A hand moved from Poison’s waist to their cheek, holding them incredibly gently for a hand so calloused and desert-worn. It was a pointless lie; they could feel the heat radiating from their burning cheeks to Jet’s cold palm and could just picture the bemused look on his face. It was just inches away from their own, but Poison could make out little more than the glint of an eye and the vague impression of hair, tangled in Poison’s own fingers. They were drifting off anyway, barely aware of whether their eyes were open. Usually they were the last to fall asleep, constant anxieties running through their mind and prying their eyes open for any sign of danger to those they had to protect. Now though, despite the cold and the rough ground through the blanket that passed for a mattress, they had never felt so comfortable.

Maybe that was why they’d said it; lost in the ease of holding and being held, and not worrying about anything else.

“I love you too, you know.” Jet whispered.

If it was possible to blush harder, Poison was doing it. There was no reason to feel so embarrassed about sappy emotions, but they couldn’t help themself. Some great horror of vulnerability took over them, despite the fact that they had never tried to hide their love for Jet. Maybe that was why it was so mortifying. Poison felt silly and awkward for having to say it. But the enviable ease with which Jet reciprocated cleared the thoughts from their head. They could feel the warmth of Jet’s smile at the fact that they’d finally said it in so many words, and that made it worth it. A million times over.

“I’m MouseKat! Y’know – ‘Ears up, smiles on, it’s Mouuuuuuse-Kat!’”

It was wobbly and cracked rendition of the most inane tune Jet had ever heard that did it.  Jet muffled his sniggers in the crook of his arm, but it was enough to have Party taking of the mask – much to his disappointment – and flop dejectedly down in the diner seat in front of him.

“Shut up,” they grumbled, “I’m fuckin’ hilarious.”

“Uh, yeah, exactly.”

“No! that doesn’t count! You didn’t get it.” Poison shoved the mask across the table from them

“Well shit, sorry for not being properly indoctrinated as a kid.” Jet leant back and contemplated the furry monstrosity in front of him. The thing was unnerving was what it was. Bright blue, with some kind of unidentifiable mammal snout. He wasn’t sure that BLI didn’t use it to scare kids into line.

Poison didn’t seem to have heard him, lost in the brooding of unshared nostalgia. This was a nice change from their usual brooding though, Jet could tell it was much lighter. At least this amalgam of papier maché, fluff, and nightmares found in a shed full of trash brought some joy to the world.

“Can’t believe you don’t know MouseKat,” they muttered.

Jet paused a second, considering.

“I mean, that’s true, but no one else from the desert will have either. And I bet the exterminators didn’t watch the same cartoons as you growing up.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m sayin’, I bet it’ll freak people out.”

The corner of their mouth curled, and their eyes started to light up.

“You mean in a sort of, I don’t know, fucked up reflection of their own mascot?”

Jet thought it was plenty fucked up already, but kept that thought to himself.

“Sure, go to town with some paint, give it some wear and tear, show it a few firefights.”

“Hm, and I have been looking for a frame for the rebreather parts.”

They turned the head over in their hands, figuring out what exactly they could do to it. The bulging eyes stared at Jet and he shivered. It was almost too effective.

The whirring of the devious planning machinery that made up Poison’s brain was cut off as they both heard the sound of a bike pulling up. Jet was about to comment on how early the others were back when Poison jumped up and shoved the mask back on their head, running out the door with no regard for how upsettingly it wobbled and span. Oh no.

From outside the diner Jet could hear an unmistakeable Ghoul screech.

“MOUSEKAT!”

It wasn’t like he’d even done anything. Though that was exactly the problem. Tommy had asked him to plug his store during his radio segment, he’d let some kid calling in run on a bit too long about how to take down a drac with a skateboard, and he’d had to cut the ad section. Simple as that.

Tommy sighed and put his face in his hands. It was impressive, Doc thought, how good he was at projecting the aura of an eternally grumpy 50-year-old man at the ripe old age of 24. He pinched the bridge of his nose, further accentuating the effect.

“I don’t think you understand. I lugged what was a truckload of carefully sourced supplies all the way out here, and there’s no way we’re going to make it to the cliffs in time for the market with just the one of us at the wheel.”

Doc groaned, “C’mon Tommy, if you’d just give me a chance…”

“Uh uh, no way. You can’t even stand; I’m not having your leg in charge of a brake pedal. What you could have done was used that trailer set up of yours that’s slowing us down to let people know we’d be setting up shop early, by the moon crater, tomorrow, ‘accepting trade in food and medic services for one day only!!!’ like I said. Now we’re going to show up with half a market day left, half our stock, cause I had to make room for someone’s definitely-not-driving ass, and running on half-rations.”

Doc’s stomach rumbled, and he had to concede Tommy had a point. The runners had brought in a great fighting haul, but not much else. You couldn’t eat guns. Still, they weren’t exactly out of options, no matter how much Tommy might hate it. He sighed.

“Darlin’,” – Tommy looked up and raised an exasperated eyebrow, but he persevered – “Have you not considered the possibility that we could just radio for help? Send a lil’ prayer to the airwaves to save our souls?”

He knew Tommy hated the thought of asking for help. For some damned reason, he still clung to the old myth of being a self-made success, despite every reality around him. Doc wondered how he’d managed to put up with it for so many years. Maybe he’d been impressed by the commitment he had to it. It wasn’t so impressive now though, stuck out here in a truck bed with a bunch of guns and a knee that felt like it had exploded along with the box of munitions some Einstein of a drac had aimed for.

Tommy tried to make excuses – Who’s going to be tuned in after the broadcast? Is there even anyone around? What if BLI listens in? – all of which fell by the wayside when Doc tried to sit up to reply and almost passed out. He grimaced in sympathy, then sighed, and wordlessly brought over the bits of the radio setup Doc told him to.

After an hour and change of Tommy muttering under his breath that it was pointless, a kid on bike pulled up looking for all the world like a guardian angel in stripy sleeves and platform boots. The bird on their shoulder flew down and perched on Tommy mid-gruff thanks, who cut himself off with a shriek. Doc couldn’t help but laugh out loud as the raven came to land on his own gloved hand, Tommy grumbling and avoiding looking at either him or the kid as he climbed into the driver’s seat.