Work Text:
In the Zones, sleep is necessarily irregular. Eight hours of consecutive shuteye is a City luxury that, like most other luxuries, doesn’t quite make its way outside of the City’s borders. A killjoy needs to be a light sleeper in order to survive, awake at the first warning of Draculoids or unfriendly zone rats. Leaving yourself and your gear unprotected while you sleep is practically begging for a white rubber mask shoved over your eyes. Sleep can be damned uncomfortable, too–bunking down for a midday nap means you’ll wake up drenched in sweat when the heat spikes, but sleep too late into the night and you’ll freeze before you wake. So killjoys sleep when they can–catnaps under a gas station awning before the sun rises too much, or alternating shifts with your crew when the desert has cooled. The sleep schedule of a desert runner is erratic, making it vital that a ‘joy learns how to fall asleep in moments and wake just as easily.
Jet Star is good at waking virself up. Being born and raised in the Zones means ve has honed vir awareness like a blade. Even asleep, ve can catch the sound of tires rolling over the sands from miles off. When ve wakes up, its with adrenaline coursing through vir, ready to pull vir blaster out as soon as vir eyes blink open. This instinct has kept Jet safe. It also means that when desert life starts getting chaotic–like when the Girl is sick with a zone fever, or they’ve pissed BL/ind off robbing their supply lines, or Ghoul runs a solo errand two Zones over, or, say, all of those things happen inside of a week–Jet doesn’t get a wink of sleep.
When vir Motorbaby wakes up from a feverish nightmare, Jet Star is by her side practically before she can cry out. Ve sings to her while she shakes through it, some fragments of lullaby that someone must have sung to Jet, once. Ve remembers their voice, but not their face, and hopes while they sing that their Girl doesn’t forget any of them. Eventually, vir voice soothes her back into an uneasy sleep, but, try as ve might, Jet can’t seem to follow her. Ve stays near, watching her like the sands might take her away if ve doesn’t.
When midday rolls around, Jet and the Kobra Kid are aiming for a few moments of sleep in Ghoul’s garage. It isn’t the safest place to hole up for a nap, as there’s no telling what’s explosive and what isn’t, but neither wants to have to peel themselves off a vinyl seat in the diner after sleeping there. So they risk it. The Kid curls up under a table and is breathing slowly, out in a handful of minutes. Jet leans up near them, against a wall and close enough that Kobra can grab vir ankle while they sleep. Ve’s nodding off virself when ve catches the sound of tires not far off. Jet’s boots are on the ground in seconds, and ve pulls a suddenly-awake Kobra with vir. They dispatch the coming Dracs in a handful of minutes, but neither of them manages to get any rest after.
Sleep does not come for Jet Star that night, either. In a feat of poor timing, one of Fun Ghoul’s “old friends” had asked it to run an errand for them. It takes the Ghoul across two zones and back, and it refused to let any of the crew go with it. In lieu of being able to go with it, Jet Star stays awake by the radio all night, waiting for its distress signal. The call never comes, but Jet doesn’t sleep for more than a handful of fitful moments, vir body curled around the crackling radio. When the Ghoul returns to the diner, the sun is just beginning to show herself, and Jet Star is so relieved to see it intact and alive that ve forgets about sleep entirely. Instead, ve grabs a can from Kobra’s poorly hidden stash of energy drinks and sets to work cleaning Fun Ghoul’s scrapes and bruises.
Once Ghoul’s minor injuries have been seen to, he sets off to his workshed to mess with Destroya-knows-what. Jet Star sighs and sinks back into a vinyl booth, figuring ve’ll try and get some work done until the caffeine burns out of vir system. Instead, Party Poison bursts like a nuclear bomb through the diner’s front doors. Jet startles bad enough to bang vir elbow on the metal lip of the table, making vir curse under vir breath.
“Jet!” Party cries, entirely too energetic for the hour of the morning.
“Poison,” Jet answers, vir teeth still gritted in pain.
“You’ll come to Worst Place in the World with me tonight, won’t you?” He’s beaming at vir as he talks. “I was at the station and Pony traded me these for those old skates I found last week.” Party holds out two hand-written paper tickets to Jet. Jet Star passes a hand over vir eyes and sighs.
“Who’s playing?”
Party Poison’s impossibly bright grin brightens further, like he knows he’s won. He ticks off artists on his fingers—“Crash Sight, Fame Scarf and the Latex Gloves, the Missile Kid’s solo project, Body Bag…And Show Pony said she thought Raygun Jones was gonna show up, too, if they can get them to Worst Place on time. So you’ll come, right?”
It wasn’t that Jet Star couldn’t have said no. There’s plenty of times in their tangled history that ve had said no to Party Poison. But when ve saw the brightly colored paper in Poison’s hands, a switch flipped in vir brain, bringing back a flood of dusty old memories. Vir worried, mother-hen mind had skipped like a scratched record over the Party Poison of the now, settling on some distant version of them. Ve, just for a second, forgot to see vir own Party, the frontman helping raise a daughter in the wasteland. Instead, all Jet could think about were the late nights and early mornings where Party had come back to the diner after a gig, alone and, by Jet’s reckoning, unprotected. All the nights Party wouldn’t talk about, full of their loneliness and impulses. Jet turned those memories over in vir mind, slowly, and knew ve had to go to the gig with Poison. Just as ve had known it was vir job to watch over their Girlie, and wait up all night for Fun Ghoul, Jet Star knew it was vir job to keep Party Poison safe.
The caffeine had shaken and shuddered its way out of Jet Star’s anxious body by that afternoon, so ve stole another energy drink from Kobra before sitting down for Crew Dinner. Crammed into the vinyl seats of the diner booth, Girlie tucked against vir side, Jet could feel almost normal as ve sank into the routine. It was easier to ignore the slight tremor in vir hands if ve focused only on the story Fun Ghoul was telling.
“‘An anyways, I had control over it the whole time, Kobes. Doll Face was the one who nearly ran right through the tripwire, yeah? But I bet I can make it explode even bigger if we just hook a couple batteries up an’--”
“Not while you’re watching the Girl,” Jet intones, even tho ve knows Ghoul wouldn’t.
“Obviously,” Ghoul says. He doesn’t seem upset at the warning, like he knows Jet just needed to say it out loud.
“And please don’t blow up my diner.”
“Your diner, Star? Please. It’s all a’ ours, ain’t it?”
“It can be our diner when we do our dishes and clean up our own lighter fluid off the linoleum,” Jet shoots back. Fun Ghoul just laughs, unrepentant.
“Can’t believe you of all people got invited to Pony’s shindig, Jet, you’re such a drag,” he sighs. “Poison really does play favorites, huh?” He complains, but can’t quite keep the trickster grin off his face.
“Ain’t about favorites, Ghoulie,” Party Poison announces, sliding into the booth and the conversation like both spaces belong to her. “It’s that you’re a gods-damned hazard, and I’m sick of taking carbons outta my hair dye budget to pay for the fourth amp you broke ‘cuz you can’t quit jumping on things. Compared to all of y’all, Jet Star’s a fuckin’ gentleman.”
Finished orating like a desertborn prophet, Party taps her forehead affectionately to the top of the Girl’s head and the side of Jet’s shoulder in quick succession. In the next smooth movement she’s stolen Kobra’s spoon and can of Power Pup, shoveling food into her mouth before her brother can protest. “You gonna let me doll you up before we split, spaceman?”
“No glitter,” Jet sighs. Ve knows its pointless, even as ve says it–give Party an inch and they’ll take the Getaway Mile. Ve can see from the beaming smile on their face that Party knows it, too.
When Jet Star emerges from vir room, ve’s wearing bedazzled jean shorts and a high collared shirt, with heavy boots and vir leather jacket. Ve finds Party Poison quickly. They’re twirling through the hallway in a skirt, ruffled and animal-printed, gathered high in the front but long enough to brush their ankles in the back. They wrap themself around Jet like a constricting snake, and drag vir in front of a mirror to paint vir face. For once, Party Poison keeps the glitter to themself, dusting silver across their temples and shoulders. On Jet, they paint dark-colored tears dripping underneath vir eyes, and cover vir eyelids in a bruise-purple shadow. The effect makes Jet Star look intimidating and sad, and it’s fitting.The eyeshadow turns Jet’s natural exhaustion into something intentional and striking. While Jet ponders, Party paints their own mouth a garish turquoise, and, when they’ve finished, they pull Jet’s head against theirs to stare at them both in the cracked mirror. After a long, searching look, Party nods.
“This look work for you, Stargirl?” They ask. Jet Star’s distracted eyes catch on the glitter decorating Party’s face. Ve nods, a little helplessly. “Well, good. Let’s motor on out, then!” They pull the keys to Kobra Kid’s bike from their pocket, twirling them around their finger as they waltz into the cooling sunset.
By the time they swing off the bike at the venue, Jet Star is beginning to lose the vague sense of composure ve’d tried to hang on to at the diner. A pulsing fuzziness starts up behind vir eyes, only getting worse as ve follows Party through the door and into a room shaking with thumping, heavy music. The girl on the makeshift stage screams and croons in turns, and Party Poison throws himself immediately into the crowd. Jet Star stumbles vir way to a rickety stool by the bar, away from the stage but close enough to keep Party’s red shock of hair in sight. Ve waves off the shiny-eyed zone rat tending bar, and lets vir thoughts melt into humming static. Vir job is to watch Party Poison, and ve does, letting vir vision go fuzzy around the edges until all ve can see is the blood-bright shape of vir frontman.
“You sure are living up to your name, huh, spaceman?” Show Pony’s velvet-rough voice has Jet Star jumping a half-foot in the air before ve knows what’s hit vir.
“Phoenix fucking Witch, Pony,” ve curses.
Show Pony immediately looks apologetic, fluttering aer hands nervously. “Shit, Star, you okay?”
“Fine, Pones, just spaced. No damage.” Ve smiles, thinly, trying to pull vir thoughts back in order. Vir shaking got worse when Pony snuck up on vir, and ve realizes ve can’t make it stop. Pony frowns at vir–gently, but like ae can tell ve’s full of shit.
“If you’re sure,” ae squints at vir, letting one of aer restless hands run through Jet Star’s hair. Jet can’t help but lean back into aer.
“Star, baby, you are shaking like you’ve seen the Witch. You need some fresh air, honey?”
“No.” Ve doesn’t even convince virself. “Its, I, Party’s,” ve starts, trying to string vir sentence together. “I’m here with her, I shouldn’t…”
Show Pony nods, and turns over aer shoulder to face into the crowd. “Poison!” Ae yells. “Hey, cherrybomb! I’m borrowing your cute friend over here, ok? Behave yourself!”
A bright flash of red hair emerges, and Party Poison laughs, waving Show Pony off. “Don’t break vir, Pony, ve’s my ride home!”
Jet still hasn’t taken vir eyes off of Party Poison, making it easy for Show Pony to grab vir by the wrist and pull vir off vir barstool. Jet is too focused on not tripping over vir own feet to worry about where ae’s taking vir. It’s a quick moment before they’re outside, surrounded by stars and the coolness of the desert after dark. Jet blinks vir eye rapidly to adjust to the darkness, so off-center that ve wobbles slightly on vir feet. Pony pushes vir gently to sit against the wall before sliding down to sit next to vir.
“Witch, baby, I can’t remember the last time I saw you like this. Here–” Ae thrusts aer canteen at vir, looking approving as Jet obligingly takes a few sips of clean water. Pony pushes aerself up against the wall, leaning aer head on Jet’s shoulder and tugging one of vir knees towards aer.
“I’m really okay, Pony.” Ve tries to reassure aer, before ae can start fussing again. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” ae says, no heat in aer voice. “I remember tired Jet Star, I remember you before you had your crew. This ain’t that.”
Jet remembers that too–remembers how ve would fall asleep on the floor, surrounded by stacks of the Doc’s CDs, and wake up with a blanket draped over vir. Ve got more sleep then than ve does now.
“It’s three nights since I got any decent sleep, trust me, Pony, I am tired,” ve bites. When Pony opens aer mouth to reply, Jet interrupts aer. “Not like it was a choice, either, so you can skip the lecture about takin’ better care.”
“Okay,” Pony says, aer voice soft. “What happened, then?”
Jet’s words come spilling out of vir in a rush. “Motorbaby was sick, n’ I was up with her so she didn’t cough herself to death. Tried to rest th’ next day, but Dracs interrupted naptime. Night after, Ghoul’s on a solo run outta the Zone, n’ I was up, case he needed me. I’m not being laserbrained. I just gotta watch out for my crew.”
Pony makes a sad little sound, and pulls Jet closer to aer. Ae starts running a hand through vir hair while ae speaks. “Sounds like a mess of a time over at that diner of yours, baby. So why the hell’re you here, with Poison, instead of passed out in some vinyl booth? Did they really need an escort that badly?”
“She asked. Figured if she went to the trouble to invite me she didn’t wanna be on ‘er own.”
“Did they say something like that to you?”
“She doesn’t have to. It’s my job. My crew goes into danger, I’m the backup. That’s the deal.” Jet Star gives a little frustrated sigh.
“Star, sweetheart, it’s just a show. Poison’s been to dozens on their own before. Where’s the danger?”
“Anywhere I can’t see ‘em,” Jet says, before ve thinks about it. Ve flinches at vir own words, but can’t take them back. Pony tugs lightly at vir hair, pulling Jet out of vir own head for a moment.
“Always been the protective type, huh, Star?” Ae says it like a question, but Jet doesn’t answer. “Alright. Sit tight for two secs, okay?” Ae stands up and pokes aer head in the door to the bar. “Someone send me Party Poison,” ae hollers, and within moments, the redheaded ‘joy appears at the door. Pony pulls him through, giving his shoulders a gentle shove so he sits on the ground next to Jet Star.
“Star?” Poison asks.
There’s a note of concern in their voice that Jet hates virself for. Ve curls in on virself, hunched against the wall with vir head pressed to vir knees.
“I don’t think your second-in-command has been taking very good care of virself, cherrybomb.” Show Pony sits next to Jet as ae speaks. Poison sighs.
“Thanks, Pony. I’ll get vir home.”
“Don’t let vir back out without a good night’s rest, ‘kay?” Pony says. Jet looks up from vir knees and sees Pony fix Party Poison with a serious look. Party nods to aer and helps Jet Star to vir feet.
“Poison–” Jet starts.
“Don’t argue right now, Jet. Yell at me when we’re home, if you want.”
Jet is too tired to contest the point. Ve lets Show Pony press a friendly kiss to the back of vir head as Party walks vir over to their bike. Ve is unceremoniously bundled onto the bike behind Party Poison, who grabs vir arms and puts them around their waist. Despite the roar of the motorcycle and the chill of the night air, Jet Star is asleep within minutes.
Jet stumbles awake to the feeling of arms around vir, gently easing vir off the bike. It’s sweetly familiar, like being carried to bed when ve was small enough to be carried, and still had someone to carry vir. Someone throws vir arm around their shoulders, supporting vir as they walk. Jet struggles to open vir eyes, sees a flash of red, sees the diner ahead of vir.
“Party?” ve mumbles.
“Shh,” Party Poison says, pushing open the door to their diner. They slide Jet into the booth that ve’d turned into a makeshift bunk. “Sleep now, talk tomorrow. ‘Kay? Party flops into the booth behind Jet, curling up behind vir. Jet is too worn out to do anything but listen to them. With vir head pillowed on Party’s shoulder, warm and safe in the diner, sleep comes to vir quickly.
Aside from the killjoys scattered throughout the zones, one of the only forms of life that BL/Ind couldn’t kill are desert lizards. Tiny, sand-scaled creatures that Jet has to pull out of vir hair or Kobra’s helmet every few days, they spend mornings laid out under the sun and nights cooling under the sand. When Jet wakes in the diner, ve feels like ve imagines the lizards must, sun-warmed and lazy. It’s unusual to wake without a rush of adrenaline, and so ve tries to savor it. There’s someone next to vir, a warm weight against vir shoulder. As ve wakes fully, ve spits red hair out of vir mouth and realizes its Poison.
“Mmrgh,” Poison mumbles. “St’p moving. ‘M comfy.”
Jet lets out an amused exhale, and only moves enough to free vir arm to run vir hand through Party’s hair. They complain when Jet moves, but quickly settle, curling up like a cat against Jet’s side. Jet manages several minutes of lazy comfort before the anxious rumble starts up in vir chest again and ve needs to move. Ve rolls out from under vir frontman and slides out of the booth to sit on the floor.
“Star?” Poison says, sounding more awake.
“Nothin’, Pois.”
“Didn’t seem like nothin’ last night,” they reply, flat-voiced.
“Well. It was. Leave it, okay? I’m not your fuckin’ kid, I’ve got it handled.” Jet Star feels as though ve can’t control the words coming out of vir mouth. Ve isn’t saying what ve means, but its as though the harsh words are the only ones ve has.
Party’s flat affect becomes bitter very quickly. “Sure. Handled. Looks like you’re doin’ a great fuckin’ job of it, Jet Star.” They sound as venomous as their namesake as they slide out of the booth and stomp off, taking the last of the morning’s warmth with them.
Jet should have known that one night of decent sleep wouldn’t fix vir. There’s still a heaviness behind vir eyelids, one that ve continues to ignore. Instead, ve does anything ve can around the diner that keeps them away from Party Poison. Ve rearranges cabinets and sews up vinyl booth seats where they’ve torn, sweeps the sand off the floors and tries in vain to let the work shut off vir overactive mind. It’s useless. Vir hands shake and vir stomach turns and every sound is gunshot-loud and just as threatening. By the time the sun is at her highest, Jet Star is in the back shed, curled underneath a low shelf in a dark corner. None of them use the shed for much, save for Jet Star, who uses it as a hideout when everything gets to be too much. It’s dark, and as silent a spot as ve’s able to get. When ve sits under the low shelf ve can press vir head to the top of it with vir back to the wall, a soothing pressure that’s almost as good as being held. On vir worst days, its the only place ve feels safe. Sometimes ve manages to fall asleep curled into virself, soothed by the dark and the pressure and the near-silence. Today, of course, brings no such luck. Every time ve closes vir eyes, ve sees scenes of disaster–every possible thing that could go wrong for vir or vir crew while ve’s hiding out and refusing to protect any of them. The Girl could run off, or stumble into Ghoul’s garage. Kobra could go joyriding without a helmet. Poison, after the disaster of the morning, could decide to leave. He could decide to leave Jet Star. He probably should, ve thinks. It would be reasonable. Now that ve thinks about it, Party had clearly been avoiding vir all afternoon. And why shouldn’t they? Of course she wouldn’t want to be around vir. Ve was an embarrassment to have as second-in-command. Jet Star lets out a pained little sound and lets the vicious thoughts take over.
When ve comes back into vir body, Jet Star is rocking back and forth, trying to shake the agitation out of vir. Ve’s making low, injured noises, almost without realizing it. Of course Party Poison wouldn’t talk to vir, of course he has no interest in helping vir after ve drove them away on purpose. It’s vir own fault, and ve knows it. Usually, rocking and making soft sounds will soothe Jet Star but now, with the weight of vir own mistakes, ve just finds virself getting more agitated. Ve’s rocking forcefully, with the weight of vir whole body behind vir, when Party Poison drops down next to vir.
“How’s handling it goin’?” She asks.
Jet Star flips her off without looking at her.
“Jet–”
Jet makes an angry sound and flips her off again, pushing vir hand closer to Party’s face.
“Can I start over?” Party asks.
Jet pulls vir hand back and does not look at Poison.
“I’m sorry for being a dick earlier. I think you were trying to push me so I’d leave you alone, and it worked.”
Jet Star hums.
“You haven’t been sleeping?”
Jet Star is tired of being asked so many questions that ve can’t answer. Ve signs a quick, sharp, “no,” knowing that Party will read it as “obviously fucking not.” Sneaking a glance at Party, ve sees she looks odd and off balance, just as Jet Star feels. It’s comforting, and ve uncurls virself slightly.
“You could have stayed home last night,” she points out.
“Take care,” Jet signs. Vir words elude them, signed or spoken, but ve glances up at Party and hopes to be understood.
“I didn’t ask you to come with me so that you could take care of me.”
“My job,” Jet signs. You never have to ask, ve thinks.
“I just wanted to spend time with you. Time where we didn’t have to worry.”
“Yes,” Jet signs, bobbing vir hand up and down twice more. “Yes, yes.” Ve had fucked it up, but ve had wanted that too.
“Okay.”
When Jet Star looks up, Party Poison is smiling at vir. She looks worn and off-balance, but her smile looks real. It’s a familiar comfort. The parts of Jet Star’s mind that are starting to come back in order say, you love her, remember? And finally, Jet Star does. Party must see it on vir face, because she smiles wider and reaches down for vir.
“Come back in with me?” She asks. “We can rest. Be better after a catnap, I think?”
Jet Star lets virself be pulled up by vir frontman, her hand in virs. Jet Star’s muscles ache from pressing virself into the wall, and ve stretches out slowly. Party presses her hand to vir shoulder and rubs out some lingering tension while Jet presses vir arms out in front of vir.
When they reach the diner, Party gently pushes Jet Star into a booth and climbs in after vir. It takes Jet awhile to settle down, and ve wrings vir hands anxiously. Party sighs at vir, but doesn’t sound upset.
“Where’s my Girlie?” they call. They don’t need to raise their voice very much before their Motorbaby pops her head out from behind a door. She beams at them. “There she is! Can you grab me Star’s hairbrush, sweetheart?”
“Mhmm!” the Girl agrees, and bounces away. When she returns, her hands are full of not only the hairbrush, but clips and hair ties and ribbons in every color. The two set upon Jet’s hair with an unspoken coordination, separating vir hair into braids that they then decorate. The gentle, repetitive motions soothe away the rest of Jet Star’s worries until ve’s melting into Party’s lap. Ve can hear the Girl giggle as ve starts to drift off.
“We gotcha, Stargirl,” their Poison says. Jet falls asleep, knowing that Poison will catch them.
When Jet Star wakes, vir head is still in Party Poison’s lap. Her hands rest gently on vir braids, which have gone messy with sleep. The Girl is tucked up against Jet, in the small corner that vir bent knees make. On the other side of the booth, Kobra Kid is snoring with their head on the diner table, Fun Ghoul’s hand clasped around their ankle. As Jet shifts around to look at vir crew, Party Poison shifts into near-wakefulness.
“Don’ go anywhere, sweetheart,” he mumbles.
“I won’t,” ve whispers back.