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The first time Poison sees Mr. Sandman, he’s still reeling from Kobra’s harsh words to his face, echoing through his head - the kind of thing that’s designed to sting, something Kobra won’t apologize for when he comes home because apologies aren’t his style, or something like that.
It’s not like you ever gave a shit about what I did with my fucking time, Kobra’d said, snarling, always a snarl with him, until suddenly you needed something and realized I wasn’t worshipping your fucking hair dye anymore. Go find someone else to do your dirty work.
Poison had meant to retort. He really did.
He does every time.
But instead of words, his chest had risen and fallen with the effort it took to just keep air in his lungs, staring, and Kobra gave him a sardonic smile.
He doesn’t grab his keys off the counter when he leaves, and that’s the only fucking reason Poison gets his limbs to move and look out the window.
There’s someone waiting for Kobra, already, dressed in all-black with gold accents on a too-big leather jacket, and a faceful of make-up - heavy eyeliner and a Cheshire cat grin are all that Poison can make out, tan skin and black curls, and Kobra stalking toward the guy.
Honestly, Poison thinks, with that air of desperate anger still thrumming around him like bad decisions, Kobra still walks like a Crow. Like he’s going for the kill or something, but instead, he exchanges a few words with the guy and hops into the passenger seat of the pick-up truck that’s sitting there, and Poison instantly knows he doesn’t like that ‘joy.
For one, you have to be stupid to wear black in the fucking Desert.
Two, Kobra isn’t a big people person in general, especially not when he’s pissed off and gunning for a fight, so it’s surprising and concerning that he didn’t try to attack said person.
Three, that guy knows where the Diner is. Not that it’s secluded, or anything, but they generally try to keep anyone from finding out where it is, lest it become a popular hotspot for people that Poison would rather not deal with.
So, all in all, he wants to punch the guy in the face.
(Kobra comes back two days later with a new bandage around his knuckles and a nasty black eye. He doesn’t apologize for what he said. Poison doesn’t ask about the ‘joy that came to pick Kobra up, and dropped him off. It’s easier this way, when Kobra’s kerosene, and Poison’s a match.)
_
The second time he sees Mr. Sandman, it’s three in the morning and he’s fucking tired, only getting up to find a water bottle.
His mouth tastes like sand and that’s gross and he’s going to make Ghoul cuddle him, half-asleep, but his soft padding to the kitchen is interrupted by the croak of a very angry metal door, and he knows that sound, because he dreads it more often than not these days.
Kobra’s door opening.
Since Kobra’s the only one of them with an actual room, it’s the old walk-in freezer, and the door hates them all; Kobra always keeps it closed. Keeps the room dark and cold and in the Desert? That’s a rarity.
(Once or twice a year, Kobra lets them all pile up in there, when the sun is at its worst, and it’s probably created some of Poison’s favorite memories.)
Either way, Kobra’s either coming back from the Crash Track at three in the morning, or sneaking out, and hell yeah he has to do the whole what are you doing? thing, because they’re brothers and they have to step on each other’s toes like that.
Or he thinks so, anyway.
Poison even knows exactly what he’s going to say: oh? Up late, are we? but his plan is completely uprooted when he doesn’t see Kobra.
Now, Kobra’s door is wide open - it opens into the hallway, rather than into the freezer, and Poison’s curiosity is waking him up, and he can see a leather jacket with gold accents standing in the doorway.
He’s silent.
He’s silent for about two minutes, standing there, feeling really fucking out of place in his own damn home, wondering what he’s witnessing, but the ‘joy doesn’t seem to notice he’s there.
Then, the ‘joy sighs softly, the loudest thing that’s happened in the last ten minutes, and pushes the door closed, standing there with his forehead against the hinge.
Poison can’t help but ask. “Who the hell are you?”
There’s too much bite to his voice for the time of night, but the ‘joy doesn’t jump, looking over at Poison.
He doesn’t have the make-up this time, and it’s just tired brown eyes staring straight through Poison. “Thanks for finally talking. It was getting awkward. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Rather suddenly, Poison feels self-conscious, remembering he’s wearing one of Ghoul’s old sweaters, so stretched out it goes to his mid-thigh, and some sweatpants he borrowed from Jet.
Not very revolution leader of him, he supposes, but what happens at three in the morning stays at three in the morning, or so he’s inclined to believe.
“I haven’t heard a thing about you,” is what Poison says when his brain goes back to the present, and the ‘joy lets out a soft laugh.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Kobra’s like that, y’know? Closed off ‘cos he doesn’t want to get into a fight. I’m, uh, I’m Mr. Sandman.”
“Party Poison,” Poison says, even though he’s more than certain Sandman knows that already. Huh. The name seems familiar, but he can’t place it, and he’s more than certain Kobra hasn’t said a thing about the guy.
Sandman nods. “Sorry if we woke you up. I think he sprained his ankle when he was landing a jump ‘round the Rift. Been bitching about it all night, figured it’d be easier to put him to bed myself.”
Poison shakes his head, because that’s all he’s smart enough to do, because yeah, for someone who seeks fights and thrills and gets injured pretty damn often, Kobra will complain to high hell and back if it’s something minor - or not his fault.
A sprained ankle fits the bill.
“He take you here before?” What? Poison was smart, occasionally, though it doesn’t happen all that often and not when he’s still sleepy.
Sandman shrugs, the kind of thing that says I don’t want to cross my boundaries, but by the nod of his head, it’s a yes and Poison only feels slightly betrayed. It makes sense. Kobra’s secretive about these kinds of things, for a reason none of them can really place. “I gotta get goin’ ‘fore my crew starts wondering what the hell I’m up to. Nice talking to you, though, and take it easy on him, yeah? It’s - I don’t know what’s up with him, lately.”
“He’s a Gemini. That’s what’s up with him.” It’s a shitty joke, all things considered, but it’s all Poison can think of, and it draws a laugh out of Sandman.
“Yeah, well, I’m a Cancer, so we’ll see how this goes.” Jeez, no wonder the guy looks tired.
Poison’s been looking after Kobra for most of his life, so he knows how damn exhausting it is. And that’s a fucking problem, honestly, but he’s not gonna bring it up until Kobra’s determined to burn his bridges again.
“See you, Sandman,” Poison says, his voice echoing in the Diner, and Sandman waves a hand as a general see you later, and now he doesn’t know what to think.
Kobra’s never really had friends before. He has a thing for burning his bridges when he’s the slightest bit inconvenienced.
He’s certainly never had the kind of friends that’ll go out of their way to come back to the Diner and tuck him into bed with a sprained ankle, though.
Huh.
(Poison doesn’t get his water; he crawls back into bed and makes Ghoul be little spoon because Ghoul’s too tired to argue and his mind won’t let him sleep until an hour later. Kobra doesn’t say anything about Sandman the next day.)
_
The third time Poison sees Sandman, it’s under far less pleasant circumstances and he’s wondering whether he can convince someone to give him some mind-bleach.
Look, it’s no secret that Kobra does what he wants, when he wants, and that usually includes who he wants, but as Kobra’s little brother, Poison thinks about that as minimally as possible and wrinkles his nose in distaste when Kobra hikes his jacket collar up over angry purple marks.
If it’s a problem, then Ghoul and Jet can deal with it, ‘cos Poison’s staying way out of that. Like, all the way on the other side of the Zones out of the way.
Unfortunately for him, though, a supply run ends a little earlier than expected; Ghoul and Jet are going to stay behind and catalog everything, but they need to transfer their findings, and they’d taken Kobra and Jet’s bikes rather than the Trans Am.
You know, because they’re stupid.
Either way, Poison’s the one who gets elected to go back to the Diner and pick up the ‘Am, and he grumbles about it the entire hour it takes to get to the Diner, ‘cos really, no one should trust him on a motorbike.
He always manages to lean too much to the left and crash into stuff, but by some miracle, the Diner comes into view without incident.
Save, of course, for the pick-up truck sitting outside the Diner, tucked into one of the alcoves where the sun isn’t trying to murder everything.
That truck was not there before he left, so he’s on alert the moment he can recognize it, swerving 27 - Kobra’s bike - to a halt in front of the windows and wincing when sand sprayed into the front room that Jet had no doubt just cleaned.
Well, they can whine when he gets with ‘Am.
Because Kobra’s supposed to be home alone, though, Poison takes the key out of the bike and doesn’t think the worst, ‘cos it’s not the worst thing he’s ever come home to and everyone would hate it if he managed to make a mountain out of a molehill again.
When the bell rings above his head as the door opens, he can’t hear anything. Which is a good thing, he supposes, because Kobra’s naturally light on his feet and silent as a goddamn mouse, meaning he’d only walk loudly if he was dying.
So, that’s good, at least.
Poison tentatively takes off his helmet - not really a helmet, just an old MouseKat head that he’s not quite sure how he sees out of, setting it on one of the booth tables and glancing around.
Nothing looks out of place, at first glance, as he stalks over the tile like a goddamn assassin or detective or something.
Wait, detectives and assassins are, like, completely different, right?
Ugh. It doesn’t matter. Poison squints, because something does seem off, but he can’t figure it out until he - Oh. His eye catches on a piece of clothing, a jacket, resting haphazardly on the counter, just in the doorway of the kitchen, and based on the trail, he figures out exactly what Kobra’s doing.
God fucking dammit.
Poison sighs, loudly, tossing the jacket to the floor and banging his fist against the doorway. “I’m home!”
He doesn’t pretend to sound happy, but he does smile internal at the literal squawk that echoes out from Kobra’s room - Witch, damn, the door isn’t even closed, what the fuck, and he allows himself to take a little pride because he really loves irritating Kobra.
And, hey, if he’s going to have people over to the Diner, he should really fucking make sure the others are going to be gone as long as they say they are. You know, so this doesn’t happen.
It’s forty-six seconds before Kobra scrambles into the kitchen, looking rather disheveled, his hair mused and shirt backwards and one boot completely unlaced, with black lipstick smeared all over his lips and his collarbone, and he gives Poison an apologetic smile that means he’s not sorry at all. “I, uh, I thought you were going to be gone?”
Poison does not miss the way Kobra subtly tucks another piece of clothing behind him, a shirt that’s on the floor, probably. Poison raises a brow, his arms crossed. “Yeah, we got some supplies an’ I needed to pick up the ‘Am.”
“Oh. Are you gonna… leave again?”
Oh my God, Poison thinks, because fucking really, Kobra?
Poison sighs dramatically, again, but Kobra must see the exasperation because he does look a little sheepish, flushed red with embarrassment. “Well, yeah, but I see you’re up to somethin’ else.”
“Clearly. Get on with it?”
So much for manners. “Clean up after yourself. And keep ‘im over for dinner, at least.”
Kobra blinks, the shock evident in his normally schooled features. “How did you -”
Poison gestures around weakly, then at Kobra’s ankle, which still has bandages peeking out the top of his boot. “Met him the other day. Don’t sprain your ankle, dipshit, and he’s staying for dinner.”
“You can’t -”
“I’ll stay for dinner!” echoes out from Kobra’s room, and Kobra looks about four milliseconds away from banging his head against the nearest wall.
Poison’s smug smile must say it all.
With a groan, Kobra resigns himself to his fate, and they’re both wondering if it’s a bad idea or not. Of course it’s a bad idea.
Kobra has shitty taste and it’s been made abundantly clear over the years, but Sandman doesn’t seem so bad.
(Dinner is disastrous. They have power pup and some old cans of peaches and apparently Sandman and Ghoul know each other, so they get into a fistfight, and Poison’s more than certain there are way too many innuendos for him to even try listening to when Sandman and Kobra talk. Kobra’s beaming, though, and that’s enough for Poison.)
_
The fourth time isn’t as bad as the third, but Poison’s out of his element, in a Zone he isn’t too familiar with, worry gnawing at his chest, and it’s not like it has a reason to.
It’s just, Kobra hasn’t been home in a while and he’s getting worried.
Kobra goes on these benders, sometimes, and he’ll disappear for a week to go God knows what, coming back with bruises lining most of his skin and exhaustion through his limbs and a wicked look in his eyes, something between feral and scared and angry.
He just wants to know that Kobra’s safe and not taking anything that some ‘joy made in the back of a truck in Zone 1 while cutting corners ‘cos they didn’t want to spend too much, because that had been a debacle and he wasn’t keen to repeat it.
So, he asked Cherri.
This is where the Suitehearts - a dumb name for a crew, but he can’t talk - live, where Sandman lives, and hopefully, where Kobra is. That’s where Kobra told Cherri he’s going to be.
It’s a cul de sac, and it looks so out of fucking place that Poison’s almost happy he doesn't crawl through these parts all too often, with the rickety groaning of wood that should’ve collapsed a century ago.
The biggest house is to his left, and he knows his own taste, so that’s the one he heads to - he wasn’t expecting a goddamn cul de sac, so he hadn’t asked which house it would be.
The wind is blowing something fierce, and Poison has to press his domino mask hard against his face to keep sand from getting blown in his eye, and he must look like something, standing in a suburban neighborhood that’s far more out of place than him, knocking on a door that he half-expected to collapse as he did so.
Unfortunately for the poor doorway, it does open after Poison knocks, but it stays propped down just a little before it’s pushed back to reveal who answered.
A short guy in a purple lab coat, strawberry blond with various purple streaks in his hair, and… Purple glasses?
(Did this guy have any other color on him?)
While Poison struggles to remember the Suitehearts’ names that he’s never heard in his life, the man in purple huffs, glancing Poison up and down. “Who the hell visits during a sandstorm?”
“There isn’t a -”
The man jabs his finger behind Poison and, oh, that would explain the wind.
There’s a dust cloud approaching, and he takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he was smart enough to roll up the windows of the ‘Am and tuck it into some garage when he’d seen the clouds on the horizon.
Nevertheless, the man scurries Poison into the house, accidentally knocking his elbow into a poorly painted wall and glancing around in bewilderment. It looked just like a suburban home, owned by a bunch of guys who don’t have access to running water.
(Well, that’s what they are, so Poison figures he’s got it on the nose.)
“I suppose you’re here to see Kobra?” the man asks, raising a brow and crossing his arms, and it might’ve been intimidating if the man didn’t look like a chipmunk in a lab coat. He does, though.
Poison desperately needs to ask for his name.
Nevertheless, Poison nodded curtly, and whether he’s here because of Kobra doesn’t matter now because of the sandstorm, and fuck that, actually. Especially when he doesn’t know the names of the ‘joy’s he’s with.
(Flashback to when he and Ghoul got caught in a sandstorm, down in Zone 3, and managed to make out, fistfight, and play cards until they waited it out. Jet thought it was hilarious. Kobra had given his quiet smile. Poison did not hold the memory with much more than a passing wave.)
Unfortunately, the ‘joy does not give his name and Poison has a sinking feeling this is going to get awkward when he doesn’t remember at a very important time, but the ‘joy does gesture Poison to follow him.
Because he has no clue where he’s going, he must look something like a lost puppy found on the side of the road, being led past the living room to a dining room with a pool table rather than a dinner table, and shit piled on it at that, and then a kitchen that makes Poison remember that most people don’t have an industrial kitchen.
It’s still so suburban it gives him chills, though.
The ‘joy grins, now facing Poison, and Poison can’t help but feel like he’s being watched until the man reaches his arm out and Poison instinctively grabs him by the wrist, snarling.
The man doesn’t even look fazed, shaking his arm to get it out of Poison’s grasp. “There’s a level behind you, mind grabbing it?”
Oh.
The embarrassment isn’t something Poison’s all-too-happy to deal with, his cheeks matching his hair at the notion of how paranoid he must look, but he groped blindly for the lever, refusing to let the man out of his central vision, and pulls the level down.
Really, he shouldn’t be surprised when the kitchen starts moving, a high-pitched whine echoing from somewhere.
“I still think it’s weird that the floor moves without the damn cabinets,” the man shrugs, sighing, as though the kitchen floor moving is a totally normal occurrence in a totally normal house, and Poison realizes, with a start, that they’re descending.
As the man complained about, it was just the dated tile that was moving, rather than the cabinets. Based on the fact that that’‘s a functioning fucking kitchen, Poison has a feeling it’s because of, you know, electrical and plumbing and all that.
Not that he thinks about it all too much, because the floor descends about twenty feet before coming to a screeching halt, and he doesn’t know what to think.
It’s a goddamn bunker.
Of course, there’s a lot he could focus on, but in particular, his attention is drawn to the shelves of fucking food and water and then the battered, worn-down couch sitting in front of it, with knick-knacks here and there and posters lining the walls, and even a couple of instruments.
“Living large, are we?” Poison mumbles, but there’s a door on the other side of the bunker, and based on the fact that he hasn’t Kobra yet, that’s where he is.
The man points haphazardly in that direction. “Haven’t seen ‘em in a while. They’re either reading comics, fucking, or sleeping. Have fun.”
Poison decides he does not like that man.
Sentences I never want to hear again, Poison scowls, but he stalks across the bunker - side-stepping dirty clothes (none of them Kobra’s!) and stuff on the floor.
The door is metal, much like the wall, and it’s got a big, spray-painted lightning bolt over it, and at least one screaming face.
Seems very Sandman, from what little Poison knows about him.
He has the sense to knock, because there are a few things he doesn’t want to see in this world and one of the ‘joy’s possibilities is one of them. There’s no answer.
So, Poison knocks again, and once again, there’s no answer. And at this point, he just wants to make sure Kobra’s okay and then go home, because then his job will be done, and he’s mostly just happy he’s not picking the kid up from one of the bathrooms in Hyper Thrust.
(He’s pretty sure Kobra goes on way more benders than most people. It’s starting to get more frustrating than usual, but that might be because it’s nearly hunting season, and ‘joy’s are on the damn menu.)
Whatever.
Poison sighs at his own thoughts, before gently trying the door handle and finding it unlocked; perfect for nosey older brothers with an agenda.
He… can’t say he’s surprised, but it’s still weird.
Luckily for him, everyone is still clothed, but the room is only illuminated by the light spilling in from the bunker, and both Sandman and Kobra are tucked under the blankets, and Poison fucking knew it - Kobra is a little spoon!
Maybe it’s a little creepy, but he leans against the doorway, just taking in the scene; Kobra looks serene in his sleep, his age. The lack of tension and anger makes him really seem like a vaguely-stupid nineteen-year-old with a passion.
A vaguely-stupid nineteen-year-old with a passion and infatuation, based on the way Poison knows it takes a hell of a lot to make him stay what someone.
Maybe Sandman isn’t so bad.
(He still wants to drag Kobra by the ear back to the Diner and tell him how fucking stupid it is to run off on his own when hunting season’s around, but he supposes he can’t do that, what with the sandstorm and all. Maybe he’ll just chill in the bunker until he can lecture Kobra and then desperately try to figure out that killjoy’s name.)