Work Text:
Ghoul's been itching for a new tattoo for awhile.
He isn't sure what design he wants, but he knows it's time for another. He has the perfect spot picked out, up high on his left flank, above the scar from where he got winged by a Drac last year.
He takes one of the bikes and heads into Zone 3; there's a new tattoo artist he's been hearing about that he wants to check out. Her name is KadyK, and she's painfully young and deadly serious. She dresses like a crash queen, all leather and buckles and torn tee shirts, blue hair shaved on one side. Ghoul has a hard time not calling her 'kid.'
She keeps most of her tattoos hidden, but every once in a while Ghoul sees a flash of inked skin. It makes him wonder what her story is. "My crew, they're really important to me, and I want something that reflects that," he tells her.
"Family," she says, and Ghoul grins, because she gets it.
"Yeah."
She nods and he shows her his tatts. She has him explain what each one means to him. "Some of them I got just 'cause," he protests. "No deeper meaning." He feels ridiculous with his pants undone and sagging half-way down his ass. He's glad he wasn't going commando.
"It's all right. Tell me about the ones that are important to you. I'm trying to get a sense of who you are." She smiles gently, and there's something in her eyes that makes Ghoul revise her age upwards by a number of years.
It takes a while, because Ghoul's got a shit-load of tattoos, and some do have stories to go along with them. Being a 'runner means traveling light, and the tattoos are a way to keep the memories alive without being weighed down by physical mementos.
KadyK tells Ghoul to come back in a week and by the time Ghoul gets back to the diner, it's dark and quiet. It's late, but Poison's sitting in one of the booths, long legs stretched across the cracked vinyl. There's a candle on the table, and the flickering light throws shadows across Poison's face.
"Hey, sugar," Poison says softly. He looks dangerous in the darkness, like a predator, hungry.
It sends a shiver down Ghoul's back. "Couldn't sleep?"
Poison shakes his head. "Kobra and Jet are with Dr. D for a few days. It's too quiet to sleep."
Poison looks exhausted; he and insomnia are old friends. "C'mon, bedtime, then." Ghoul sets the proximity alarms and leads Poison to the room they share with Jet and Kobra, two large dusty mattresses on the floor, blankets and pillows scavenged from across the Zones.
It's not much, but it's what they've got. Ghoul tugs off Poison's clothes, leaving him in boxers and an undershirt. "Down," he urges, and Poison crawls across the mattress to his usual spot on the inside. He's still tight with tension, and it isn't until Ghoul scoots behind him, pressing chest to back, tucking his knees into the bend of Poison's legs that Poison relaxes. He sighs, and all the tension melts out of him.
"New tattoo, huh?" he mumbles. "Didn't think you had any more skin left for that."
"There's still a little bit here and there," Ghoul says. His arm is draped over Poison's waist, and his hand rests against Poison's belly.
"Mmmm," Poison hums, and Ghoul can feel him drifting off. He listens to Poison breathe for a while before letting himself relax into sleep.
He goes back to KadyK's and she's waiting for him. She shows him a couple of ideas sketched out on scraps of paper. The first two are okay, using traditional motifs, but none of them really speak to him. KadyK seems unperturbed, almost like she knew Ghoul wouldn't be into them. She shows him the final drawing, and Ghoul catches his breath.
It's an abstract design, a swirl and splatter of colors, bright and gorgeous. And cleverly worked into the sketch are words: loyalty, honesty, respect. There are other things hidden in the tattoo, the silhouette of a raygun, a heart, and the longer Ghoul looks at it, the more he sees. "It's perfect," he breathes.
KadyK smiles. "I thought you'd like it."
Ghoul can't stop staring at it. "I do. It's beautiful." He traces the splotches of color with a fingertip. "How much is this gonna cost me?" he asks ruefully. Because he's got to have this tattoo, and KadyK probably knows that. She can pretty much name her price at this point. "I've got trade goods of all kinds: food, water, pills, batteries. Gasoline, but that might take a while. Medical supplies, ray guns, alk, pretty much anything you want, I can get my hands on."
"No, no, I want something else." She looks at him, serious and too earnest, like the way Poison used to be, lifetimes ago. "I want you to create something, just for me. Art, poetry, a song, whatever you want, whatever you're good at." She indicates the artwork on her the walls, and gestures to the careless pile of 'zines on a table.
Ghoul wrinkles his nose at her. "You don't want me to draw, I'm terrible at it. Poison's the artist in my crew." Ghoul flashes on all the sketches scattered around the diner, quick doodles and portraits done in Poison's angular style. He sometimes thinks about what Poison could have done in a world that hadn't ended in fire, all that passion and talent directed into his art, rather than survival. "And I'm not any good with words."
He carefully doesn't think about the tattered notebook he keeps hidden under his mattress, the one where he writes down the words that won't stop haunting him, phrases and odd lines that catch on his brain, trip on his tongue. It's his way of dealing with the way he feels, hope and bitterness and fear tangled together low in his belly.
Ghoul considers the guitar that Poison had brought to him, spoils of a raid, and the lessons Jet's given him over the years. He likes to play, sometimes making stuff up, but he wouldn't consider himself particularly good at it. "I could maybe write a song," he says, dubious.
"That would be perfect," KadyK says. "Just doing my part to give BLI the finger."
Ghoul laughs and drops his pants, stretching out on the padded table while she prepares her equipment. Her set-up is ancient and held together with duct tape, but she carefully sterilizes everything with alk. Ghoul shrugs to himself; most artists don't put that much effort into disinfecting their work space. He appreciates it, though, because he's had a couple of tattoos scarred by infections.
"Ready?"
Ghoul hums in reply, and the moment the needles bite into his skin, something deep inside of him. . .relaxes.
It hurts, of course. This pain is overwhelming; it's hard to concentrate on anything else, but slowly, his breathing evens out and the tension in his muscles melts away. The buzz of the machine is like white noise and Ghoul falls into a trance, mind free of the myriad worries of keeping his crew alive out in the Zones.
He doesn't know how long he lays there in his ratty underwear, head pillowed on his folded arms, still as death under KadyK's deft hand.
Ghoul rises back to consciousness slowly, becoming aware of the silence and the astringent smell of alk. KadyK blots at the tattoo down with a cloth, and there's the cool sensation of alk evaporating off of his skin before the sting sets in. "Fuck," he mutters.
"Take a look before I wrap it up," she says, pulling out some gauze from a drawer.
He twists, and he can only see the edges of the tattoo, bright and colorful.
"Over there." KadyK points to a corner of the room, where a cracked full-size mirror leans against the wall.
Ghoul pads over, turns sideways and looks. "Oh!" His fingers automatically reach out and he only manages to stop himself at the last moment.
It's exactly what he wanted. The image takes up most of the skin on his upper hip, the edges fading out, and it somehow captures everything he feels about his crew—his family.
KadyK's reflection joins his in the mirror, her face quietly pleased. She touches the edge of the design. "I think it's the best thing I've ever done."
"It's perfect," Ghoul says fiercely, and goes up on tiptoe to kiss her cheek in thanks.
He puts off thinking about KadyK's song. Not intentionally, of course. But survival is a full-time occupation in the Zones, and there's always something that needs to be done yesterday. Engine repairs, scrounging for food and gasoline, raiding BLI supply trucks; all the things that are essential to living.
Ghoul also fights off Poison's attempts to see the tattoo. He can't explain it, but the tattoo needs to be only his for a while, settling into his skin, sinking into his bones. The design is intensely personal, his soul laid bare, and Ghoul isn't ready for Poison to see that. He's not sure he'll ever be ready for that.
Poison sneers and stalks off, and Ghoul sees the hurt in the line of his shoulders.
Ghoul finally finds the time and privacy to pull out the guitar. It's out of tune, because the desert air is hell on the wood and strings. He's out of practice, and it takes him forever, but he finally gets it to the point where it doesn't make him wince.
He plucks at the strings, plays a couple of chords, but nothing comes to mind. "I hate my fucking weakness, but it makes me what I am," he mutters, and there's something about the words that appeal to him. "I hope I die before they save my soul. Whatever's left of it, that is."
He shivers, because the idea of BLI getting a hold of him is heart-stoppingly terrifying. He's seen first-hand what they do, how they strip away your personality, your you-ness, and leave behind a blank, soulless drone.
"Fucking blow myself up first," he tells the guitar.
"No blowing yourself up," Jet says from the doorway, making Ghoul jump. The guitar twangs in protest. "Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing, really," Ghoul scowls.
Jet looks at him for a beat, and as always, sees straight through him. "You're writing a song. For the artist that did your tattoo?"
"How the fuck did you know that?" It's like everyone around here is all up in his business, what's wrong with giving a 'joy a little privacy? "How—"
"You're such a dumb fuck." Jet rolls his eyes so hard Ghoul's amazed they don't pop out of his head. "You've been talking nonstop about her, and your tattoo, and she's got a rep for trading art for art. I'm not a moron."
"Oh."
"Oh," Jet mimics. "Scoot over, I'll help."
Ghoul folds up a pillow and uses it to brace himself against the wall. Jet crowds close on the mattress, cradles the guitar in his lap. "Get out your notebook."
"What?" A wave of icy fear washes over Ghoul. "I don't—" His notebook—
"You are the worst at secrets, I swear. That's why we can't ever let BLI have you, you'd fucking tell them everything." Jet tightens one of the pegs on the guitar and makes a satisfied noise. "You're not as stealth as you think you are." He runs his fingers over the strings, the sound warm and rich. "Don't worry, no one messed with it."
"I wasn't worried, fucker." The knot in his chest dissolves, and he punches Jet half-heartedly on the arm. "I'm totally stealth.
Jet smiles, but doesn't look up from where he's fiddling with a loose fret.
Ghoul works on the song, on and off, for a couple of weeks, when he finds the time to be alone. Jet's there with a bit of advice when he needs it, and he pushes Ghoul past his comfort zones, refusing to let Ghoul be lazy and settle for 'okay.' Ghoul swears at him.
In the end, it's mostly just him and the guitar. It feels. . .affirming, somehow, to create this—thing, this song— with the words rattling around in his head, freed from the pages of his notebook.
It's like he's taking part of himself and putting it into the music. And maybe that's too much, maybe he shouldn't, but anything less than total honesty seems wrong. It doesn't live up to the spirit of his trade with KadyK. She took his feelings about his crew and made them art; he can't do anything less.
Poison is noticeably scarce, working on some project with Dr. D and Kobra. He gets back to the diner long after Ghoul's fallen asleep, and is gone before he wakes up. If it wasn't for the messed up blankets on Poison's side of the mattress, Ghoul would swear that Poison wasn't coming home at all.
Secretly, Ghoul's relieved, though. He's not ready to share this with Poison. They've been a crew for years now, bound by blood and sweat and tears, and Ghoul has been careful to keep the darker parts of himself out of sight. The song, though, is ugly and raw and it strips him bare. It makes him cringe just thinking about Poison hearing it, and seeing Ghoul for the fraud he is.
"It's good. Real good," Jet says softly, when Ghoul plays the whole song for him, all the bits stitched together into a coherent whole. Ghoul doesn't have the best singing voice, it's creaky and rough, but it works with the words of the song. It's not meant to be a pretty thing, dressed up in fancy words. It's just Ghoul. "You gonna play it for Poison?"
"What? No—" Ghoul opens his mouth to protest, to argue, but Jet's looking at him, like he knows. Maybe he does. "I can't," he says, plaintive. "It's too much, he won't—"
"All right." Jet shrugs; he knows how stubborn Ghoul can be. "You can stop picking at it, the damn thing's done."
Ghoul shakes his head. "Don't you think it'd sound better if we changed—"
"No."
"But—"
"Fuck off," Jet says, but Ghoul knows he doesn't mean it. "It's done."
Ghoul can't sleep, because once Jet planted the seed in his brainpan, Ghoul can't let it go. Poison's still off doing fuck knows what, and Cobra's sound asleep, every other breath a soft snore. All Ghoul can think about is playing the song for Poison, and his reaction.
It makes his knees feel wobbly, and he's breathing faster at the idea of sharing this thing that has so much of himself in it. "Fuck this," he mutters, throwing off the blanket and getting up, careful not to disturb Kobra.
He goes out the back door of the diner; there's an area where the scraggly desert vegetation's been cleared away. Over the years, they've scavenged a couple of armchairs, a small couch. They're old and dusty and Ghoul is pretty sure there's a rodent of some sort nesting in the couch, but it's a good place to sit and watch the summer storms roll in.
Ghoul lights a cigarette and inhales, collapsing back onto the couch. It squeaks in protest, the springs or the mouse, he's not sure, and Ghoul laughs quietly. He leans his head back to watch the stars twinkle in the sky. Sometimes he comes out here and pretends that things are different, that the world didn't end with the rise of BLI. The stark beauty of the desert makes him hope, and that's plain stupid. The universe has no use for hope.
He lets his mind wander, and he's so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn't hear the Trans Am until it's rattling to a stop in the gravel next to the diner. He thinks wildly about running off into the desert, but where would he go? He'd roast under the sun, once it came up.
Ghoul left the back door propped open, so if Poison's looking for him, he's not hard to find.
"Hey," Poison says.
Ghoul twitches a shoulder up in greeting, and lights another cigarette.
"You want company?"
He shrugs again, because his heart says 'yes', and his head says 'not really.' Poison drops down next to Ghoul; he's never been one to hesitate. He props one foot on the edge of the seat and wraps his arms around his knee.
"Been working with D, mapping out a couple of raids for meds and food. Maybe something other than Power Pup for once. Looks shiny." He leans in until their shoulders brush. "Whatcha been up to, motorbaby?"
Ghoul takes a deep breath. "I've been working on a song—"
"I'm not an idiot," Poison interrupts. Poison flicks his cigarette into the darkness. The implied 'unlike some people' is loud and clear. "It done?"
"Yeah."
"Then share it with us or your tatt artist or play it on stage with Mad Gear. Do whatever you're gonna do and stop being a twitchy motherfucker. It's driving us all crazy." Poison cuts straight to the heart of the matter, unerringly accurate even without all the intel.
Ghoul swallows, loud in the silence, and slants a glance at Poison. The moon is mostly hidden by clouds, but there's enough light to see Poison's face, and it gives nothing away. "It's—" The word Ghoul wants to use is 'intimate' but "—personal."
There's a charged silence, and Poison grins, a slash of white in the darkness. "Baby, we've been crew for more than five years now. 'Personal' was left in the dust a long time ago."
"Fuck you," Ghoul says heavily, because Poison's right, the fucker's always right. "Let me get the guitar." He climbs to his feet and heads back into the diner like he's facing a crowd of Dracs. The guitar's where he left it, waiting, and the strings vibrate when he grabs it.
He sits back down on the couch, trying to ignore the way his stomach's churning. Back straight, guitar cradled in his lap, not looking at Poison because he doesn't think he can do that right now. This is hard enough. . .
It's a simple song, really. He starts with G, then moves to E minor, tapping his foot to keep time as he sings. His fingertips hurt, his wrist is sore, and his voice is rough from use, and this is the single most scary thing he's done in his life. He loses track of the lyrics because he's concentrating so hard on his finger placement, and he stumbles over the words.
He keeps going, because he doesn't know how to quit. "Yeah, it's cool, I'll be okay," fingers aching as he moves from G5 to B5 to C5. He sings the final chorus, hits the notes of the last line, and plays the end tag with a fancy flourish that he practiced incessantly until he got it right.
The final notes die off and Ghoul stares down at the toes of his boots, curving himself over the body of the guitar.
Poison grabs his elbow hard and pulls him to his feet. "Show me," he demands, almost dragging Ghoul back to the diner. "Show me the tatt."
Ghoul almost trips over his feet, recovers, and lets Poison steer him into the main room. Once there, Poison turns on a lantern and holds it up, the golden light casting long shadows in the dimness. "Show me," he whispers, clearly mindful of Kobra sleeping in the next room.
Poison's eyes are narrowed, intent, and Ghoul fumbles at his belt, a blush heating his cheeks. He drops his pants and pushes the waistband of his shorts down, just far enough to reveal the tattoo.
He has to bite back a gasp when Poison drops to his knees and brings the lantern closer, pushing on Ghoul's thigh to get him to turn until the bright colors of the tatt are visible. Poison traces lightly over the lines of the design, and Ghoul shivers. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, because it tickles, and it makes him want Poison to touch him in other places.
Poison rubs his thumb over the tatt. "Our crew," he murmurs. "Family. It's perfect." He looks up at Ghoul. "And your song—" He presses a kiss to the tattoo, his lips soft and warm. "Do you really think I haven't known who you are before now? That after all this time, I hadn't seen all of your faults and your strengths, the good and the bad?"
"Uh—" Ghoul is a little breathless, because this is what he's always wanted and never thought he could have.
"Such a fucking idiot," Poison says fondly.
There's really nothing Ghoul can say to that.
-fin-