Work Text:
“Look alive, sunshine” Frank says as he slides into the booth and onto the seat opposite Gerard, who’s sitting by the window with a steaming mug and an unlabeled can in front of him.
“Fuck off” Gerard mutters, angrily poking the contents of what probably is his breakfast. He doesn’t look up while he does it, face hidden behind a curtain of dirty bright red hair.
“Whoa! Who ate your bowl of sunshine this morning, thundercloud?” Frank asks, stirring sugar into the lame excuse for coffee steaming in the chipped mug front of him. It actually looks and tastes nothing like coffee and more like earthy sludge. Still, there’s caffeine to be found in there somewhere, and some caffeine is better than no caffeine, even if it rapes your taste buds.
“I hate this shit. Fuck, what I would do for a latte...” Gerard moans, pushes his mug away and buries his head in his hands in what he probably thinks is a dramatic gesture. Frank sighs. They’ve been through this a million times since their supply of coffee beans ran out. Gerard finally admitted defeat after all he could get out of the coffee filters was a bitter, light-brown liquid that didn’t even remotely resemble coffee and they’ve been exposed to sullen sulking and temper tantrums worthy of a four year old every damn morning since.
Turns out that Party Poison, fearless leader of the Killjoys and wanted criminal, is a whiny little fuck and a pain to have around without his daily coffee fix. Frank’s really fucking over it.
“You know we’ve tried. There’s not a single bean coming out of Battery City or across the borders” Frank reasons, and he really tries to hide the despair in his voice but clearly doesn’t do a good job at it. If looks could kill Frank would be dead right now.
“Fucking excuses...” Gerard barks and storms off in a huff, slamming the door so hard the windows rattle. Frank hears the roar of the motorbike starting up and Gerard’s gone in a cloud of dust.
“What the hell?” Mikey asks, walking in through the back door holding a tattered plastic box full of batteries and two freshly modded ray guns, still as virgin-white as they came out of the vending machine he’s hacked a few days ago. Frank suspects he’s been hiding outside until the coast was clear, the little shit.
“Party Poison wants his coffee” Frank grumbles, flinching when he sees the pained look on Mikey’s face. He wasn’t lying when he told Gerard they’ve tried to find coffee. Mikey’s scoured the markets and swap meets from the city limits to the outer zones, he would’ve gone into Battery City if Ray hadn’t found out about it and given him a good talking to. Gerard’s not the only one of them who’s face is gracing a Wanted poster and the city is full of surveillance cameras. Frank’s asked Dr Death to send a message over the airwaves but the Doc just laughed and said Party Poison should man the fuck up and stop being such a diva. After all, he’s not the only one desperate for the black beans. Coffee, real coffee, has become an extremely rare and therefore ridiculously priced black market good out in the Zones since BL/Ind expanded its reach to the South and shut the borders. The drones in the cities get their caffeine in government controlled coffee bars, clean and regulated like everything else, but out here in the desert coffee doesn't exist unless you find someone willing to risk his life smuggling the stuff out of the city or across the border.
Drugs are easier to get your hands on. In fact, there’s a stash of things that make you go up, down or, if you really want, sideways in one of the boxes in the storage room. There are vending machines all over the Zones selling this shit but not a single coffee bean in sight.
The thing about swap meets is that you never know when or where the next one will happen. This time they’re lucky and it’s only a few hours’ drive, so they load up the car with anything that will fetch some c’s and hit the road at sunrise. Gerard’s driving, he’s in a good mood for a change, chatting and singing along to the radio that’s playing old punk songs, and even though he has stopped mentioning it, Frank knows it’s because he’s hoping against all hope that this time they’ll find someone selling coffee.
The coordinates Dr Death has given are sketchy at best but they find the meet easy enough. The desert’s an empty, evenly-coloured place, which makes it easy to spot a sprawl of colourful tents and huts that’s sprung up just outside a small gathering of brightly painted houses, most of which have boarded up windows as much for protection from the elements as from other people. The Zones are a dangerous place, which makes swap meets a welcome distraction and potential powder keg in equal measure. This one looks safe enough, though. There are people selling and trading anything and everything, their goods laid out on makeshift tables or blankets, wares arranged in tents and shacks, hand-painted signs advertising services and skills. The smell of food being cooked hangs heavy in the air, music is playing from battered speakers and people are sitting in groups, exchanging stories and information. If it wasn’t for the guns and knives on people’s belts it would look almost peaceful.
They split up, each going in different directions to search for things they need and scope out asking prices for the swag they have to sell. Frank’s eyeing up a box of cables that look like something he could use for a paint bomb when Gerard appears by his side and starts tugging on his t-shirt.
“You have to come with me, I found... I have to show you... you won’t believe me...” he stammers, almost vibrating out of his skin with excitement, pulling Frank towards the edge of the market. Frank’s just about to ask what the fuck’s got Gerard so worked up when the smell hits his nose.
Coffee.
Freshly brewed, real coffee, not the mud they’ve been drinking recently. The smell gets stronger the closer they get to a row of wooden shacks, which is where they find Mikey waiting for them. He’s leaning against the wall of one of the shacks, not far from the dingy tent the scent seems to be emanating from. Whoever is selling obviously knows that the smell is all it takes to advertise his wares, there is no sign to indicate what he’s selling or what price he’s selling it for.
“Poison, wait... have you asked how much they want for a bag?” Mikey asks when Gerard starts dragging them towards the tent. Gerard stops and goes quiet, biting his lip and very much avoiding meeting his brother’s eyes.
“100 carbons...” he mumbles, adding “but it’s good stuff! Just smell it! It’s real coffee!” in the same breath.
"100 c's? Fuck, Poison, that's more than a tank of gas... we can't afford that" Frank gasps and he really could do without that sinking feeling in his stomach when Gerard literally deflates in front of him.
"But... Ghoul, real coffee! I’ll make it last” he whines. Frank shots a glance at Mikey, who looks crestfallen and shakes his head. They need gas and while they can raid the vending machines for Power Pup, they’re in desperate need for other options. Ray has issued threats in this regard. And even though Gerard might disagree with that, they don’t need coffee.
“Come on, we’ve got enough ‘pup to last us for another week, we just find another machine to hack" Gerard begs. Mikey and Frank shake their heads almost in unison.
“We’ve been eating Drac food for fucking weeks” Mikey grumbles and Gerard looks at Frank expectantly.
“Kobra’s right. I could kill for some peaches or beans. Jet made it clear he will kill for some peaches and beans” he confirms.
“Fine. No need to gang up on me, I get it” Gerard grates out, squares his shoulders and storms off. It’s the closest he can get to a hissy fit without losing his face in public, and Frank’s really fucking glad about that. There’s only so much of Gerard’s temper he can handle in a limited amount of time and he hasn’t quite recovered from Gerard’s rant about how BL/Ind are evil fuckers for depriving him of his coffee he got treated to last night. Mikey turns his back to the vendor who’s casually leaning against the entrance of his tent, a smile playing around his mouth.
"How much can we spare, Ghoul?" Mikey asks.
"We can sell our stuff for 200” Frank calculates, “we need 100 for gas and 50 for food... so 50?" he suggests and Mikey nods. Frank can almost see the cogs working in his head.
"Give me the 50, I'll handle this" Mikey says determinedly. Frank gives him a questioning look but it’s no use arguing with Mikey when he’s got that expression on his face. Mikey grabs the money and slides it into the back pocket of his jeans, giving Frank a pat on the back and a crooked smile before he starts walking towards the tent. Step by step his walk turns into a swagger, all attitude and assertiveness, it’s like he flips a switch and he’s Kobra Kid, Killjoy and zonerunner.
Frank tells himself he’s sticking around to make sure Mikey’s safe, but truth be told Mikey can look after himself just fine. In reality Frank just wants to watch Mikey haggle. Because Mikey’s good at bargaining, he’s patient, focussed and he’s got the perfect poker face. He’s also only got half of the asking price, which might be the reason why the vendor doesn’t look particularly impressed. All Mikey’s getting for his efforts is a shake of head and a shifty smile. Frank’s almost disappointed when it becomes evident that Mikey’s not going to win this one. He’s about to walk away when there’s a sudden change in Mikey’s body language and Frank’s mouth drops open when he realises he’s seen Mikey do this before, back at the raves when Mikey wanted the pills but didn’t have the money to pay for them. It’s the way Mikey smiles and flicks back his hair, tilting his head and exposing his neck. It’s the way he pushes his hip out, fingers hooked into the belt hoops of his jeans, pulling them down just enough to flash a bit of skin.
Mikey’s showing off the goods that go with certain services he’s willing to offer and now the vendor is taking an interest, eyes darting down to the patch of untanned skin visible between Mikey’s belt and t-shirt before slowly travelling up again, lingering on Mikey’s mouth just a little too long to feel comfortable. He licks his lips and nods as he pushes back the curtain sectioning off the back of the tent to beckon Mikey inside.
Frank knows he should leave, this is none of his business, but instead of walking away he finds himself edging closer to the tent, to the gap in the fabric where the wall sheets don’t quite overlap. The vendor’s sitting down on the edge of a crate with his back against a pile of boxes, looking at Mikey expectantly.
“No hands. No coming in my mouth” Mikey says flatly, voice void of emotion, before he sinks down to his knees on the dusty ground between the guy’s spread thighs.
“Sure, baby” the guy answers, grabbing the corner of the box and leaning back. Mikey makes quick work of the fastening of the guy’s grubby leather pants, opening them just enough to reach inside and pull out his limp cock, jacking it to full hardness before he leans forward and wraps his lips around it. The vendor closes his eyes, mouth dropping open when Mikey gets to work. Mikey’s head’s bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm and Frank knows that he’s good, skills honed in seedy clubs and dark alleys with strangers that had things Mikey wanted or were pretty enough that Mikey wanted them. And sometimes, well, sometimes Mikey would treat his friends.
It doesn’t take long until the guy’s breath is coming in short bursts, hands hovering over Mikey’s head as his hips hitch into Mikey’s mouth.
“No hands” Mikey growls, hands planted firmly on the vendor’s thighs and the guy’s hands shoot back to claw at the lid of the box.
Frank’s panting, eyes glued to the scene in front of him, he knows it’s wrong but he just can’t stop watching, hand sneaking down to palm his cock through his jeans. Mikey’s speeding up his pace, sucking harder, faster, muscles in his arms straining from holding down the vendor’s hips to stop him from fucking into his mouth. Just when Frank’s starting to wonder if Mikey’s realised that the guy is asshole enough to not give warning, Mikey pulls off and finishes the job with a few flicks of his wrist. The vendor curses as he arches up, come streaking milky-white over Mikey’s fingers and onto the guy’s stomach. Mikey lets out a dry laugh and jerks him a few more times before he unceremoniously wipes his hand on the box the vendor’s sitting on and gets up. He doesn’t wait for the guy to tuck his dick back into his trousers, just drops the money into his lap, grabs the coffee and walks out.
It takes Frank a few moments to catch his breath and a few more before he gives up attempting to will his boner into oblivion and just pulls his t-shirt out of his jeans instead, hoping it’ll cover up the worst. He’s about to slink away when a strong hand lands heavy on his shoulder and then Mikey’s slamming him against the wall of the shack next to the coffee vendor’s tent.
"Liked what you've seen?" Mikey growls, hands both sides of Frank’s shoulders, trapping him.
"I wasn't... I didn't..." Frank stammers, groaning when Mikey reaches down to roughly squeeze the bulge in his jeans.
"Fuck yeah, you were. And I’d say you really fucking liked it" Mikey whispers, voice low, a sneer playing around the corners of his mouth that’s pure and unmistakeably Kobra Kid. Fuck. Frank opens his mouth to answer but all that comes out is a moan as Mikey’s thumb presses down on the jeans-clad tip of his cock.
“What do you want, Ghoul?” Mikey, Kobra, asks even though that’s really fucking obvious. Frank’s got his hands clenched into the front of Mikey’s t-shirt, he’s hard as a fucking rock and he can’t stop shoving his dick into Mikey’s hand.
"Kobra... please..." is all he gets out, another moan falling from his lips when Mikey snorts derisively and massages Frank's cock, mouth so close to Frank’s ear he can feel his hot breath.
“So desperate to get off, aren’t you? Never had you down as a filthy voyeur, Ghoul” he whispers, voice dangerously calm, and if Frank had any sense he’d run the fuck away right now, but sense goes out of the window when he’s too turned on to see straight. So instead of running away he spreads his legs a little wider to allow Mikey to wedge his thigh between them, sucking in a deep breath when Mikey grabs his ass and pulls him tight. Frank’s forehead is pressed against Mikey’s shoulder, eyes closed, hips rocking against Mikey’s thigh. Mikey smells of leather, gasoline and sweat and Frank’s going to cream his pants like a teenager if this doesn’t stop soon.
"Kobra, gotta stop, please, I'm gonna..." Frank stammers, shivering when Mikey chuckles and grinds harder against Frank’s body. Mikey’s got him pinned good but if he tried hard enough Frank could probably twist away. He’s just not sure he wants to.
“No, no, please, Kobra, no, don’t make me, please...” Frank pleads in between moans, it’s pathetic but he’s so fucking close he can feel the heat curling below his waist and if he comes in his pants there’s no way he can get rid of the mess until they get back to the diner. And Mikey knows, there’s absolutely no doubt about it, cackling next to his ear as he rolls his hips and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Frank's neck. Frank tips over the edge with his face buried in the front of Mikey's dirty t-shirt, hands clawing into Mikey’s back, come pulsing hot and sticky into his jeans.
He’s slumped against the wall, drawing in a sharp breath when Mikey gives his cock one last squeeze and pulls away.
“Not a word to Poison” he snarls and starts walking, swagger turning back into Mikey's usual gait, Kobra Kid sliding off his shoulders like water off a tent’s roof. Frank pushes himself off the wall, scrunching up his face when he sees the wet patch where his come is slowly seeping through the fabric at the front of his jeans. Kobra Kid’s a fucking son of a bitch. Not that Mikey’s any better.
Frank spends the next hour wandering the market trying to find the things he needs, doing his best to ignore the way his briefs are sticking to his belly. Gerard and Ray are already waiting when he gets to the car, the things they bought safely stowed way in the trunk or in boxes on the back seat. Mikey’s the last one to return, clutching an array of mainboards and cables that he throws into one of the boxes before he reaches into his bag and produces the coffee with a flourish.
“You did it!!? Oh my god, Kobra, you did it!!!” Gerard’s beaming from ear to ear, jumping up and down excitedly before he wraps himself around Mikey in a tight hug. Mikey endures Gerard’s overwhelming display of affection with his usual stoicism, although Frank sees a pleased grin flash across his face as he gently pats Gerard’s hair.
“How much did you pay?” Gerard asks when he finally untangles himself.
“Doesn’t matter” Mikey mumbles. He carefully doesn’t look into Gerard’s eyes and slips the coffee back inside his bag just in time before Gerard flings himself around his neck again.
“You’re the best brother ever” Gerard proclaims, nuzzling his face against Mikey’s chest, and for a moment Frank wonders why Gerard, who usually feels the need to discuss absolutely fucking everything, doesn’t probe any further, but then Ray calls shotgun and suddenly everyone’s piling into the car, trying to find a comfortable space amongst all the clutter.
The drive home is quiet but for the radio and Gerard tunelessly humming along as he drives. Mikey bunches up his jacket against the window and closes his eyes, Ray’s keeping watch for patrols in the front seat, leaving Frank to just lean back and relax. He looks over to Gerard, who’s still radiating happiness and it makes his stomach twist in a really awesome way and a smile spread across his face. It’s a feeling he’s been getting for a while now, every time he looks at Gerard, and it means something that Frank doesn’t want to dwell on.
Back at the diner, back home, Frank gets to work organising their haul, so lost in thought that he almost jumps when Mikey comes in to help. They work in silence, Mikey’s not a big talker at the best of times, but Frank’s known him for long enough to sense that something is bothering him.
“What’s up, Kobra?” he asks, knowing that he’s hit the mark when Mikey carefully puts the cables he’s got in his hands on top of a pile of batteries and looks down biting his lower lip.
“I’ve seen the way you look at him... if you hurt him I’ll kill you” he whispers, barely audible. It’s not a threat, it’s a statement, and he’s dead serious. The words hang in the air like smoke and suddenly realisation hits Frank in the stomach like a jackhammer. Gerard didn’t press Mikey for information because Gerard knows, which means Mikey isn’t worried about Gerard finding out about him sucking off the vendor, no, Mikey doesn’t want Gerard finding out what Mikey did to Frank. And the reason why he doesn’t want Gerard to find out is because Gerard... Gerard...
Frank’s heart is beating so fast it’s taking his breath away, he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry because Gerard... Gerard has feelings for him.
“I’d never hurt him” he says softly and Mikey gives him the slightest hint of a smile.
“Just thought I’d make that clear. I’ll leave you to, um, sort this out then?” he replies and Frank nods.
He’ll sort it out. He doesn’t know how yet, but he’ll find a way.