Chapter Text
Despite that Lash insists he can pay — and he can, even if money’s tight — Pocket complains about the wallet they left in yesterday’s trousers until he relents and escorts them to the hideout. He bums a smoke off of them, because of course they remembered those, then waits for them outside. The smoking keeps his hands and mouth occupied and almost keeps his mind from conjuring up the many ways they might not come back down.
They take longer than they should, even if it’s not much time in the grand scheme. They also return with company in tow.
“I heard you were going to a baseball game,” says Viscous in his squeaky voice. “I want to see America’s favorite pastime.”
Lash scratches at the back of his neck instead of wringing Pocket’s. Then he grabs them and gets a little distance from Viscous. “Is this another one of your games?”
“I don’t play games,” Pocket says, like a liar, then hits Lash with the doe eyes. “I didn’t ask him to come. He invited himself, and I didn’t know how to say no. He’s so excited.”
“I can whisper too!” Viscous’s giant head suddenly butts against Lash’s. If the goop leaves residue in his hair, he’s going to kill somebody.
Lash is perfectly willing to explain in no uncertain terms that Pocket is a bad friend who misled him into believing he could tag along on what is obviously a date, but a warning look from Pocket makes him reconsider threatening violence. “Listen, Gooey, tickets cost money, and I only budgeted for two.”
“That’s not a problem.” Viscous produces a fan of moist but perfectly usable bills. A lot of them. “The Hidden King’s friends gave me this when I left.”
“You know what? This just might cover it.” Before anyone else can get funny ideas, Lash plucks the whole wad of cash from Viscous’s hand. “Why don’t I hang onto this for you?”
“Oh, good! I don’t really know how to use it.” Viscous somehow gives the impression he’s beaming, and Pocket is still giving Lash those big pleading eyes, so Lash shoves the money into his billfold and sighs.
“Come on then. First inning is gonna start soon.”
Viscous trails behind them, gawking in every direction like the tourist he is. Lash can’t be sure who’s chaperoning who, but the extra distance helps.
Pocket glances at him. “If you swindle that poor sea creature…”
“Me? I’m protecting him from getting swindled. You saw how he was waving that money around, just asking for every scammer in this city to fleece him.”
“I see. Your altruism knows no limits.”
“The Lash is a man of the people.”
Every so often, they look back to check on Viscous, but otherwise they stroll at Lash’s side, weaving through strangers on the sidewalk as if it’s second nature. Not that Lash needs to know where Pocket’s from to get what he wants, but in contrast with Viscous, it stands out that Pocket’s probably a native — if not to the Cursed Apple, then some other big city.
They have to take the train to get out to the stadium, but Pocket doesn’t complain when Lash squeezes into the seat right next to them. Viscous sits across the aisle, at times staring at them, but more often staring at the strangers churning around him.
“Why baseball?” Pocket asks.
“Can’t be too picky when there’s only so many things on the schedule today. Besides, the uniforms make their asses look great.”
When Pocket laughs or smiles at the things he says, it always seems like they don’t really want to. That they do anyway is swiftly becoming a point of pride. “Of course,” they say. “I don’t even know if I like baseball.”
“Not into sports, or?”
They shrug. “Not really. Nothing against them. Just never found one that called to me.”
Lash makes a thoughtful sound.
“What? No jokes?” Pocket asks.
“Just surprised. I have it on good authority you’re in pretty good shape,” he says with a grin. Just because he stopped them last night doesn’t mean he didn’t get a handful.
“I try,” they say flatly as if their face isn’t flooding with pink. “But nothing organized, really.”
“Here I thought you’d be the second deadliest person on our side.”
“I assume you’re the first.”
“Naturally.”
“Who’s second now?”
“Guess you’re getting outplayed by Sparkles. She might look crazy, but those acrobatics are no joke.”
Their voice drops to a near whisper at the end, as if the train isn’t drowning out everything beyond a few inches away. “I don’t have to be able to cartwheel to carry a gun or use magic.”
“If you want me to raise you in the ranking, you’re gonna have to show some muscle.” Lash leers in case they somehow miss his meaning.
“Everything’s a setup with you. Here’s something I’ve never said in my life: can we go back to talking about sports? You ever do any, other than the obvious?”
“I tried plenty as a kid,” Lash says. “Wrestling, soccer, basketball, boxing. Whatever it took to burn off all the energy.” And the calories, Lash doesn’t say. That’s for another time, if it ever gets that far. Which it won’t, because he just wants to get his dick wet and move on. “The Lash has always been cursed with too much stamina.”
Pocket rolls their eyes, but their answer is serious enough. “I tried fencing in high school. I was horrible at it.”
“Fencing?” Lash does not pull a face. It’s hard to reconcile the Pocket who dresses like a hobo and sleeps on the floor of the hideout with someone who went to a school that teaches fencing.
“The most I got out of it was that I stopped tripping over my own feet by the end of term.”
Lash snickers. “So you’re not the sporty type. I don’t think much of a drama dork either. Art, maybe? No.” He snaps his fingers. “Music.”
“I might have played the piano for a few years.” It’s a real smile this time, but a sad one.
“How many is a few?”
“Twelve, I think.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Pocket looks up at him with those miserable eyes, and he regrets asking. Whatever the answer is, it’s going to be a huge downer. He should have seen the warning signs. And Pocket called talking to him a minefield.
They’re both saved by the train thundering to a stop. “This is us,” Lash says, pulling Pocket up with him. “Come on, Gooey.”
Pocket’s quiet on the short walk to the ballpark, but Viscous more than makes up for it with his running questions about where they are and what they’re looking at and why everyone else is looking at him. With the cultists’ money, Lash pays for seats behind home plate like this is the kind of game that matters and not an off day doubleheader between minor league dweebs.
He stands aside to let Pocket go first, ready to follow next, when the goo says, “Thank you!” and pushes right past him, settling into the seat between them like a stiff blob of jam. Over his head, Lash can see Pocket smirking, which is better than the depressing look from before, so Lash lets it go.
Making Pocket entertain the goo by themself seems like a proportionate act of vengeance anyway. “I’m getting refreshments. Any requests?” he asks.
With the cultists’ cash burning a hole in his pocket, he browses the souvenirs. Neither team has a reputation for being champions, so Lash selects the merch based on color scheme alone. The Brooklyn Banshees’ gray, purple and blue color combo is superior to the red and yellow of the Harlem Gargoyles by far.
When he returns to their seats, he’s got his arms full and a Banshees baseball cap sitting snug on his head. He reaches past the goo to hand Pocket a beer. “Hair of the dog. Just the one,” he says, amused at the way they scowl stubbornly up at him.
“I thought that was called beer,” Viscous says.
“That too,” Lash answers. “Hold this,” he says, trusting the goo with his drink for a moment. Then he yanks two more caps out from under his arm, setting one on each of their heads. Pocket adjusts theirs so it fits properly. Viscous simply lets his sit there. Then Lash tucks into his chair and gets his beer back, trying not to stick his elbow too deep into the slime beside him.
After the second inning, Pocket squeezes past to use the restroom, and Lash convinces Viscous to scoot over, leaving Pocket the seat between them — which means they get to sit next to Lash and have to share elbow room with the goo.
“I should’ve known,” Pocket mutters when they return.
Lash beams at them. They relax eventually, leaning back into their seat and keeping their mouth shut about the arm Lash has draped behind them. The game even makes them smile a couple times, which he keeps getting distracted by. Pocket’s hair pokes out from under the cap at jagged intervals, and they look a little silly, and Lash wonders if the beer and the greasy breakfast were all too much because there’s that feeling in his chest again.
The audience groans, and Lash realizes he’s missed something. Pocket laughs, eyes straight ahead on the game. “That’s the third time he’s tried to steal a base. What is he doing? I thought these guys were professionals.”
Lash snorts. “One game and you’re suddenly an expert?”
“This isn’t my first game,” they say.
“I thought you said—”
“I said I didn’t know if I liked it, not that I’ve never been.” As Pocket speaks, they monitor the proceedings on the field, which are admittedly boring at the moment. “My dad had box seats. It’s just—” They stop there, cringing.
Lash files the box seats away for later, adding only, “He sucked?”
Pocket clears their throat, staring into their empty beer cup. “Yeah. He sucked. Made it hard to care about the game when he was there.”
Lash thinks about the minefield again, and thinks maybe this time it’s best to say nothing. Instead he drops his hand from the seat to Pocket’s shoulder, rubbing in a way that might be comforting. They don’t say much else, and he lets that one go, because they don’t shrug away from his touch either. Then the Banshees hit a home run, Pocket whistles sharply through their fingers, and Lash’s heart pounds in his ringing ears.
The Banshees win both games, because Lash knows how to pick a winner even between two losers. Still, those losers give them several hours of entertainment. By the end, Lash and Pocket are both on their feet cheering. Viscous follows suit, mimicking the people around him — and because, weird as he might be, he does have a good sense of fun. Amid the applause and the shouting, Pocket glances up at Lash. Their smile is the freest he’s seen since he met them, unburdened by the upcoming ritual or anything else, and they turn with a hand on his arm like they’re going to say something, and all Lash wants to do is yank that silly cap off their head and kiss them.
“I love baseball,” Viscous declares. Instead of Lash sweeping Pocket off their feet, he and Pocket both get swept into Viscous’s gooey embrace.
Lash groans quietly, but somehow his mood isn’t totally crushed by the moment. Viscous is kind of growing on him. Or at least Viscous’s enthusiasm and, more importantly, Viscous’s money are growing on him.
On their way out of the stadium, Pocket talks Lash into buying Gooey a Banshees jersey to match his hat. Once he manages to stretch it over his big head, it fits well enough, but it does make it look like he’s naked slime with only a shirt on instead of slime in a suit, which is not an improvement.
Pocket does not fight Lash’s arm around them on the train ride, and they don’t take off that hat no matter how stupid their hair looks under it. “What’s next?” they ask. “Still have a few hours to kill before I can say the day is over.”
“I do not think I want the goo in a sauna,” Lash muses aloud.
“Where would we even find one?”
“There’s a gym near the Bear Pit that lets me use it whenever I want. I’ve made the owner a lot of money, so, you know, he lets me go in the off hours so I don’t get accosted by fans.”
“You haven’t been accosted by a fan all day.”
“The hat is doing a lot of work,” he insists.
“Okay. Well, no sauna anyway.”
“Can’t believe you’d turn down another opportunity to see the Lash in all his glory.”
“I hate to break it to you,” Pocket says, “but you don’t leave a lot to the imagination.”
“I know it can be tough not to compare yourself to this gorgeous body, but you gotta trust the Lash would not be interested if he didn’t expect to like what he sees.”
Pocket manages to look annoyed and amused at the same time. “That’s reassuring. That was definitely my concern.”
“I keep telling you, babe, you got nothing to worry about.”
It says a lot that they don’t argue against the pet name. They just smirk and lean into his arm, and he does his best not to get too curious about exactly what they’d look like naked and gleaming with sweat. Save that for later, when he’s not on public transit.
A few stops out, Pocket says, “Celeste made me promise if we went to see a peep show we’d have to invite her too. I don’t know if it was a joke or not.”
“Is this a suggestion?”
Pocket snorts. “It wasn’t.”
“Would have to ditch Gooey.”
“That’s mean. It could be funny to take him, I bet.”
“You got no respect for those hard-working women, you pervert.”
“That’s your hangup?” they laugh.
“The Lash respects showmanship and athleticism and embracing the beauty of a magnificent physique. What about this is a surprise to you?”
They stare at him for a moment, pretty mouth open while they look for words. Then they shut it. “Good point, I guess.”
“At least if we take him to a burlesque show, there’s something more than bodies for him to gawk at.”
“Like feathers.”
“Like feathers!” Lash says approvingly.
“I wasn’t serious about taking Viscous to either of those things,” Pocket says. “Or Celeste, for that matter.”
“But you’d go with me?” Lash asks with a grin.
“Not” — Pocket glances at him and then away — “tonight.”
Lash wants to cheer. He wants to grab them and kiss them right there on the grimy subway train. He wants to carry them back to his apartment and lay them out on his bed and not let them leave for three days, which totally counts as a one night stand if the only places you go between rounds are the kitchen and bathroom. “Cool,” he says.
By the time they get off the train, the sky is shot through with reds and golds. Lash drags his feet, racking his brain for a way to get rid of their third wheel without returning to the hideout.
Pocket beats him to it. “I had a great time, Viscous,” they say politely. “I’m glad you came with us.” They sound sincere, which is impressive. They’re not that good an actor.
Then they elbow Lash. “Yeah. Hope you had fun, buddy.” Another jab from Pocket’s elbow, and Lash fishes out his wallet. “Here’s your money.”
“I don’t need it in there,” says Viscous. “You know what you’re doing with it.”
He dismisses himself, leaving Pocket and Lash alone on the sidewalk. “So,” Lash says, still holding Viscous’s cash. “Dinner? Could take you somewhere real nice with this.”
“Anywhere too nice, and they’re not gonna let us in,” Pocket says.
“I have a suit in the back of my closet,” Lash says.
“I don’t,” Pocket answers, and Lash should’ve figured that was coming.
“Could probably find you something with Viscous’s money,” Lash offers.
“And then we couldn’t afford the dinner,” Pocket says with a laugh. “Let's try somewhere more laid back. Save the money for something else.”
Dinner isn’t exactly at the Ritz, but they find a nice enough Italian place Lash knows that lets them in dressed as they are, as long as they take off the baseball hats. Over a pile of pasta nearly too big for his plate, Lash waxes rhapsodic about his last fight, the one that left his face busted up only to discover Pocket still thought he was handsome.
“So I’m diving in, boosh, from way up high, and he tries to roll away, so I land right on his collar bone, which is, I’ll be honest, pretty horrific to see. I mean, that’s on him for not knowing how to take the hit correctly, but ugh, the sound.”
Pocket grimaces while they scarf down their own platter, matching him almost pound for pound in delicious carbohydrates. Insane, considering he’s got nearly twice the body mass to maintain. He definitely does not bring this one up either, but he tucks it away in the file he’s started keeping in his head, profiling them like he’s in one of those noir films. Can be bribed with food, filed under Likes.
Lash has learned so much in one day, it’s nuts. There’s the piano and the fencing and the daddy issues, which all lead up to some kind of probably-rich asshole family who don’t know what to do when their kid starts acting queer. Not everyone is blessed with a mother like his, who couldn’t give a single shit what kind of person Lash is into, as long as they’re worthy of his time. According to her, he has yet to introduce her to someone good enough for him, but that’s a better problem to have than parents who can’t stand you.
“You ever been in a fight?” Lash asks. “Not your sad fencing career. That doesn’t count.”
“I, um…” Pocket stares too long, which is how Lash knows it was a stupid question. The answer is yes, or something like it, and they’re either not going to tell him or they’re going to explain it in such excruciating detail that he regrets asking. Their eyes dart away, then they say, “When I was twelve, I got in a fist fight.”
Relieved they seem to have found the middle path, Lash pretends to believe it’s the only answer, and he leans in. “Yeah? Over what?”
“This boy had been sort of bothering me for a while, and my dad and this girl I knew told me if I stood up to him just once, he’d leave me alone. Then he got nasty with her and called me an invert.” Their mouth tics into that almost smile. “Guess he was right on that count.”
“Did it work?”
Pocket huffs, amused. “No. I hurt my hand, and he made fun of me for hitting ‘like a girl,’ which, you know, had the opposite effect of shutting him up.”
Lash looks them over, considering how their compact build would have looked at that age. He knows from practice that Pocket hits surprisingly hard now, but they’re also a grown adult with something to prove. “He ever leave you alone?”
“My dad intervened. I think the whole situation embarrassed him.”
“That didn’t make it worse?”
“You don’t know my dad. It definitely stopped. Then junior high started, I made more friends, and he probably moved on to easier targets.”
Judging from the way they won’t quite make eye contact, pursuing this further will probably make them shut down or take on that thousand yard stare again, so he side steps and goes for a different detail. “Wouldn’t have guessed you were one of the popular kids.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but sure, I had plenty of friends. Some of them even real friends.”
“As opposed to imaginary?”
“As opposed to social climb—” They pause, as if realizing what they’ve said. He watches them visibly gather themself. “Social climbers, sycophants, opportunists. Baby vipers learning to be just as venomous as their parents.” Their face is tight as if it cost something to say it.
Lash feels strangely touched that they’d make the effort. God, it must be hard to want him so bad. He decides to have mercy on them. “I had a bully. More than one,” he says, watching Pocket’s expression open up again at the subject change. “I know, it’s hard to believe, but the Lash has had to overcome adversity.”
Their eyes say go on, even as they shovel more food into their mouth.
“I was eight and this kid, Jamie Paxton, wouldn’t leave me alone. I was—” Fat, he thinks. A loser. A weird kid with no dad who wore a key for a necklace when his mom was at work, a kid who ate his worthless feelings and hated himself more than his mother’s love could make up for. “Kind of a loner at the time,” he finishes. “And I was obviously not the specimen you see before you today. I didn’t know then that I was destined for greatness. So he picked on me for months, and just like you, somebody told me to stand up to him. So the next time he popped off at the mouth, I decked him hard as I could. The Lash’s first KO, baby: a third-grader.”
“I hope it helped. I mean, I don’t think you should fight children now, but…” Lash snickers, and Pocket relents. “You know what I mean.”
“You don’t wanna see the Lash suplex an eight-year-old?”
Pocket laughs then covers their mouth in horror. “No, that’s awful.”
“I don’t know why you’re laughing then.”
“It’s — I’m sorry,” Pocket says.
“You don’t have to apologize to me. You have to apologize to the children.”
“I imagined it like something out of a cartoon. It’s not funny. Oh, God. Go back to your story before I laugh at something terrible again.”
He’s never slept with somebody so hung up on being a goody two shoes, but Pocket wears guilt like a second skin. Maybe Lash can be a good influence. Maybe he can rub off on them when he’s rubbing off on them.
“Unlike you,” he continues, “mine didn’t stop. Or that one did, but others still tried to pick on me. I don’t know. I guess I was kinda runty and alone too much and maybe kind of…” He doesn’t know the word for what he wants to say. Probably a pejorative about his sexuality, but it’s not as though he’s ever given off particularly feminine vibes.
“Theatrical?” Pocket supplies with a smirk.
“Heh, maybe. I don’t know. They couldn’t handle my natural showmanship, probably. Those kids were like sharks and whatever I was doing chummed the water. I had to win a lot of fights before they learned to leave me alone.” He takes another bite of his food, a tiny act of rebellion against the part of him that to this day says he shouldn’t. “So, you know, I learned how to fight the hard way.”
“I don’t think anyone learns it the easy way,” Pocket muses.
“Except maybe fencers.”
They snort. “Yeah, except them.”
They finish their meal in relative peace, eating until they’re both left picking at the remains on their plates. The big clock on the wall ticks away, and Lash smirks. “So,” he says, “we still got fifteen minutes before my cutoff if you’ve changed your mind.”
Pocket sighs loudly enough that he knows they want him to hear it. “Come on. I haven’t. I told you no distractions.”
“You sure seemed to want this distraction last night.”
“I was drunk, and I—” They try to stop themself there.
Lash grins. “Go on. Tell me again how irresistible I am.”
“I thought it would be easy.”
“Nothing wrong with that. The Lash’s allure is inescapable, especially when he’s turned his attentions on you.”
“Not what I mean,” they mutter.
“You lost me. What’s the problem?”
They won’t quite look at him when they say, “You make it easy to underestimate you. As a person, I guess. I thought I could…” They make one of those incomprehensible gestures with their hand. “Get it out of my system and move on.”
It’s not embarrassment on their face. It’s shame, and for what? Wanting a one night stand with an impossibly gorgeous man? “Okay, and? It’s fine. Totally fine. Kind of a relief, actually. So what if you only wanted one night? That’s all the Lash was after. It’s fine. No big deal.”
“It sounds fine.”
“Yeah, ’cause it is. It’s mutual. We’re adults. Who cares? The Lash does it all the time, you know. He’s a busy guy. No time to get pinned down. It’s fine. There’s whole wide world of hot people out there. Honestly, it would be selfish of you to keep them from getting their chance with the Lash. So it is totally fine. I don’t care.”
Pocket’s eyebrows have disappeared into their shaggy hair as if they’re shocked by how very cool Lash is with being treated like a piece of meat. “Right,” they say slowly. “Well, maybe you think it’s fine, but—”
“It is.”
“Yeah, I got that. But it turns out I’m not that kind of person.” They’re speaking to him like he’s a child or something, which is infuriating at all times, but especially coming from anyone under the age of 25.
Besides, Lash has frankly heard enough of their self-flagellation over what is, once again, totally fine. He stands and stretches, uncaring about the way the chair scrapes noisily along the floor. “Probably for the best, since your window’s closed anyway. The Lash forgot to factor in how long it would take to walk home, so.”
Scrunched down and scrubbing both hands through their hair, Pocket stares at him like he’s grown extra limbs, which is crazy, because he’s making perfect sense. So much sense, in fact. Like way more sense than they ever have. “Can you sit down?” they ask.
“Nope. The Lash has a strict pre-match bedtime, remember? Check, please!”