Chapter Text
Some other time, Lash might find it funny how Pocket has to scramble to keep up with his quick pace. As it is, he is too busy reminding himself he simply does not care.
He doesn’t care that Pocket only wanted to sleep with him, because that’s what he wanted too, obviously, and he doesn’t care that they then gave him the runaround by treating today as some kind of date or whatever, or that they did all that while also putting off the part where they actually have sex. It’s all completely fine.
Not like they’re the first person to think Lash’s attention gives them some kind of bragging rights. And why shouldn’t they enjoy it? It’s a compliment, and one Lash doesn’t bestow on everyone. It probably makes them feel special. If only they weren’t stringing him along to do it.
Maybe it was nice of them to let him know he was wasting his time. They did him a favor, really.
“Can you slow down?” Pocket says beside him, sounding out of breath, which he also — he cannot emphasize enough — does not care about.
“Told you the Lash has a strict bedtime.” He picks up the pace with the reminder that he has places to be, and he is not remotely amused by the quick patter of their feet just behind him.
Their voice tightens when they say, “You’re not listening to me.”
“Heard you loud and clear, kid.”
“I really don’t think you did.”
“You wanted the Lash for his body, then you changed your mind. Fine. Feeling’s mutual.”
“That’s not what I said. Or it is, but not like that.”
“It’s fine,” Lash says, louder than he means to.
“Fine,” they say before they fall quiet.
A pit opens in Lash’s stomach, but he reminds himself it doesn’t mean anything. Pocket always sounds like that. They’re a miserable wet blanket with a boat load of baggage he does not need to deal with. He’s known all along that they’re too much work for what he wants out of them, but like a fool, he couldn’t resist the challenge. He should have gone for Paige; she might be another tough nut to crack, but he bets once she does, she knows how to have a good time.
“Well, no,” Pocket says as if they’re jealous he dared to think about someone else. “It’s not fine and I don’t believe you when you say it is.” Lash is sure any second he’ll find the words to tell them off, but they’re too quick on the draw. “I was trying to say I think I’m not a one-night stand person, and I had a really nice time today, and maybe that’s more like what I want from you. But I guess I hurt your feelings, and now you’re being a real jackass about the thing you didn’t let me finish explaining, so maybe I’m second guessing all of it. And this is definitely breaking my no distractions rule, by the way. Like this is really, really distracting.” Lash stops in his tracks to breathe a heavy, tired sigh. Pocket’s monologue finishes with a muffled “mmph” as they walk into him.
While he waits for a couple cars to plow through the intersection, Pocket extracts themself from feeling up his body with their face. Something hot and uncomfortable sits in his stomach, aching in the pit that opened up before. He tells himself it’s anger.
“Whatever,” he mutters eloquently.
“Seriously? That’s it?” There’s an aggravating creak in their voice that makes his whole body clench. “I don’t know what I expected. You’re exactly as big an asshole as everyone says you are.”
Now, that was meant to get under his skin. He is not going to let them have the victory. He’s not. He couldn’t care less about Pocket’s opinion of him. All they do is drag everything down with their baggage and their moping and their judgy bullshit. Lash deserves better. He deserves someone who recognizes what a gift his time and attention is. So he doesn’t know why he finally turns to look at them.
“You really think that?” he asks, realizing only once he’s spoken that he’s in dire need of something to drink.
Pocket blinks up at him. He has the perverse impulse to smooth his fingers over their crinkled brow, but he keeps his hands curled into fists in his pockets. “Sometimes, but not to me. Not for most of today. I really liked today.”
“Me too,” he admits before he can stop himself by overthinking it.
“Okay. So can you, I don’t know, actually hear what I was saying before, or are you going to just tell me it’s fine again?” They reach a tentative hand out, fingertips cold on the outside of his wrist. It’s nothing terribly intimate, but it does feel like they’re grounding the electrical current running through him.
Lash stares at their face, which has always had the crossed-wires effect of being both pretty and handsome, and especially here under the warm glow of streetlights. He takes a steadying breath to banish the distraction.
So even though he had an appropriate and justified and perfectly measured reaction to what Pocket said before, he might have misheard a teeny tiny bit, which is of course their fault for introducing the topic in the manner they did. Anybody would have arrived at the same conclusion as Lash. However, forgiving them for their shit communication, he can see that maybe they meant something different, and maybe what they meant is sort of sweet, if you’re into that kind of thing. “You like me,” he says after a moment.
Pocket’s jaw sets stubbornly. “And you like me,” they say, no more a question than when he said it. Lash doesn’t answer, but it seems he doesn’t have to. “It’s just with the Ritual, that’s a lot to have to worry about. So I’d prefer if we could move slow, or maybe set it aside for now.”
“You’re not the only one who’s here for the once in a lifetime chance. I’m not gonna sabotage it. So if you think this raging sexual tension is too much of a distraction…”
Pocket smirks. “I do think that.”
Lash’s shoulders finally loosen up. Pocket visibly relaxes too. The crosswalk opens up, but they simply stand there, sharing the space. Then he says, “So, you say no hanky panky before the Ritual, but what about…” In lieu of words, he steps closer, settling a hand into the dip of Pocket’s back.
“What about what?” they ask, blinking innocently.
He figures the only answer to that is one without words. He tightens his grip on their waist, pulling their whole body snug against his. There’s plenty of time to protest or push back as he plucks the baseball cap from their head, but all they do is stare up at him wide-eyed, pink-cheeked, lips parted like they’re ready for him. He leans in with intent, feels the moment their breath stutters.
With only inches between them, Pocket stops him with their fingers against his mouth. They’re so close he can hear when they swallow down their nerves. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Their gaze darts from his eyes to his mouth and back. “It’s not a no,” they add quickly, trying and failing to sound less flustered. “Think of it as, you know, an incentive. A way to celebrate if we win.”
Lash laughs off the last ounce of tension, pulling their hand away. “And you say I have a big ego?”
“Excuse me?” they sputter.
“Going on and on about how this ritual is supposed to change our entire lives, then acting like kissing you is the real prize?”
“Oh my God, I did not mean it like that.” The red in their face deepens well beyond the flattering shade from before.
“Oh, I think you did.” They start to draw away from him, but he doesn’t let them get far. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s cute when you act like you’re hot shit.” He gets a hand in their hair, tipping their face back up toward his, and they make a soft, strangled sound. Smugly, he files that reaction away for later. “I can do slow. But if you’re calling it an incentive, you’re gonna make sure it’s worth the wait, aren’t you?”
“Only one way to find out,” they say as if their feathers haven’t been thoroughly ruffled.
If he kept trying to coax them, they’d eventually relent, judging by the flustered way they yank the baseball cap back on and tug their rumpled coat into place. He doesn’t know why he holds back then, returning his hands to his pockets and trying to be satisfied with the knowledge that if they thought they could say yes, they would.
“We should at least check in at the hideout before I head home,” he says, breaking the silence. It feels like the only option, but he doesn’t especially want to. He’s not going to spend another night there, and the idea of Pocket sleeping alone on that mattress on the floor doesn’t fill him with pleasant feelings.
“Good idea.” While they walk, they stay close enough that he could reach out and grab them again if he wanted. Somehow he’s content with their elbow occasionally jostling his.
When they return to the hideout, the cultists are in a tizzy. “I’m sorry,” Celeste shouts at one of them, who growls back in a language that feels like it’s scraping Lash’s bones clean.
“What happened?” Pocket asks.
“Listen,” Celeste says, face tight with stress in a way he’s never seen before. Her normally buoyant hair falls in a heavy wet curtain all around her. “They want us to check in every day. Sometimes a girl comes fresh from work, but she ain’t so fresh, if you know what I mean. And there’s that shower up there, and—” Her hands flop to her sides. “How was I supposed to know these old pipes can’t handle the glitter?”
From the upstairs landing, water drips down into the main room, shimmering with reflective specks. The mole has lifted up onto his hind legs, likely to keep the monkey as far from the water as possible.
Krill says, “It was more than glitter. Purple hair everywhere. Confetti. Fur, for some reason. Chewing gum. This woman is a menace to society.”
Pocket’s face falls as they follow the dripping water to its source, so Lash says, “At least it wasn’t the toilet?”
“See?” Celeste demands. “It could be way worse!”
Lash does not laugh, but only because Pocket looks so stricken. They climb the stairs, stepping warily around the water puddling along the landing. Despite his hatred for getting his boots wet, he accompanies them. Sure enough, beyond the door, their mattress sits in the stream of glimmering water, looking like it’s ready to float off at any moment. They look distressed, and so he wades deeper.
With a grimace, they pick up a handful of discarded clothes left soaking in the water. “Nothing a laundromat can’t fix,” Lash says, trying to channel somebody like Paige or Celeste, who both have a decent handle on cheering up Pocket without dirty jokes. “Hey, look, your book is alright.” He plucks that off the crate they’d been using as a makeshift nightstand.
“Not exactly the relaxing end to the evening I’d hoped for.”
Before he’s really thought it through, Lash volunteers, “There’s a laundry room in my building. And I’ve got a big bathtub, probably tea if you’re into that kind of shit, and a big bed that isn’t on the floor or covered in glitter water.” They look at him dolefully, so he holds up a hand to cut them off before they can protest. “I mean to sleep in. Obviously you’re allowed to change your mind about that, but I didn’t forget.”
Sloshing closer, he takes the wad of sopping wet clothing from Pocket’s hand. “You could’ve had all of that anyway, but I was trying to respect your wishes to pretend you don’t want to take a ride on the Lash’s hot rod.”
“I can’t emphasize enough how much it’s not pretending when you say things like that.” Pocket’s mouth tics up in that almost-smile now. “But I do need to do my laundry now,” they add with a sigh, like he can’t tell they’re secretly thrilled to have an excuse to spend more time with him.
It leaves Lash flying high through their French exit and through Mo and Krill’s matching scowls in his direction, like he’s doing anything other than helping their mutual friend and teammate out of a tight spot. Those animals have never understood him and never will.
Pocket smokes like a chimney on the next leg of their journey, but it is otherwise an uneventful trip from hideout to basement laundry. “Nobody’s ever stolen anything out of here,” he reassures Pocket as they load up the washing machine. Secretly he assumes most of their clothes aren’t worth stealing, but he doesn’t figure that will land him in their good graces, so he keeps it to himself. “You wanna take a bath upstairs?” he asks instead.
Lash lets them get situated in the bathroom before he washes up the best he can in his tiny kitchen. When their stuff is done downstairs, he tosses it in the spin dryer. It’s all ready to hang dry once they emerge from the bathroom, pink-cheeked from the heat and skin still shining damp, hair weighed down except where the wet ends curl. Their pajamas are a cute striped number, in better shape than some of those other clothes.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell them he normally sleeps naked. They’re gonna read some ulterior motive into it, so he grits his teeth and finds some not-uncomfortable shorts and another tank top to sleep in. “I’m not offering to sleep on the couch,” he announces.
“I didn’t expect you to.” There’s less snark in it than usual, and Pocket won’t quite look at him.
He thinks about the way they woke up this morning, sprawled on top of him and clinging like a barnacle. Seems like they don’t spend much time snuggled up to anyone. They’re not gonna go so far as to say any of that though. “The Lash makes an excellent pillow,” he says with a great deal of gravity. “But this bed is big enough for two, if you want to pretend you don’t want to cuddle.”
Pocket almost-laughs, sounding relieved. “I’ll keep it in mind.” They squirm into place facing the wall. They really are going to pretend, aren’t they?
Suppressing a roll of his eyes, he climbs in beside them, careful not to touch so they can keep up the lie that snuggling up to him isn’t their first choice. Maybe it was a bit of an exaggeration to call the bed big enough for two; maybe if they were both Pocket’s size, sure. Big enough for Lash and another person is cutting it awfully close. He lies there on his back, keeping his hands perfectly to himself, but his skin prickles with awareness of Pocket’s presence.
His fingers drum along his own stomach as he stares at the familiar ceiling, goosebumps rising on the arm closest to them, body strangely attuned to the rhythm of their breath. They’re as wide awake as he is. He wants to be annoyed; more than that, he wants to get off. It’s the most surefire way he knows to fall asleep fast, especially if he also has to deal with the added stimulus of another person there, you know, breathing and whatever.
After a moment the bed squeaks as Pocket rolls into another position, sighing like someone who really wants to sigh louder. Another minute of staring at him in the dark, then they finally crack. “Thank you for today,” they say, hushed like they’re worried someone will overhear. “I think you were right that I needed it.”
“What did I tell you? The Lash is a pro, babe.”
“It was sweet of you to share your method with me. And to take me out.”
“Don’t call me sweet where other people can hear. People are gonna want me to start holding babies and shit.”
“What stranger is just handing you their baby?”
“Uh, lots of them if they think I’m soft. Fans are fucking weird.”
Pocket hums, amused. “It’ll be our little secret that you’re sweet when you want to get in someone’s pants.”
“Still can’t believe you’re turning that offer down. You have no idea what you’re missing. This body is a well-oiled machine. Whichever parts you wanna work with, you got—”
For the second time this evening, their hand closes over his mouth. “Shut up,” they say in a tone that makes his heart thump in his chest. It only gets worse when they lean over him so they can look him in the eye.
It’s instinct to pull them closer, feel their breath hitch and their body press against his. That’s all he does though, nothing more, keeping his promise. They’re heavier than they look, more solid, and he finds the weight strangely comforting.
For a moment, he thinks they’ll break. They’ll kiss him, give into all their pent up desire and cut loose with all the rest too. Their eyes burn, but the pressure of their hand doesn’t relent. Instead they lean down, pressing their mouth to the back of their hand, never breaking that fiery eye contact or the barrier between them.
“Weirdo,” he says, muffled against their hand. Pocket snort-laughs and the moment passes. When the spell breaks and they give him space, his breaths take a moment to return to normal speed. “You wanna kiss me so bad.”
“Go to sleep,” they say, awfully coy for someone who keeps doing shit like that. They curl up against his side with their head on his shoulder, which doesn’t suggest they’re going to deny his accusation. Maybe he should be bothered, but he catches his fingers in their damp hair and holds them close and doesn’t mind so much that they’re an unbelievable tease.
1 Day
The final day before the Ritual is disjointed, a flurry of preparations at times interspersed with the boredom of waiting around.
It’s easy to convince the others they need a break. He thinks about Pocket’s little stunt last night, then figures turnabout is fair play.
He takes them to the sauna. Sure, he has to watch them sit there in nothing but little shorts, and he has to stay as far as humanly possible to maintain the willpower it takes to do nothing. But it’s worth it to know he’s not the only one being tortured.
He works very hard to look like he does, and he’s rewarded with their inability to look away from the moment he takes his shirt off, which only gets worse once he starts glistening in the heat. What did they say before? His clothes leave nothing to the imagination? He smirks at them now, across from them in the small, sweaty room. “Don’t drool everywhere,” he says. “You need to stay hydrated.”
They roll their eyes, but their face is pink and their knuckles white where they grip the edge of the bench.
He never gets to find out what they might say about it. The door swings open on a gust of fresher air, and Paige and Celeste join them, both with hair piled high on top of their heads. Celeste’s leotard doesn’t show any more than any of her others do — which is to say it’s still a lot of skin, but they’re all pretty used to her by now. Paige’s, however, demonstrates exactly how much she hides under her sweaters and plaid skirts. Some other time, Lash would probably reassess his dismissal of her, but for some reason, he only gives her a passing thought today.
Celeste immediately settles in, leaning her head back with a wet rag over her eyes. Paige smiles politely at Pocket, then her gaze gets stuck when she looks at Lash. Well, not at all of him, exactly.
“Excuse you. My eyes are up here,” Lash says like he’s upset.
“Don’t read into it,” she says. “Not all of us mistake muscles for personality.” He snickers. He likes Paige, even if he’d never tell her that.
“You gotta be nice to the Lash,” Celeste chides. “He’s gonna put that body to work for us tomorrow.”
Sometimes when he’s at the market, there are these lumpy tomatoes that are more purple than red. Pocket’s face has achieved a shade that reminds him of this fact. Never mind his previous judgment; the sauna was a spectacular idea, teammates and all.
“I can be nice without stroking his ego,” Paige corrects. She looks at his face now and says politely, and probably sincerely, “I think you’re going to do great tomorrow.”
“What if we don’t talk about the nerve-wracking and life-changing ritual we’re all about to partake in?” Pocket asks, voice tight.
“Sure,” Celeste says easily. “Why don’t you tell us about your date last night?” Her pink lips are curved where they’re visible under the washcloth. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
Lash waits for Pocket to deny it, but instead they say, “That’s not your business.”
“It’s my business if you two mess up the team dynamic or, like, make things weird.”
“Maybe people deserve privacy,” Paige says. “And dignity.”
“They threw dignity out the window the moment they went out with the Lash,” Celeste teases, but she lifts the washcloth from her face long enough to wink at him, sucking out any sting someone with a less ironclad self-esteem might have felt.
“Hey,” Pocket protests lamely. They glance at Lash like they want his help, but he likes watching them squirm too much. “It was nice,” they say finally, in a tone that softens Lash’s amusement into something warm and unfamiliar.
“No accounting for taste,” Celeste says, and that’s the final word on that.
The sauna is the most eventful part of the day. He debates cooking dinner for Pocket — showing off another of his many talents, of course — but the Hidden King’s acolytes offer dinner in the hideout. In the room previously used as a conference room, the table has been covered by a thick white cotton tablecloth, and they’re served a literal feast.
Probably for the best, he thinks, watching Pocket once again put away a stunning amount of food for their size. He’ll have plenty of resources after the Ritual, but skipping out on work and missing fight nights in preparation for this has not been kind to his wallet.
“Are you two playin’ footsie over there?” Celeste asks halfway through dinner, which is how Lash knows he’s been staring at Pocket too long.
“What’s it to you?” he demands.
At the same time, Pocket says, “No. Don’t give him ideas.”
“Gross,” she says with an eye roll, but her teasing is lighthearted, friendlier than she’s been toward Lash before today. Maybe taking Viscous out had some unexpected knock-on effects.
Pocket smirks at him from across the table, almost mischievous the way they glance up from under their lashes. They could have denied Celeste’s accusation in several ways, but they chose one that didn’t deny Lash himself. In fact, they’ve been doing it all day. The realization makes something curl in his belly, and it doesn’t go away even once he’s stuffed with dessert. It follows him all the way to bed.
Lash wakes before dawn with a mouthful of black hair, and he refuses to let Pocket move until his alarm has gone off. Not that they fight him; they’re not awake for any of it, and they’re amusingly groggy once they do open their eyes.
It’s still dark out, but the hideout’s buzzing when they arrive. Paige and Viscous seem perfectly content to be here this early, but Celeste and Krill keep yawning and squinting at everything. They speak primarily in single syllables, which they have in common with Pocket. Fortunately for everyone, breakfast is almost as generous as dinner last night.
When pink fingers of light begin to creep across the stormy gray horizon, they make the trek to the base where the Hidden King’s herald has set up. The place smells like metal and fire and makes the hair on the back of Lash’s neck stand up, but he has his eye on the prize.
Pocket is silent and tense at his side. When he knows their teammates are too busy to notice, Lash nudges them with an elbow. “Hey. You nervous?” he asks quietly.
“Of course I am.”
He thinks for a moment about telling them not to be, reassuring them that the Lash will be there to protect them and lead them to glory. Instead he follows a different impulse. He reaches for their hand and says, “You got this.”
They stare at their linked hands for a time, like maybe the caffeine still hasn’t woken them up yet, but a smile slowly dawns on their face as their fingers tighten around his. “You know,” they say. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“Saving it ’til the end. I believe you that we’re going to win, but… a little luck couldn’t hurt.” This does not clear up anything, but Lash doesn’t want to sound stupid by asking for clarity. Fortunately, Pocket makes their meaning clearer when they turn to face him fully. A finger traces one of his suspenders before their fist tightens, yanking with a strength they haven’t yet shown, until he’s bending toward them. “For luck?” they ask, mouth hovering so close to his that he can feel their breath.
“For luck,” he agrees. He’d probably agree to anything right then. He closes the distance, and they press up onto their toes to meet him, lips clinging to his more carefully than expected. Lash has never been big on the sappy shit, but he feels this kiss with every cell of his body. He suffers the softness of their lips and the brush of their tongue knowing he can’t take it any further. But if anything goes wrong out there today, at least he’ll have this as his last memory.
Pocket tries to break free, but a thumb brushed along their jaw is all it takes to turn their mouth back to his. He has to make sure they don’t get any funny ideas about dying or changing their mind later. He coaxes their mouth wider, kisses them so thoroughly it ought to crowd out everything except the reminder that they’ve still got unfinished business with him. He keeps it up until their body is sagging helplessly against him and their grip on his suspenders has gone slack. The only force strong enough to stop him there is the once in a lifetime magic ritual mere minutes away.
When he’s caught his breath, Lash asks, “You ready to change your life?”
“Yeah,” they say. “You?”
“You know it.” He steals another kiss, this one a quick peck. They turn to face the city head on, squaring their shoulders as magic surges up around them. “Let’s give ’em hell, babe,” Lash says, swatting them on the ass to distract from the clamor of his racing heart.
It’s not nerves, only anticipation, the buzz of adrenaline starting under his skin. No way do they fail today, not when he’s already on top of the world. If he could win over Pocket, this Patron shit should be a breeze.