On Top of the World, at the End of the World

“Party, you have to let me cut it off,” Ghoul demands as the color continues to drain from Party Poison’s face with each passing second, the red puddle beneath him growing larger.

Poison just continues to struggle and shake his head, delirious from the pain, writhing beneath Ghoul’s hands. The bullet had grazed the side of his stomach, and left and large, gaping hole in his side. Ghoul isn’t sure who had given those Dracs a real gun, though he guesses that they’d probably looted it from some poor sucker’s body…

It physically hurts him to watch Poison like this, crying out in agony, fighting Ghoul’s hands away because everything hurts, God, it hurts so fucking much. Ghoul has seen enough out in the Zones to know when a wound is fatal and this one definitely isn’t, thank Destroya. But he needs to get it bandaged before he will even think about trying to get Poison back into the car. And he can’t do that properly when Poison refuses to take off his goddamn binder.

Ghoul tried to convince him to not wear it often because it limits his movements greatly and he needs his full range of movement and lung capacity if they ever have to get the fuck out of Dodge. But Poison is reckless and lives by his own rules, which is why Ghoul has to sit on top of him and pin him down as he tears through the fabric with his pocket knife. He sends a silent “thank you” to Jet for reminding him to pack a First Aid kit in the Trans Am as he presses a wad of bandages to the wound.

Poison mutters something about being left out to rot and let the buzzards eat his corpse as he waits for the Phoenix Witch to come take him. Ghoul rolls his eyes, “You’re not dying and I’m not leaving you out here to rot. You’re going to be just fine but only if you- Hold. Still.”

At this Poison goes limp as just stares up at the orange desert sky, watching a flock of birds flying south as Ghoul sloppily bandages his wound. It’s only meant to be temporary and hold in the important stuff until Ghoul can get his boyfriend to Cherri in one piece. Once Party’s bullet wound is covered, Ghoul helps him sit up gently and slides the ruined fabric from his shoulders.

“Don’twan’chutolookatmelikethis,” he mumbles and Ghoul just presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I won’t, Sunshine. Here,” he slips of his own shirt and helps Poison lift up his arms and slide it over his head. “Now you’re all covered.”

Ghoul collects what’s left of Party’s bloody clothes and tosses them into one of their supply bags. It’s only a rumor that Dracs can actually track you by your blood but he doesn’t want to risk it… “Okay, now I’m going to have to move you to get you to the car okay? You’ve lost a lot of blood so I don’t want you to try to stand on your own just yet. I’m gonna lift you up and put you in the car but it’s probably going to hurt.”

Poison nods and Ghoul interprets this as an okay to go ahead. He picks him up slowly and carries him bridal style to the car where he places him gently in the front seat and buckled him in. He tries not to look at the quickly spreading red splotch beneath the bandages or the blood smeared all over his hands, arms and jeans. The engine roars to life and Ghoul speeds through the desert, gas pedal pressed to the floor as clouds of dust are left in their wake.

Cherri must have heard the car tear into the drive of the station because he rushes out immediately and helps bring Poison inside. They have a very morbid routine, wherein Ghoul always brings the warm bodies and Cherri attempts to keep them that way. They often don’t talk about their lives before the Zones, before the War but Cherri was a nurse, studying to be a doctor who played guitar in a band on the weekends when the world went to shit.

“I’d always wanted to help people and couldn’t decide if the best way to do it was to fix their hearts or their bodies, so I tried to do both,” he told Ghoul once as they were lounging outside the sound booth while Dr. D recorded a broadcast.

They lay Poison down on the cot in Cherri’s makeshift nurse’s office and Cherri gets to work as Ghoul sits down in a chair next to him. He removes the sloppy bandages and prepares to clean the wound.

“This is going to sting,” he warns and Poison just laughs.

“Bet it won’t hurt asmuch as it did going in,” he muses and Cherri chuckles.

“You still have a sense of humor, that’s a good sign.”

Ghoul grabs Poison’s hand as Cherri presses a cloth full of alcohol to the wound. Poison hisses and squeezes his hand slightly. “Okay, done. But it’s definitely going to need stitches.”

Poison groans and throws his free arms over his face. Ghoul doesn’t understand how the man who is constantly playing a game of chicken with death itself can possibly be afraid of something as silly and common as needles, but there are many things about him that can’t quite be understood. As Cherri sews up the wound, Poison grips Ghouls hand tightly, fingernails digging crescents into his palm. Poison stares at him the entire time, his green eyes wide and afraid.

By the time Poison is all stitched up, the sun has set and Cherri refuses to let them travel in the dark, especially in Poison’s state. They leave Poison to rest on the cot while they prepare the pullout couch together.

“So where’s the Good Doctor gone off to these days?” Ghoul asks.

“Oh, he’s off running the Zones with some of our buddies from Zone 5. They have another safe house they go to sometimes when he feels like the Scarecrows have zeroed in on his signal. He also hates being cooped up in here all the time, but it’s what’s safest.”

“How do you sleep when he’s gone? Don’t you worry about him?” Ghoul asks as they pull the fitted sheet over the cushions.

Cherri laughs and glances down at the gold wedding band on his finger. They’d gotten married a year or two before the war. Cherri was busy with medical school and the Doctor was busy building his music career. Along with the rising political tension and their two very unsupportive families, tit seemed like there was never going to be the right time. So they just decided to do it one day and not tell anyone. They’d had a short and sweet courthouse wedding, just the two of them in t-shirts and slacks. They were living together when the war started and went to battle together, side by side. When the Doctor was paralyzed from the waist down, Cherri was the one who took care of him.

They’d watched the fall of the old world and the rise of a new one, ruled by drugs and monsters, as Battery City rose up out of the ashes, promising hope and new beginnings. But this new world, just like the old one, had decided that it didn’t have a place for them or their love. So they ran away into the desert, determined to live out the rest of their lives together even if it meant that they had to fight like hell for it.

“I usually don’t. Our bed is too big without him curled up with me. And I never stop worrying until the second he comes through that front door. He’s my sanity, the one tie I have left to the world before it combusted. I’d probably lose it without him.”

“I know the feeling,” Ghoul says softly as he walks back to the office to help Poison up. He has some trouble standing but Ghoul just slides an arm around his waist and helps him lay down gently on the pullout. He fusses with Poison’s pillows and blankets for a few minutes as Poison rolls his eyes.

“Baby, I have a small flesh wound, not a broken leg. You don’t need to keep treating me like you’re going to break me.”

“Well too fucking bad. This is what you get for being reckless and getting yourself shot in the first place, dumb shit,” he teases as he lays down on next to him and settles beneath the covers and let their legs intertwine.

Poison makes a pouty face that Ghoul quickly kisses away. “Stop acting like my dad, fuck face.”

“Ah, young love,” Cherri says with a chuckle as he turns off the lights and plunges the room into darkness.