppy, incomprehensible gesture with their hand.
“What am I trying to get you to do?” Pocket gives them a look that is clearly meant to convey You know exactly what, but Lash is not letting them off the hook that easily. He wants to hear them say it out loud. “What do you think I want?” he asks, leaning in.
Pocket studies his face with an amount of concentration that could be an exaggerated put-on or could just be a product of the alcohol. Then they say, “You.”
“I want me?”
“No. You said you. Or I when you said it.” They tilt toward him. “That’s what you said before. ‘I’ll watch your back.’ You. Not the Lash.” They poke their finger into his chest for emphasis.
Bemused, he says, “I am the Lash.”
“Sometimes.” They clearly think they’ve stumbled into something profound. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has insisted they could separate the man from the legend, but it is the first time it’s wormed under his skin. Pocket’s judgment of him matters, annoyingly enough, but if they think he’s two different people, then them liking one of those people is a step on the way to getting laid.
He doesn’t argue. Instead he focuses on their knee brushing his, on the way their hands fumble for a cigarette. Their lighter is on the table in front, so it’s easy to grab before they do and light it for them. They don’t say thank you. Instead they lean away, back against the arm of the couch, and plop their legs across his lap, smirking like they’re getting away with something and not playing right into his hands.
“Tell me more about myself,” he teases, plucking the cigarette from their mouth and taking a quick drag before he hands it right back. He wants to see what they’ll do. They lean forward, taking it without their hands. Their lips barely touch his fingers, and he feels warm all over. He is absolutely gonna nail this kid six ways to Sunday.
They look amused by the prompt, but they take a moment to think. “You’re not very nice,” they start.
“I lit your cigarette for you two seconds ago.”
“Because you think you’ll get something out of it.”
He grins. “Will I?”
They’re trying to play coy again, but it’s a lot harder when they’re sprawled across his lap. Could be getting comfy, or they could be staking a claim on this territory for anyone viewing, or just enjoying that it keeps his attention. All signs point to the same end result. Their non-answer is answer enough. “Maybe nice is overrated,” they say with a too-casual shrug.
Lash’s grin only gets bigger. “Go on, then.”
“You’re a mama’s boy,” they say, not in the tone of the idiot kids on the playground, but another dry observation.
“The Lash could come from nothing less than greatness.”
“But you don’t talk about your father.”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“So is he dead or less than great?”
“I’ve never met the guy. Far as I’m concerned, the Lash’s conception was immaculate.”
Pocket snorts. “Your ego could fill up a whole city block.”
“You’re thinking too small. Somebody once said the Tri-State area.” Lash takes a swig of his own drink, nearly forgotten until he watches Pocket drain theirs. “Humility is for losers and grifters.”
“Wow,” they say like they disapprove, but their eyes are glinting with amusement. “I think it’s kind of enviable.”
“No way you got low self-esteem, kid.”
“Not about most things, no,” they say. “But it’d be nice to have that kind of certainty, I guess. Be able to say we’re gonna win like there’s not a hundred ways we could fail.”
“There’s a hundred ways some people could fail, but we won’t,” Lash says with a shrug. “Not while I’m around.”
“That,” they say. “That’s what I mean. I wouldn’t mind some of that.”
Lash twists to look at them directly. “You’re not a loser, so you’re not gonna lose.”
“You’re just saying that because you wanna sleep with me.”
Lash’s eyes roll. “You got it backwards. The Lash wouldn’t waste his time trying to bang a loser. I’m not gonna let my teammates fail, and neither are you.”
They smile faintly, softer now. “You act on whatever you say, even when it’s stupid.” Lash doesn’t know how to take that one or turn it into a joke, but it doesn’t matter, because Pocket continues. “I like it. Makes it easy to believe you.” They blink like they weren’t prepared for their own words.
“You can put your faith in the Lash,” he says. “He’ll—”
“Not the Lash,” Pocket says, cutting him off before he can deliver his clever line. “You.”
He could remind them there’s not a difference, but he’s got a better plan. He takes the cigarette from them again to get it out of their mouth. The angle’s going to be awkward, but he leans in, one hand steadying himself on the arm of the couch right next to their head. Their eyes go drowsy and their cheeks flush; he can see in their face that they know what’s coming, and they have plenty of time to dodge or move or say something to stop him, but they don’t. Lash bends down and—
“Oh my God,” Celeste squeaks from over by the refreshments. “Get a room!”
The weird spell broken, Lash sighs, loud and exaggerated enough that she can hear it. “I’m working on it.”
“Work faster! I’m trying to keep my cookies down.”
“I know it’s hard to take your eyes off the Lash,” he starts, “but—”
A fist tangled in the front of his shirt cuts him off and redirects all his attention back to Pocket, who’s suddenly sitting up, face only inches from his. Their smirk has gone lopsided. “You want to?” they ask.
Lash finds himself, for once, at a loss for words. Head empty, Celeste forgotten. The only thing that matters is that Pocket is incredibly close and trying to get closer. Lash fumbles for anything remotely cool to say. “You make me work for weeks and now it’s that easy?”
“Is that a complaint?”
“Nope. No. Not at all.”
Satisfied, they swing their legs from his lap and rise to their feet all loose-limbed and broad. Amused by the hand they offer, he lets them try to pull him to his feet. It takes so much effort that when he finally has mercy, it nearly sends them flying.
He catches them by the waist and pulls them close. “Smooth moves,” Lash says.
With the flush from the alcohol, it’s hard to tell if they’re even properly embarrassed. What they say is “I ended up where I wanted, didn’t I?”
“Oh my God, when did you become such a flirt?” Lash says.
“I’ve been flirting for days,” they answer.
“Days? I have notes,” he says, probably counter to his goal of getting laid. He might be a little tipsy too. Just a little.
“Wow,” they say.
They’re very close to pouting again, so he doesn’t argue his point. “Where’s this room you wanna take me to?”
They take his hand and lead him up the stairs. Celeste has moved on and nobody else seems wise to it, which is probably for the best, since he doesn’t need Paige falling apart all brokenhearted now that he’s gonna get off with someone else.
In one of the rooms Lash has never been in, between strange statues and crates all covered to protect them from dust, a mattress lies on the floor with a few ratty blankets. “Have you been sleeping here?” he asks. A strange pang hits his chest. Heartburn, maybe. It’s not nausea, at least. He can’t get sick. Not when he’s so close.
“Don’t get distracted,” they mutter, not quite looking him in the eye.
“Okay. Sure, I’ll ignore the mattress on the floor. And the spare clothes. And the books.”
The annoyed face they pull is closer to the Pocket he’s spent the last month attempting to win over. It’s almost refreshing. They shove out of their overcoat and scarf, and they scowl at him, challenging. “Are you gonna kiss me or what?” they ask.
Well, when they put it that way, who is he to deny them really? This bratty side is funny though. Maybe next time he’ll explore that.
He steps forward, slips a hand around their trim waist, and kisses them like he’s been waiting 24 whole days to do it. They cling to his impressive biceps, and now they finally swoon, swaying bonelessly into his arms. Their mouth opens for his tongue, hungry and dirty enough that any fantasies he’d held about leaving his mark on some blushing virgin fall away.
This is better anyway, if a little messy.
Maybe a little too messy.
Their mouth burns with the taste of alcohol, and that’s after Lash has been drinking, himself. The death grip on his arms may not be because they’re desperate to touch, but because they’re trying to stay on their feet. And then there’s the swooning — damn it.
He backs them toward the mattress, and they stumble again. They’re easy enough to catch — half his weight and all that — but it doesn’t fill him with confidence.
Their hand finally budges from his biceps to skim his stomach instead, pushing the hem of his shirt up, which makes what he’s about to do really, really stupid. Lash might only be looking for a one-night stand, but they should probably remember it happened.
He grabs them by that wrist, trying not to get distracted by the way his fingers nearly close around it. “So how many drinks did you have, anyway?” he asks.
“I dunno.” They giggle and he sighs.
Pocket smirks. Pocket huffs. Maybe they give a sensible chuckle here and there. Even the Lash, charming and funny and awesome as he is, doesn’t make them giggle.
While he’s having all these lame thoughts, Pocket does their damnedest to distract him. There’s the mouth on his collar bone, for one, and their other hand groping along. They’re not tall enough to reach his neck, which is probably for the best, because if they found any of the sensitive bits he’s not sure how long his resolve would stick.
“What if I didn’t pound that ass tonight?”
They pause, pulling back enough they can glare up at him. “What?”
“Oh, you know,” he looks at the mattress, remembering the pang in his chest. “The Lash had a lot to drink. Ate too much fried food and all. The Lash has heartburn.”
“And that’s gonna stop you from—”
“Yep, it’s tragic. The worst luck, really.”
“You’re lying,” they say, and it truly is terrible luck that Pocket’s pretty shrewd even when they can barely stand.
“Why would I be lying?” he asks, exactly the way a liar would.
“I don’t know. You don’t have enough shame to lie.” Their eyes get bigger, and he feels it physically. “Did you change your mind?” While he’s fishing for the right answer, Pocket goes on majestically leaping to conclusions without him. “Is it just about the chase for you? Oh, God, it would be, wouldn’t it?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Pump the brakes, babe. I’m just, you know—”
“Not interested anymore?” they ask very stupidly.
He tightens his grip on them in case they get any funny ideas. “Fine,” he sighs. “You’re drunk-drunk. I don’t want you to, like, puke halfway through getting your tonsils tickled or pass out before we’re done or whatever.”
Their eyes narrow again, but this must be close enough to the truth to pass the sniff test this time. “I wouldn’t,” they mumble. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have had so much, huh?”
“Not if you wanna get lucky with the Lash. You’re gonna need all your coordination for what I wanna do to you. And flexibility. And stamina. And—”
“Yeah, I get the picture.” They clear their throat. Their eyes are sad again, which is kind of how they always look but also kind of makes his stomach hurt, which is why he doesn’t have it in him to say no when they ask him to stay. Besides, getting home in this state is a bitch.
He curls up on that shitty mattress that is definitely too small for him, with Pocket’s back pressed against him. It’s nice to lie down, even if it now means the world rocks woozily on its axis. His eyes are so heavy they close on their own. Pocket wiggles against him as they get comfortable, which could be an accident if they didn’t do it again a moment later.
“Stop it,” he growls against their neck, digging his fingers into their side.
They gasp, shuddering against him in a way that’s definitely involuntary this time — which proves the other times weren’t, but that’s a distant secondary concern now. At least they quit squirming before it kills him. They yank his hand away from their side but don’t let go, fingers tightening until he wonders if they’re trying to cut off the circulation.
He should go home. He’s not getting laid tonight. He knows they’re gonna be a monster in the morning. He might be hungover tomorrow, but they definitely will be. There’s no fun in any of it.
He’s just trying to get lucky. It shouldn’t take all this effort. They’ve made him work so hard for it, and they’re still not putting out. With a disgusted sigh, he pulls them closer, tightens his arm around them, and passes out with their hair trying to creep into his mouth.
2 Days
Lash wakes on a flat mattress in a dusty storeroom.
He fell asleep on his side, but he’s on his back now, with Pocket splayed out on top of him. Their legs tangle with his and their head has claimed his pecs as their personal pillow. One hand crept under his shirt in the middle of the night, and it’s now wedged skin to sticky skin between his oblique and the mattress.
Clingy, he thinks. He should have known. It’s always the standoffish ones.
He should get up, push them off. They’re going to get the wrong idea about what he’s here for. Not that Lash cares about their feelings, but if they’re gonna keep a clear head in the Ritual, he doesn’t want to break the news to them that he’s just trying to get his dick wet. He didn’t make any promises to the contrary.
They should know Lash is a free spirit that can’t be tied down. He’s definitely not gonna get tied down by some urchin a decade his junior, some judgmental, sarcastic wet blanket who needs a proper fucking haircut.
His arm is numb beneath them, but he manages to wriggle it free, then brings it to rest across their waist, securing them against his body. He shuts his eyes and listens to them breathe while he dozes off again.
When he wakes a second time, it’s because they’re moving, restless in his arms. Instinctively he tightens them before he gains full consciousness and decides to let them go.
They groan and pull away, leaving him colder. When they realize he’s awake too, they go stiff. “You stayed?” they ask in a tone that sounds like bricks laying a new wall.
“You kept me up late. Just needed somewhere to crash,” Lash grumbles. His head is pounding, but it can’t be half as bad as theirs.
They stare at him with dried out eyes, sitting up on that stupid mattress. Their rat’s nest of hair is somehow worse now, one side sticking up high. They probably think they’re being subtle when they look at their body and then his, taking note of the far too many clothes they have on. “Yeah, I bet,” they say dryly, rubbing at their head.
Lash is, for the second time in as many days, uncertain what to say. He figures it’s about a 50/50 chance they even remember kissing him, and a smaller one they remember any conversation.
“Did we…” Pocket trails off, and finally there’s some color in their face because they’re flustered.
“Did you try to climb the Lash like a tree? Play tonsil hockey? Grow extra arms so you could grope the Lash in a spiderwebby cult hideout?”
“Oh, God,” they say, rubbing at their face.
He’s not finished. “All of the above, baby.” They stare at the cobwebbed ceiling for a moment. “No way you forgot it.”
“Oh my God,” they say again, this time with greater despair.
“I know. It’s hard to come to terms with, but you’re a mere mortal. You couldn’t help yourself. They all succumb to the Lash’s charms eventu—”
Pocket scrambles to their feet and runs, which is the most insane reaction anyone has ever had to being told they were blessed with the Lash’s attentions. The sound that follows explains a lot though: they’re puking up the poison from last night, noisily and with a lot of coughing. The Lash’s stomach is made of stronger stuff. He doesn’t need all that.
When the wet sounds desist, they’re followed by coughing, echoing into the chamber of whatever vessel they found. Something does twist inside him then, but not in his stomach. He wonders if he’s getting heartburn again.
The funny feeling compels him to hunt them down. Attached to the room is a small bathroom, so at least they’ve found a proper place to do it. He finds them crouched on the floor, braced over the toilet with their forehead pressed into the cradle of their arms.
“Move your head,” he says, then flushes for them when they do. That helps settle his own stomach, but then he sits cross-legged on the floor beside them, sighing as he rubs between their shoulder blades. He still hasn’t gotten laid yet, so he’s willing to make a few sacrifices. Besides, he’s been here enough times himself.
They groan into the toilet, coughing again, and then sniffle, which could be crying or could be general overwhelm. “Gross,” he tells them after a moment, which makes them laugh, echoing against the porcelain bowl again. “You got anything left in there?”
Their answer is, well. Illustrative. When they’re done heaving, he rests his hand between their shoulders again. This time they fumble for the handle and flush the thing themself, which Lash takes as a sign of progress.
Unfortunate that this is the least amount of clothing he’s ever seen Pocket in, and they slept in their shirt and trousers. It’s just that they took off the other layers, so he’s distracted by the sight of their sweaty, pointy shoulder blades through the clinging white shirt.
Finally, those shoulders bunch and they push their face out of the toilet, though they haven’t looked at him yet. “I bet you think I’m really sexy now,” they mutter. He might not hear it if it weren’t for the incredible acoustic properties of the toilet bowl.
Lash snickers, but part of him feels lighter — if they care about whether he thinks they’re sexy, that’s a win. “Oh, no, you look like shit,” he says, watching them wipe at their mouth with toilet paper. “But we can’t all be blessed with the Lash’s indomitable constitution.”
Pocket huffs at that, which Lash prefers to believe would be a laugh under better circumstances. They flush the toilet for a final time then move to the sink to rinse out their mouth and splash water on their face.
While they collect themself, he rises to his feet and keeps talking. “At least it proves you’re a regular person. I was starting to think you might be part frog or some shit.”
“What? Why?”
Lash shrugs. “Nobody human could resist my charms for so long.”
Their whole body slumps against the sink, and they groan, presumably hit by another wave of hungover nausea. “Yeah, that’s the only reason.”
He grins, fine with waiting them out. Once they seem ready to leave the bathroom, he has to step aside to let them escape, which means they pass too close to him coming through the doorway. They won’t really look at him, which is frustrating. The vomit thing is a setback, but he doesn’t want to accept more than that. “Sooo,” he starts. “How much do you remember from last night?”
“Enough to be embarrassed,” they mumble, yanking open that weird suitcase to dig through it like it’s a not-weird suitcase. The thing inside ribbits madly while Pocket reaches an arm through its phantasmal mouth and deeper than the case ought to hold. It’s unsettling to watch. What they produce is a perfectly normal, haphazardly folded change of clothing. “I’m gonna clean up now. If I could get some privacy?”
He doesn’t know why he lingers, except that maybe he thinks they’ll show a little skin. “You sure you’re done yakking up everything?”
They wince. “I’m not, but a shower will do me some good.”
“So would a decent breakfast.”
They pause, staring up at him from the floor in a way not dissimilar to the ones he’s been thinking about lately. They’re too far away though, and greener around the gills than he’d like. He’s still thinking about the puking, is the point. “You wanna get breakfast?” they ask slowly. “With me?”
“Well, if you’re asking me out,” Lash says. “Who am I to turn down a pretty face?”
“I wasn’t—” Pocket’s mouth flattens out with irritation. Then their stomach grumbles, loudly, and not in the way that suggests something’s coming back up. They sigh. “Let me get cleaned up first,” they say, turning away like they can hide the red suddenly spreading across their face.
Huge win for Jacob Lash. Even if it means he now has to have a date, like, in public, when he probably smells like a sweaty ashtray. The Bear Pit’s not far though, so he could do something about that.
“Hey,” he says, “you got a piece of paper?”
They hug their clean clothes to their chest and point to the stack of books by their mattress. Lash waves them off and sticks the name of a diner on it. It’s close enough to the hideout that Pocket doesn’t have any excuses not to show, but otherwise, he’ll have to take his chances.
Unless… once they’ve closed the bathroom door behind them, he sniffs at his shirt, then at his pits. Yeah, no, he needs a shower.
He writes “BE THERE” in big blocky letters at the end of the address, which is a command but in hindsight looks like desperation. The only thing worse would be crossing it out and starting again though, like he put too much thought into it, which he’s definitely not doing. He tosses the pen down and walks his ass out that door, telling himself he is very, very confident that Pocket will show up.
Fortunately for him, the Lash has had enough one night stands all over the city that he keeps a duffel full of everything he needs in his locker at the Bear Pit. It’s good after a fight too, but after a fight he doesn’t usually need a toothbrush.
He showers and wonders whether he has time to jerk off — then does not, only because he remembers Pocket started their shower first. They’re already ahead of him, and if he makes them wait, the chances they’ll disappear on him seem impossibly high. He’s never gonna get any if he can’t get them to stay in one spot without boat loads of alcohol.
Should have just gone for it last night. What was he thinking?
He was thinking the Lash doesn’t need to take advantage of anybody to get what he wants. Pocket’s gonna come to him fair and square and they’re going to do all kinds of nasty things and then they’ll both be in a great mood for the Ritual. He starts adding to the list of things to propose, which logistically cannot possibly all be done in one night, but he figures they should have options. Who sticks what where seems like a good start, but he concedes that their flexibility and his own unsurpassed athleticism lend themselves to more exciting options.
He’s still thinking about it when he stumbles into the Sunnyside Diner, hands thrust in his tight jean pockets to communicate how incredibly casual he feels about all of this. He is equally casual about surveying the diner and not immediately zeroing in on Pocket. He can’t quite control the puff of air that escapes when he realizes they are there, though, tucked into a table in the corner and looking, as they so often do, simultaneously wide-eyed and innocent yet wildly suspicious, thanks to the way they skulk around and slump into their seat.
Lash’s mouth betrays him with a smile that isn’t even performed for their benefit. He’s just… preparing, obviously.
He drops into the seat across from them, and they glance at him once before going back to perusing the menu, which is a cute act only given away by their cheeks pinking up. That’s just fine with Lash, because it gives him a chance to make sure they don’t look like they’re mad about anything or going to try to let him down easy or whatever. Not that they should, but they have been giving him the runaround enough that they might try it one more time.
They’re practically squirming where they sit. He can wait them out.
The waitress drops off coffee and takes their orders before Pocket bothers to acknowledge him. The pink in their face has come under control, but it isn’t entirely gone. “I’m sorry,” they say quickly, eyes darting back to their coffee right away. “About last night.”
At first he thinks they mean the vomiting bit, but that was this morning. “Which part, exactly?” he asks super casually, like the most casual anybody has ever been.
“The part where I,” they pause, hand moving in a circle like that explains anything, then they lower their voice, “made a pass, I guess.”
“You think you’re the first person to get drunk and try to schtupp the Lash?” They cover their face with both hands, which isn’t really an answer. “I can assure you it happens all the time. No judgment here. I totally get it. The Lash is a certified dreamboat.”
“Please stop,” they say, muffled by their palms.
“Why, so you can go back to pretending all of this” — Lash’s gesture down his incredible body is wasted on the backs of their hands — “doesn’t give you hot pants?”
“I’m not pretending any—” They drag their hands down their face and take a deep breath, before they look him directly in the eye. “Fine. Fine. I got drunk. I kissed you. That definitely happened. We almost slept together and didn’t because— that part’s foggy, but I assume because I couldn’t see straight at that point. That isn’t wordplay. Stop laughing. Anyway, yes, it happened. I’m not gonna say it didn’t. I am gonna re-emphasize the part where I was really, really drunk, though.”
“They say alcohol is like a truth serum in some ways.”
“It impairs inhibitions because it impairs judgment. There’s a difference.”
“And that’s why you’re here having breakfast with me, because you regret all of it and would never do it sober and can’t stand the thought of laying one on the Lash again,” he says. “Sure, babe.”
“I thought it would be right to tell you in person.”
“God, you’re a bad liar.” He laughs when he says it then laughs again when Pocket’s blush returns. It’s going to become a permanent fixture at this point. “Hey, uh, Sandra,” he says.
“Jackie,” the waitress corrects, tapping at the name tag on her blouse before she tops off their coffees.
“You like men?” He assumes not. Much like Celeste, she has not glanced even once at his glorious muscles. “Let’s say you do, for argument’s sake. Now let’s say you come on to one when you’re drunk, then you regret it and want to tell him off the next day. Do you go to breakfast with that guy or nah?”
She looks between the two of them, probably trying to calculate who’s going to be responsible for her tip, before she gives up the calculation and answers honestly. “No. I’d call or meet him outside, but I wouldn’t go in with him. I certainly wouldn’t order food if I did. And I wouldn’t bother his waitress about it.”
Lash laughs, then he turns to Pocket while she hastily retreats. “Even the wait staff’s calling your bluff, babe. You like me. You wanna kiss me again so bad.” He reaches across the table, putting his hand on theirs. “Don’t worry. If you were looking to be memorable, I’ve never seen anybody get so bent out of shape about finally getting caught. Usually they’re getting bent into shapes, so maybe that’s it. Are you grumpy ’cause you barely got to second base?”
Their eyes stay fixed on where their hands are joined. “No,” they say, but it comes out too slow and so does them pulling their hand away. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Who hasn’t spent a morning wrapped around a toilet? It’s no big deal.”
“That’s not—” They pause as their food lands in front of them. When the server clears out, they start again. “We’re two days out from the Ritual,” they say in a hush, as if everyone in this city doesn’t know the Maelstrom’s coming. “In two days my whole life is gonna change. If I mess this up, the best case scenario is that I can try again in fifty years, and the worst… I’m not even sure we can imagine it, given what we’re up against. It’s a lot of pressure, and I don’t need to be distracted by you or by hangovers or by anything else.”
Or at least that’s what Lash thinks they say, because every bit of it is said in between enormous bites. The kid eats like they haven’t seen food in a week. Lash would normally make a joke about this, but he’s struck with the sudden mental image of that shitty mattress on the floor of the hideout and the state of their clothes, and his chest does that weird thing it’s been doing too much lately. He takes a big swig of his water in case there’s some food stuck in there.
“You do need to be distracted, actually,” Lash says. “Relaxing is vital to your success in a fight. The Lash generously volunteers his time.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Pocket mumbles behind their hand, simultaneously trying to scarf down a huge forkful of hashbrowns.
“Funny way to pronounce ‘irresistible.’” When Pocket manages to look bitchy while chewing, Lash sighs. “You’re talking to an expert in winning fights. People would kill to know my method, and here you are treating it like it’s nothing. If you don’t figure out how to indulge in some self-care before a fight, you’re gonna fuck up because you got too much weight on your shoulders.”
“There are other ways to relax. I’m sure you don’t spend all your downtime horizontal.”
“It doesn’t have to be horizontal.”
Pocket groans again. “Talking to you feels like tiptoeing around a minefield.”
“A minefield of your own design. I’m not making you say that shit.”
Pocket closes their eyes, visibly collecting their patience. Lash takes the moment to enjoy his coffee. They let out a long breath, then say with a tight, plastic smile, “Surely as the leading authority in fighting, you’d be willing to share some tips with your teammate about what else I could do to relax.”
Sometimes he forgets they’re a little sneaky. Pitting his desire to show off against his impulse to make dirty jokes is a smart move; even knowing that’s what they’re doing, it works. “Okay. First, you gotta get a good night’s sleep. If I am taking someone to pound town, which I usually am, that’s happening by 8 p.m. and then they’re going home so I can get some proper rest. Second, you can drink, but not like last night. I mean one or two, whatever loosens you up but doesn’t make you sick or stupid. Hair of the dog the next morning is fine, but the same rules apply. Third, you gotta take your mind off of it for a while. The sex doesn’t hurt there either, but I do other stuff. The cinema, a ballgame, a comedy show. Maybe hit the sauna or take a bubble bath after. Then, you know, it’s just eat right, drink water, stretch, and don’t do anything crazy.”
“Surprisingly restrained advice. I thought you’d mention sex at least one more time.”
Lash smirks. “Yeah, well, you asked about before the fight, not after.”
“Right,” Pocket says dryly, but their mouth tics like they want to smile. “I should probably get out of the hideout for a while.”
Lash drops his napkin into his empty plate. “So what’ll it be? Movie, ballgame, or comedy show? I guess it could be something else, but museums are boring and the cabarets won’t open till after dark.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to, sweetheart. The Lash can read between the lines.”
“Yeah, you’re really good with subtlety.”
“You can’t play hard to get after you’ve already come on to me.” Their entire face turns beet red, which means either he struck a nerve or they suddenly remember how very many places they put their hands on him before it was over. “Besides, what else are you gonna do all day?”
Lash yanks out his wallet. While Pocket’s picking at the crumbs on their plate, he does a surreptitious check to ensure he’s not getting overly ambitious. Then he flags down the waitress and pays for their breakfast. He even leaves a big tip because they’re probably the type to think that’s impressive.
All that time to think, and Pocket never does come up with an answer to his question.