Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Nine ( Chapter 9 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Hotstreak and Richie talk; Ebon meets with new clients...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 6 | Words: 8.1K | Visits: 558 | Status: Completed
Hotstreak and Richie talk; Ebon meets with new clients...
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 6 | Words: 8.1K | Visits: 558 | Status: Completed
OI!!! A big big BIG Thanksies to I'm_Alive and Tristripe, for their reviews! OMFG, do you REALIZE how hard it is to get reviews and feedback from readers at this site? Sorry...I was spoiled at FF.Net, where people dropped a line no matter how big or small their words. THANKS SO MUCH, PEOPLE! I really really appreciate you guys dropping a line...and for I'm_Alive? *grin* Thanks. Glad ta know I ain't the only one that finds Hs/R lovin' fun to read!
For all those that take the time to read this story...Don't be shy. Let me know if I'm doing okay, if I offended you, shocked you, or WHATEVER. Don't hold back on your silence...because of it, my account was closed on FF.Net. Just let me know, people, and I'll WORK ON WHATEVER PROBLEM OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU FIND OFFENSIVE! Sheesh...sorry...random rant.
Right Here
Chapter Nine
Hotstreak awoke some time later, blinking his eyes. He had to guess that it was around three a.m. Something had awakened him...but he wasn’t sure what it was. It had been a few hours since he arrived back at the motel room, carrying take-out bags from El Asad’s, but Richie had been too far gone in his drug-induced exhaustion that he didn’t wake up to eat. Hotstreak had finished off what he’d brought, and laid out beside the blond to fall asleep.
Shifting in his position, aware that he was laying on his stomach, arms curled underneath the pillow, he strained his ears to catch that sound again. The room was dark and quiet, the sounds of the city muffled by its distance away. He couldn’t see a thing as he turned his head to one side, tensing his entire body as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He could see faint shapes here and there, but nothing really stood out. He prepared to relax once more when he heard a high pitched whine that sent the hairs on his arms rising straight up. He jerked his head up from the pillow, hearing another clenching sound that gave the distinction of being forcibly repressed, as if it couldn’t quite stretch beyond the throat.
He glanced over to where Richie was laying, trying to determine what the problem was. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that the blond had shifted during the night, his hands resting above his head, knees drawn up. He immediately determined the problem, appropriately recognizing the throes of a nightmare. He felt an icy fist in the gut at recognizing that position, not wanting to think about the rooftop. He set his hand on Richie’s stomach, and drew back at the agonized scream that finally tore through the blond’s throat.
Immediately, he flicked his fingers, a plume of flame lighting the bed as he roughly shook Richie awake with his other hand. The blond stiffened, then startled, hands jerking violently upward, one of his feet scraping down Hotstreak’s leg. The older male hissed at the near impact of foot against groin, and shifted again, so that his body as aligned with Richie’s, preventing any other near misses. Richie’s good eye snapped open, heavy panting escaping his damaged lips as the edges of the nightmare was disbanded by the awakening.
Immediately he tensed, staring at the flickering plume of fire that Hotstreak held.
It was bright and instantaneously eye catching–it was all he could see and register as his mind let him go free from the nightmare he was experiencing by Ebon’s hands. It took over the darkness and rendered it powerless–the darkness had nothing against that powerful light. He wasn’t quite awake–merely caught in that dream state between wakefulness and sleep. His mind only registered the brightness of the flame, his good eye focusing in intently at it.
Seeing that Richie was semi-awake, Hotstreak calmed slightly.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, a look of annoyance crossing his features. “Yer just dreamin’. Go back to sleep.”
Richie’s good eye continued to focus on the flame. Then, he shut it, bringing his hands down to settle on his stomach, head tilting toward Hotstreak’s frame. The older male gave a slow exhale as he checked the room for anything that may be out of place, holding his hand high.
There was a flash of metal, and he pushed his hand out to see that Backpack had scuttled out of its hiding place to stand near the bed–it startled Hotstreak upon seeing the robot there. It made his muscles jump in surprise as that retractable eye took in the activity, made a high pitched beep, then scuttled back underneath the dresser with a rustle and click of metal upon wood.
He hated the thing. It was so similar to an animal; it seemed to have a mind of its own. Things that thought when they shouldn’t made him uneasy.
He shifted his hand again, scanning the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so the flame was dispersed, and he settled back onto his stomach.
Uncomfortably curling his hands underneath the pillow once more, he listened to the deep, even breathing of the male beside him, and fell back to sleep.
He awoke again hours later–his eyelids felt uncomfortably heavy as he forced them open, focusing on the bright light of mid-morning as it streamed through the crack between the curtains. The room was considerably lit, and he grumbled as he dropped his head back against the pillow, feeling Richie shift against him at the sudden movement. Hotstreak became uncomfortably aware that his left hand was warm, curled lightly over skin. He blinked, seeing that sometime during the night, his hand had crept underneath the hem of Richie’s shirt, gripping his hip; as if he were holding him in place. The blond’s skin was soft to his touch; almost feminine in its smooth silkiness. His fingers squeezed briskly in reaction to skin to skin contact as he then withdrew his hand.
He shifted in bed, wiping at his eyes. He looked over at Richie, hearing the blond snore as he slept on his side, his back to Hotstreak. The redhead glanced over at his watch on the night stand, and reached for it, giving a grumble about morning wood and enjoying the relief of scratching his nuts.
Yawning, he checked the time, seeing that it was just past eleven–his stomach grumbled. His breath was thick with the countless cigarettes that he’d smoked yesterday, and his intestines felt like they were in knots. Making smacking actions with his lips, grimacing at the thickness in his mouth and teeth, he pushed up from the bed.
Nearly a half hour later, not quite awake but brushing his teeth for the third time, he walked out from the bathroom, looking over at Richie’s sleeping form. He’d let him sleep all day yesterday...he’d probably continue to sleep all day, today, too.
Frowning around his toothbrush, Hotstreak decided that wasn’t acceptable.
He finished brushing his teeth, and cleaned up with a quick wash of his face, sweeping moisture through his hair. He’d take a shower, later. After he was through with this. But right now...at this moment...he needed a cigarette. And some coffee.
As the scent of Folgers filled the room from the small coffee maker, Hotstreak slipped on his jeans, and buttoned them carelessly as he once again eyed Richie’s sleeping form. He really didn’t want to wake him–but if Richie continued to sleep, depression would just make it all harder and harder to deal with. Hotstreak was familiar with depression–he knew how easy it could take over if one let it.
And he wouldn’t let it with Richie–no, he felt that unfamiliar ache just below his sternum that let him know the last time he’d seen a bright smile on the blond’s face. That easy, seemingly carefree disposition of his seemed foreign on this new stranger–Ebon would win once more if Hotstreak let Richie sleep away his life.
A hot flash of determination and anger warmed his insides as he walked around the bed, and lightly gripped Richie’s shoulder, urging him awake with that single gesture. Richie, without opening his eyes, uttered something incoherent, and batted his hand away, turning away from him.
“No, get up,” Hotstreak ordered, pulling on his shoulder, forcing him onto his back.
Richie once again batted at his hand, snarling something that sounded like, “Fuck off...”
“No, getcher ass up. You can’t sleep all fuckin’ day. Get up.”
“NO. Lemme alone...”
Impatiently, Hotstreak then jerked the pillow out from underneath Richie’s head, the blond hitting the mattress with a startled sound. He turned his head, giving the redhead a mean glower as Hotstreak tossed the pillow over his shoulder.
“Get. Up,” he repeated evenly.
“NO,” Richie shot back, glaring at him. “I don’t want to. Leave me alone!”
“You ain’t gonna sleep all day! You did that, yesterday! GET. UP.”
“Don’t you have some chick to impregnate? Some faggot to bust open? Get out of my face!”
“You getcher whiny ass out of bed, an’ get in that shower. Get yaself together. Don’t do this shit.”
“You don’t know what I’m going through! You don’t know how I feel! I don’t want to do anything! I just want to sleep! LEAVE ME ALONE!” Richie ended in a cracking shout, angrily kicking at Hotstreak. Then winced at the movement, almost curling into a pained fetal position.
Hotstreak forced himself to ignore that, and grabbed Richie by his belt loops, forcing his legs and hips off the bed. Richie was forced to stand, or else fall onto his ass, his hands groping for support as he slipped off the bed. Angrily, he latched onto Hotstreak’s pants, and with an ugly expression due to his mounting rage, he socked the older male with a growl. Hotstreak wasn’t going to have any of that–he grabbed the fist and forcefully yanked Richie’s arm behind his back, shoving the blond toward the bathroom. Richie was snarling the entire way, kicking and thrashing against him, calling him every name in the book.
It was quite a struggle as the two pushed and shoved at each other, limbs banging against wood and cheap porcelain. Hotstreak reached out for the cold water knob of the tub and turned that on, Richie managing a good kick against his shin. He winced, but forcefully shoved Richie’s head underneath the spray of water, making him gasp in shock. This time, as he thrashed, he was trying to get out from the cold, his fingers bunching into Hotstreak’s shirt, clinging onto him as he sputtered and coughed.
Getting wet in the process, Hotstreak pulled Richie out from the spray, and forced the blond to look at him, his hands set firmly on the sides of his face.
“You can’t just letcher self sleep through it all,” he said, tightening his grip when Richie tried to yank himself away. “You need to get up. You need ta take a shower. Wake up. I gots some food–when you come out, you’ll have somethin’ there. But ya can’t. Sleep. All. Day. I let you do that, yesterday. Ya gotta get up. Unnerstand?”
“I don’t want to do anything...I just want to sleep...I just want to forget what happened, and–!”
“You gonna let him win? Huh?” Hotstreak jerked Richie’s face up when the blond tried squirming away from him, a choked sound of defeat coming from his lips. “Don’t let him win. Don’t let him do this to you. You let him win like this, you give ‘im that satisfaction.”
“He–raped–me! How the hell am I supposed to feel about it? I didn’t want it! I didn’t want him–!”
“Get in there an’ wash up. Your breath stinks.” Hotstreak released him, Richie’s hands going up to cover his face.
Seeing the blond in throes of self-shame, dripping wet from the dunking, Hotstreak felt awkward and uncomfortable with what to do now. He didn’t move for a few seconds–giving Richie enough time to forcefully draw his hands over his face to clear away the droplets of water. His expression was so pitiful and agonized that Hotstreak flinched.
Feeling painfully embarrassed, he reached over, slinging an arm around Richie’s shoulders and drawing him against his side. He kissed the blond’s forehead–a sloppy knock of lips and teeth against skull that hurt them both. But the gesture, in itself, was recognized. After a moment, Richie’s arms curled around his waist, lowered his head, his face was pressed against the older male’s shoulder. It sort of surprised Hotstreak, at that instant–the blond had gained a few inches. Over a year ago, Richie had barely come up to his shoulder–now, his forehead was level with his lips. There was a better fit between them both as his arm slipped from his shoulders, gently nudging him with an elbow toward the running shower.
Richie’s arms fell away from his waist, an embarrassed flush taking over his features.
“Shower up. There’s some clothes right there,” Hotstreak muttering, gesturing in the vague direction of the set of clothes on the sink. He let himself out from the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he went to look for that food he’d promised.
When Richie finished showering, he went through the motions of brushing his teeth, applying the uncomfortable cream over his stitches, and shifting through the clothes that Hotstreak had left on the counter. They were worn and faded, and a couple of sizes bigger than he normally wore. But he tossed on brand new pair of boxers, the size thirty-six jeans and the double XL shirt. He was thinking the entire time, about Hotstreak’s words; about his own feelings and fears. But he eventually came to a point where he realized that the older male was right–if he broke, Ebon would win.
He took a deep breath before walking out from the bathroom, seeing that Hotstreak was sipping at a styrofoam cup of coffee, staring off to some point in the room. Richie hesitated as he looked over at him, then quietly walked over to join him on the mattress’s edge.
The room was silent for a few minutes–occasionally interrupted by the sound of Hotstreak sipping at the hot, black coffee in his cup. Richie sat in silence, smelling the other’s natural body scent and the strong flavor of his coffee.
This man had been there with him through those tumultuous times after Ebon’s attack, and had provided him with safe and secure nights of comfort. He was just as strong and bright as the flames he conjured–and with it all, Richie felt extremely grateful for his presence, and for his strength.
He shifted, leaning against Hotstreak, the better side of his face pressed against Hotstreak’s shoulder. He exhaled heavily, arranging his legs into a comfortable position.
“I’m so sorry for saying all those things,” he said, his voice muffled into Hotstreak’s sleeve. “You’re right–I need to get moving again. I’m just–I don’t know what to do!”
Hotstreak grunted, lowering his cup, careful to keep it out of Richie’s reach, in case of a spill. He reached up to run his fingers through his soul patch, staring absently into space. Lifting the cup to his lips, he studied the bare furnishings of the room, mentally noting their need for more food–and in that area, more money for the rent. He had a feeling they were going to be here, for awhile.
He didn’t mind that aspect; he just felt strange knowing that he was planning things in this manner. Planning for two instead of one.
He felt the moisture against his shoulder, and flinched. Richie wasn’t making any noise as he cried, but his tears were obvious enough. It made him uncomfortable–Hotstreak didn’t want to see that.
But he reached down, and curled his fingers over the blond’s knee.
“Git it all out, now,” he said gruffly, shifting. He leaned back on one arm so that Richie was able to hold onto him in a less awkward position. “Cuz you ain’t doin’ it again.”
Richie nodded against his shoulder, his arms going around his neck, sniffling as his own shoulders shook. Wincing again, Hotstreak reached out to squeeze his thigh with reassuring pressure.
OooooooooooO
Theresa shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed sullenly over her chest. There was something creepy about the girl across from her–they were separated by at least five years, but there was an aura of maturity about her that Theresa recognized in herself. This girl had seen some shit–and from the looks of it, it hadn’t bothered her. Meeting with cold-hearted thugs was something she was used to–but this one was different. Maybe it was just the age difference...or, perhaps, seeing herself in that girl...
The other two men were in the same heat–but they projected a sense of business and brisk attunement to their matters as they stood across from Ebon. They were all dressed high-city; both men in three pieces, the girl in a blazer, jeans and shoes that Theresa had seen in fashion magazines. It was unsettling, what they represented, compared to the thugs they were used to dealing with. She didn’t like it, already.
Beside her, Shiv was shifting restlessly as well, possibly thinking the same lines. Kangorr and five other guys were standing off to the side, while another group stood off to the left, all of them conveying their importance and their involvement with Ebon’s business–everyone was armed. Ebon was keeping it casual, but there was a sense of uncertainty about him that made her wonder how in the hell he was able to acquire this.
The trio didn’t look like much–but he was acting as if he were meeting the king of the world...or someone of the same status.
What unsettled her even more was their lack of an entourage–Ebon, when he traveled, usually had two or three guys, including one or all of the former metas, with him. These three–that’s all there was.
“This is D, I’m V, and this is S,” the one in charge said, briskly pointing to his partner, himself, and the girl at his side. “Pay no attention to S. She’s security. You’ll be talking mainly with me. He’s here only to explain certain aspects that we may get to, later.”
“Fine,” Ebon said, looking at each one with a measuring expression. “You’ve checked out my net points; you know that I’m serious shit.”
“Yes. Well...you’ve established good lines in and out of Dakota,” V said, lifting an eyebrow. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; but his eyes were shrewd, his mouth tight. He had done this long enough. “And we’ve performed a rundown on all your connections. They are solid, and formulate a good pattern to keep the feds off your tail. On that end...I’ve noticed your usage of violent negotiating with your people, and with some competition...”
“I need to keep my people in line. They ain’t followin’, then they out. I don’t mess around wit’ that shit,” Ebon said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t want nobody goin’ to the authorities an’ tryin’ to bring me down. As for my competition, they know that I play to win.”
“You’re running things in a way that we prefer to stay out of,” V said without falter. “While violence is necessary in some instances, intimidation is something we would prefer to use as a last resort. However...you show promise in future standings. We can run a route through Dakota...we can use you as a major distributor and manufacturer for our supplies...that’s if, of course, you have the means.”
“Yeah...I can do that. I’ve already got places set up. Labs an’ shit...some fields...nothin’s been discovered yet.”
“How far have you reached into the city mainline?” V asked, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “The police force? The council? The sewage, power, and less noticeable contracts?”
“If’n yer askin’ what I got, all I’m sayin’ is that I got my foot in. All that they need is a word. I pay my officers top notch to keep them on my side.”
“What do they do in return?”
“They keep the others from bustin’ down my door.”
“Any other outreaches? Perhaps brand lines that are manufactured in Dakota? Maybe some connections benefitting the masses...”
“Ain’t got none of that. I ain’t sellin’ entertainment to people like that. I got the stuff that people be payin’ mad money for.”
“Fine...whatever...D?”
D tilted his head curiously. “Schools?”
“Got them covered. We offer protection and stability to kids in need. In turn for their services, they get schoolin’ needed on the streets. So far, many have taken my business seriously. I’ve had a few fuck-ups here an’ there, but nothing major.”
“What about the emergency medical fields?”
“I’ve got my dependents runnin’ that show, too. This city’s easy to corrupt.” Ebon gave a smirk, full lips gathered in a smile.
“What about this... ‘Static’?” D asked curiously, his eyebrows furrowing.
Ebon made a snorting sound. “Don’t even worry about them. They big time heros, but they can’t stop me. ‘Sides, I worked on that one. Static ain’t even been around–he’s just a kid.”
“Kids are actually pretty tough, these days,” V said, lifting his eyebrows. He gestured at the girl behind him.
“Yeah well, good for her. But Static ain’t nothin’–and there was two of them, but there only been him that we kept an eye on. His bitch was useless.”
“He’s really not that much trouble? What about your history?”
“History’s history,” Ebon scoffed. “He ain’t bothered me that much. He don’t know how. They lost what they could control. They only up to stop petty shit. Can’t stop me.”
“You have a cocky attitude,” D pointed out. “We don’t like that.”
“Ya’ll got a problem with confidence? I rule this bitch city!” Ebon snapped, gesturing at himself. “This is my turf! There be plenty of bitches that roll around, tryin’ to say otherwise–but they ain’t got shit!”
“We’ll see,” V murmured, shuffling. He glanced at D, then looked back at Ebon. “We’ll stick around for a couple of days...get a feel of things. I want you to show us around...show us the factories, the manufacturing shops, the labs–everything. Then I want to see your city operations, your superheroes, possible rivals...hell, your bathroom. We’re thorough people, Mr. Ivans...and we check for dust everywhere. But the moment we feel as if we are in danger, we’re cutting loose. We don’t like sloppiness...”
“Fine. Sure. Whatever. Whatever ya want to know...these are my main boys....” He turned, introducing the key players in his drug schemes; from the men that ran the chemical labs to the men that ran the actual product to distributors.
While he was introducing, Shiv nudged Theresa, and the pair exchanged looks. Kangorr saw the look, frowning at the both of them.
The girl had been silent the entire time–she looked over at them, her blunt cut bangs catching the night breeze as she unfolded her arms. Theresa scoffed openly at her–the girl belonged in high school with the rest of the kids. Not in the streets, dressed like that. Shiv made a growling noise, while Kangorr looked away with a bored expression. Ebon glanced at them to see what they were up to, and glared at them, with all the full force a parent would with an unruly child.
“Wonder what kinda underwear they wear?” Shiv whispered to Theresa.
She gave him a shocked look. “Why you wonderin’ what kinda underwear they wearin’?”
“I mean, those suits of theirs are like...the shit you see in GQ! You haveta wonder what kinda shit they’re wearing!”
“I don’t!”
“Well...that’s just you, I guess. I pay attention to this sort of thing. My fashion advice is sage.”
Theresa frowned at him, shaking her head in exasperation. She looked over as Ebon continued talking with the two men, who were asking bountiful questions of those they were being introduced to. It made her gut curdle upon hearing that they were producing information about their own families; how many kids, what schools they went to, daughters, wives, sisters...it was as if everyone were being stocked away for insurance.
If someone messed up, those innocents would have to pay the price. Ebon didn’t mess around–as he constantly repeated.
She crossed her arms over her chest, then turned, walking away to find a payphone. Her stomach was giving her problems all day, today...it burned with both physical and emotional reaction to the actions taking place as of yet. While she felt she could overcome it all, the fact that she had to live with all that she did paid a physical toll on her slight form. To appease some of this guilt, she immediately thought of Hotstreak, and rustled through her pockets for some quarters.
She felt apprehension and caution...and burning curiosity as she wondered why he hadn’t rushed in to kill anybody, yet.
Kangorr trailed her like a shadow, and Shiv was distracted by trying to intimidate the girl.
She was lucky, that night–Hotstreak didn’t answer Maria’s cell, she didn’t feel like leaving a message, and Kangorr was called off to pay a visit to someone else.
OooooooooooO
Wednesday afternoon came about–Richie had stopped taking the painkillers, figuring that he wouldn’t need them. He felt it would be dangerous to keep them, to rely on their power to forget what had happened. They took a person far away from the pain, rendered them invincible and then powerless against dreamless sleep.
No...they weren’t for him.
“I’m just going to take the Tylenol,” he said, eyeing the prescription. He set the other two aside.
The table in the motel room was covered with sandwich making material, and he had already finished two hams on rye–a third had several bites in it. He was starving. His stomach was telling him he was full, but he felt he were still hungry.
“Not the other two?” Hotstreak asked, glancing at them with a contemplative look. Richie had seen the way the older male had been eyeing them the entire time.
“No. I don’t need them. I give them to you for your own...whatever. Make your money off of them.”
“I can sell these, two at a time, for at least ten bucks each. Maybe more if I get greedy...”
“Good God! That’s spiffy, I guess, for druggies...”
“...’Spiffy’?”
“Spiffy. You don’t like it–tough.”
“...Yer such a fuckin’ nerd.”
Richie grinned at him over his sandwich, taking another bite.
Hotstreak leaned back in his chair, idly flicking flame with his fingers. He eyed the blond across from him, noting that the swelling, with constant ice pressure, had gone down considerably. Richie was able to see out of that eye, now, but it was a grotesque mass of color that contrasted with the paleness of his skin.
As for the others, he’d been assured they’d fade with time. The ones on his neck had already grown faint–still recognizable, but they were faint. As least the skin was starting to scab over the bite marks. They were ugly, and Richie had tried covering them–but the angle at which they sat made it impossible without a turtleneck shirt–which he didn’t have.
Along that route, Richie had problems; things that Hotstreak had been warned of. Richie had shown him that he was fine at moments; he joked, he laughed, he baited the redhead into something that had Francis Stone cursing up a storm and threatening to beat him. But the nights... those had been troublesome. Richie had nightmares–and Hotstreak kept waking up to them, more than startled at hearing clenched groans and whispered pleas...it scared him, because it told him the severity of the attack.
Richie also had trouble with the dark; he would turn on the lights to fall asleep, and sleep so closely to Hotstreak that the redhead felt smothered, torn between pushing him away and having him wake up in the darkness and freaking out, or just holding onto him. The latter was embarrassing, for him–holding a guy was different than holding a girl.
Girls were soft, delicate, small–Richie had the strong, steady frame that made a guy tough, sturdy and reliant. It was like hugging himself, in a way. He felt so awkward. He hadn’t given it a thought, that time when they agreed that they couldn’t be together–that had been different, under different circumstances. This time...he was just so aware of their similarities that his own insecurities kept him from responding to things.
Other things he’d noticed about Richie since their leave from the hospital was the clingliness–Richie held onto him every chance he got. Even if it weren’t hugs, or casual touching, Richie reached out to hold onto his sleeves, his pockets, his belt loops; anything he could reach. As if he were keeping Hotstreak from escaping. That was awkward, as well. Because it made the redhead feel tied down; like he had a job, or duty to perform. He cared for Richie, he really did–but he was slowly starting to feel as if he were being smothered with the constant need to give what he himself was uncomfortable with.
Montoya had warned him of PTSD–Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That when life threatening events occurred, the survivor experienced a myriad conflict and often overwhelming course of stress related effects that made it crucial for the need of therapy to sort through. He’d been warned that Richie would feel the outcome within a variety of conflicts: sadness, grief, fear, anger, disgust, shame.
At the hospital, while Richie had been in the shower, she’d performed a small exercise with Hotstreak.
“Ball your hand into a fist, and hold your arm out,” she’d said, holding out an arm, looking at him to do the same. He’d held his arm out, balling his fingers into a fist. “Tighten them; make your knuckles white. Hold it until I tell you to release it.”
He’d given her a curious look, but had done so. He’d felt his entire hand tighten considerably with the exercise, and had waited, impatiently, for her to tell him to release the tension.
She’d waited over a minute, and asked him to release his fingers–slowly. He had done so, noting how stiff the digits were, the half moons in his palm. It hurt, feeling all his muscles adjust and relax after being held so tightly in that position for so long. He’d rubbed his hand, rubbing all the soreness out as she went on to explain: “The body of a trauma victim reacts in that very same way. It’s slow to respond right away. It takes several hours, even days for the body to physically reset itself, to put itself back into balance. He might be talking, walking, right now–but when things settle in, that’s when the journey gets even harder. He might go through every typecast on the list–he might just suffer through a few, with either a grand or minuscule effect. But the thing is, he’s going to experience them. And depending on the help he gets right away to help him cope, it could seriously overtake him in the future. Which is why I stress the need for therapy...for counseling.”
She’d warned him that it was an overwhelming process–that even if a person was trying their best to support him, everyone reacted differently to their trauma. Things could go easy one day; hard the next. She continued to stress the need for a counselor until he felt that he needed one.
And...shamefully...he felt overwhelmed by what he was set to face, causing his thoughts to whirl with the need for self-preservation and reluctance to commit himself for something so beyond his control. He hadn’t asked for this–he was the last person on Earth to turn to for comfort. He hadn’t had any; and the moment he had was when he got to know Richie Foley on a more personal level over a year ago. Upon feeling how good it felt to be held and nurtured, to be complimented and encouraged when everyone else had lost the fight, Hotstreak found himself looking at Richie in an entirely different light. Placed him above anybody else that he knew.
Which is why he felt shame when he admitted to himself that he felt overwhelmed already by what was expected. Overwhelmed...fear...anxiety...uncertainty...he himself had his own problems to sort out before he knew what he was going to be able to provide.
He thought about what Richie was planning on telling his parents and Virgil, about his injuries and current fragile state. Richie hadn’t said anything–but he was sure the blond was planning.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” he then asked curiously.
Richie shrugged, finishing off his sandwich. He picked at the chips that were scattered between them. Hotstreak had noticed that since he’d grown conscious after sleeping so much, he had been eating. Picking at this and that...making this and finishing that.
“Just tell ‘em I got into a fight. The usual. I still get my ass kicked by people offended by my good looks, so it isn’t unusual.”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, and tossed a chip at him.
“Heh. So, it won’t be that big of a surprise.”
“Your daddy...?”
“Er...well...he’ll be disappointed, of course. But probably the best thing to come out of it would be that he enroll me into some self defense class, because he’d be tired of seeing me walk around like this.”
Hotstreak picked up the can of beer he’d been drinking, and finished it. He crumpled the can, then belched hotly, wincing at the aftertaste.
Richie lifted an eyebrow, and glanced at his own soda. He looked back at the other. “Are you taking me home?”
“I’ll give you a ride to the park. You can walk back.”
“Okay...um...I had a question...you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to,” Richie then said hurriedly, giving him an embarrassed look.
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, then picked at the chips, crunching on them loudly. “What is it?”
“What made you kiss me that time? That first time?”
Hotstreak felt his face flush, but he hid the result by ducking underneath the table to retrieve another can of beer from the cooler underneath there. He straightened and gave Richie a scowl, seeing that the blond was pining him with an intense stare, waiting for the answer.
“Why you wanna know?”
“I...I’m just...I can’t understand why Ebon...I mean, I thought he was straight...”
The redhead was slightly confused–Richie was asking about their first kiss, and it somehow tied in with the rape? He was uncomfortable with the subject. He wanted Richie to shut up and just eat another sandwich, or something, so they didn’t have to talk like this. His eyes shifted away, taking in the furnishings of the room.
“He is,” he then said, with an abrupt clearing of his throat. “I think he did this cuz...all this fuckin’ stuff’s gone to his head. He thinks he can git away with anythin’...and he did. He showed you.”
“But I don’t get it,” Richie said softly, staring at his hands. “I’m not a threat to him. In a way, it should have be Static! I mean, not that I’m wishing he took Static instead of me, I just–!”
“Nah...I dunno, Rich. Ask that guy.”
“What guy?”
Hotstreak then remembered that Richie had no idea of the counselor that Montoya had recommended. He withdrew his wallet from his back pocket, and took out the index card. He held it over the table to him. As Richie took it, a questioning expression on his face, Hotstreak leaned back in his seat.
“That one. He deals with...that stuff.”
“I don’t want to see a counselor,” Richie then said quietly, tossing the card aside. “I don’t want to talk to someone about this.”
“She recommended it.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to...I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. It’s...it’s embarrassing.”
“Yer talkin’ to me.”
“Yeah, but not of the actual thing! He’s going to make me talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it! I don’t want to discuss what I was feeling! Besides, it might come up that I–I don’t wanna be Gear, anymore.”
Hotstreak blinked. Richie had his fingers curled into fists, and he was staring at the table, but the abrupt change in subject caught him off guard.
“What?” he asked stupidly, wondering if he’d heard right.
“I don’t want to be Gear anymore. It’s useless. I have a stupid power, and it was all–it was just so easy for him to do that to me! I can’t defend myself! Besides...besides it all, it’s...I’m scared.”
“WHAT?”
“I’m scared, Goddamn it! I don’t want to go out there, anymore! I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to hear him, or know that–I don’t want his eyes on me! I don’t–I hate him! I hate him so fucking much–I never want–I don’t want to do it, anymore!”
“You’re going to stop being Gear? Just cuz–“
“You don’t know! You don’t know what I feel like! I’m scared of the dark, Francis! I’m terrified of it! I’ve never been that way, before! I don’t want–I get sick at the thought of being in my room, in the dark! Of anywhere! And it’s all because of him! He–it was so dark, and I couldn’t get out–!”
Hotstreak kicked the table, sending stuff flying to the floor, and forcing Richie to abruptly pull away to avoid being smacked by it. He blinked as he looked at the meta, who was rising from his seat. A finger was jabbed into his direction.
“I don’t want to hear you fuckin’ cryin’ around about it! Man up!”
“You KEEP telling me that!” Richie cried. “Was I not a man before? What am I now?”
“...I didn’t mean it like that–” Hotstreak muttered.
“No, you did! You did! And that’s what they all think, now. I’m not a man. I never was! Cuz this one guy–”
“Don’t think like that!”
“How can I not? I’m not a man...I’m not a man...”
Hotstreak threw up his hands in exasperation, and turned away from him, not wanting to hear anymore. He found the index card with the counselor’s information on it. He picked it up, waving it in Richie’s direction as the blond fought for composure.
“You call this motherfucker, and you just say that shit to him!” he snarled. “I ain’t no Goddamn tissue for you! I ain’t fuckin’ equipped wit’ the shit you need to hear! I don’t do that! I ain’t touchy-feely, an’ there’s no way in hell I’ma fuckin’ mush up just so’s you can feel better agin! I don’t do that! I don’t think that way! The most that I can do for you is–is this!”
“What?”
“You call this prick. You take that shit out on him. Not on me. Cuz I ain’t havin’ it...”
“Then what will you have?”
Hotstreak tossed the index card in his direction. “Don’t be that way again. Cuz I ain’t hearing it. And the moment you start up, I’m kicking you outside. Cuz I don’t do females cryin’, either, an’ that’s what you act like.”
Richie covered his face, struggling hard to regain his sense of balance. Hotstreak just watched him for a few moments, then made a face as he turned, hearing his cell ring. He located it atop of his dresser, and answered it with a gruff, ‘hello?’.
“Stone...hey, it’s me.”
Hotstreak stiffened at the low, heavily accented voice, and he walked to the chair to retrieve his jacket. He shrugged it on and left Richie sitting there as he went outside, wincing at the cold.
“I’m listenin’,” he said, digging out his cigarettes.
“I...did you get my last message?”
“Yeah...” He paused to light the cigarette, then exhaled smoke thoughtfully as he gazed off into the distance. “It ain’t your fault. There was nothin’ you could do.”
He could hear Theresa’s sigh of relief. Her voice was a little less shaky as she continued. “I...I feel bad, man. I mean...I know he’s your boy.”
“Ain’t my boy–”
“Don’t fuck with me, Francis. I know. Anyway...I still have his things. I can’t keep them. You need to get them, or something. Or I can drop it off, someplace where you can get it. I don’t want that shit near me.”
“Where is he?”
“Who, Ebon? I don’t do that, man....is he...okay?”
Hotstreak thought of the mood swinging mess within his room, and shrugged as he took a seat at the curb. “Eh.”
“...I went to church with Maria the other day...said ya’ll got lucky on some shit.”
Hotstreak took the moment to inhale thoughtfully. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Well. On that...I just wanted to let you know. Y’know. About...about that.”
“He gonna look for him?”
“He hasn’t talked about him. You...I don’t think he’ll go after him. He did what he wanted. I don’t think he’ll do it again. He sent Shiv to make sure that he was gone, but...he hasn’t said anything. Just brags about it, I guess. I keep telling him that Static’s gonna fuck him over. But...we ain’t seen Static for awhile. Kinda makin’ people wonder, y’know?”
“Static won’t know about it.”
“...Oh yeah? ‘S a fact?”
“He ain’t gonna tell.”
“Oh...I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t keep apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I thought you’d be pissed, an’ shit. Get all up on Ebon’s face.”
“Nah.” Hotstreak had thought about it, through. He was furious–but in a way that he wasn’t directly sure, of. Maybe he was still in shock. “Wouldn’t be wise.”
Theresa snorted. “When have you wised up, tough guy?”
“I’m always wise. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be dealt with. Don’t be talkin’ to me, anymore. Drop that shit off–you know that park near his house? Drop it in the trash can near the water fountain.”
“Refresh my memory.”
Hotstreak gave directions to the playground near Richie’s house, then said goodbye when Theresa declared she’d do it tonight. He sat on the curb for a long while, smoking his cigarette, and thinking about things. In a way, he felt bad for saying those things to Richie–but it was the truth. He was uncomfortable with comforting–he hadn’t done it very much.
It was unfamiliar, and it made him anxious. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to say this without saying that? The few times that he had, he was either mocked for it or told that it wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t be that way. It wasn’t what he was raised to do.
He finished the cigarette and started on another, wanting to avoid going back inside. He just didn’t know what to do.
For all those that take the time to read this story...Don't be shy. Let me know if I'm doing okay, if I offended you, shocked you, or WHATEVER. Don't hold back on your silence...because of it, my account was closed on FF.Net. Just let me know, people, and I'll WORK ON WHATEVER PROBLEM OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU FIND OFFENSIVE! Sheesh...sorry...random rant.
Right Here
Chapter Nine
Hotstreak awoke some time later, blinking his eyes. He had to guess that it was around three a.m. Something had awakened him...but he wasn’t sure what it was. It had been a few hours since he arrived back at the motel room, carrying take-out bags from El Asad’s, but Richie had been too far gone in his drug-induced exhaustion that he didn’t wake up to eat. Hotstreak had finished off what he’d brought, and laid out beside the blond to fall asleep.
Shifting in his position, aware that he was laying on his stomach, arms curled underneath the pillow, he strained his ears to catch that sound again. The room was dark and quiet, the sounds of the city muffled by its distance away. He couldn’t see a thing as he turned his head to one side, tensing his entire body as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He could see faint shapes here and there, but nothing really stood out. He prepared to relax once more when he heard a high pitched whine that sent the hairs on his arms rising straight up. He jerked his head up from the pillow, hearing another clenching sound that gave the distinction of being forcibly repressed, as if it couldn’t quite stretch beyond the throat.
He glanced over to where Richie was laying, trying to determine what the problem was. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see that the blond had shifted during the night, his hands resting above his head, knees drawn up. He immediately determined the problem, appropriately recognizing the throes of a nightmare. He felt an icy fist in the gut at recognizing that position, not wanting to think about the rooftop. He set his hand on Richie’s stomach, and drew back at the agonized scream that finally tore through the blond’s throat.
Immediately, he flicked his fingers, a plume of flame lighting the bed as he roughly shook Richie awake with his other hand. The blond stiffened, then startled, hands jerking violently upward, one of his feet scraping down Hotstreak’s leg. The older male hissed at the near impact of foot against groin, and shifted again, so that his body as aligned with Richie’s, preventing any other near misses. Richie’s good eye snapped open, heavy panting escaping his damaged lips as the edges of the nightmare was disbanded by the awakening.
Immediately he tensed, staring at the flickering plume of fire that Hotstreak held.
It was bright and instantaneously eye catching–it was all he could see and register as his mind let him go free from the nightmare he was experiencing by Ebon’s hands. It took over the darkness and rendered it powerless–the darkness had nothing against that powerful light. He wasn’t quite awake–merely caught in that dream state between wakefulness and sleep. His mind only registered the brightness of the flame, his good eye focusing in intently at it.
Seeing that Richie was semi-awake, Hotstreak calmed slightly.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, a look of annoyance crossing his features. “Yer just dreamin’. Go back to sleep.”
Richie’s good eye continued to focus on the flame. Then, he shut it, bringing his hands down to settle on his stomach, head tilting toward Hotstreak’s frame. The older male gave a slow exhale as he checked the room for anything that may be out of place, holding his hand high.
There was a flash of metal, and he pushed his hand out to see that Backpack had scuttled out of its hiding place to stand near the bed–it startled Hotstreak upon seeing the robot there. It made his muscles jump in surprise as that retractable eye took in the activity, made a high pitched beep, then scuttled back underneath the dresser with a rustle and click of metal upon wood.
He hated the thing. It was so similar to an animal; it seemed to have a mind of its own. Things that thought when they shouldn’t made him uneasy.
He shifted his hand again, scanning the room. There was nothing out of the ordinary, so the flame was dispersed, and he settled back onto his stomach.
Uncomfortably curling his hands underneath the pillow once more, he listened to the deep, even breathing of the male beside him, and fell back to sleep.
He awoke again hours later–his eyelids felt uncomfortably heavy as he forced them open, focusing on the bright light of mid-morning as it streamed through the crack between the curtains. The room was considerably lit, and he grumbled as he dropped his head back against the pillow, feeling Richie shift against him at the sudden movement. Hotstreak became uncomfortably aware that his left hand was warm, curled lightly over skin. He blinked, seeing that sometime during the night, his hand had crept underneath the hem of Richie’s shirt, gripping his hip; as if he were holding him in place. The blond’s skin was soft to his touch; almost feminine in its smooth silkiness. His fingers squeezed briskly in reaction to skin to skin contact as he then withdrew his hand.
He shifted in bed, wiping at his eyes. He looked over at Richie, hearing the blond snore as he slept on his side, his back to Hotstreak. The redhead glanced over at his watch on the night stand, and reached for it, giving a grumble about morning wood and enjoying the relief of scratching his nuts.
Yawning, he checked the time, seeing that it was just past eleven–his stomach grumbled. His breath was thick with the countless cigarettes that he’d smoked yesterday, and his intestines felt like they were in knots. Making smacking actions with his lips, grimacing at the thickness in his mouth and teeth, he pushed up from the bed.
Nearly a half hour later, not quite awake but brushing his teeth for the third time, he walked out from the bathroom, looking over at Richie’s sleeping form. He’d let him sleep all day yesterday...he’d probably continue to sleep all day, today, too.
Frowning around his toothbrush, Hotstreak decided that wasn’t acceptable.
He finished brushing his teeth, and cleaned up with a quick wash of his face, sweeping moisture through his hair. He’d take a shower, later. After he was through with this. But right now...at this moment...he needed a cigarette. And some coffee.
As the scent of Folgers filled the room from the small coffee maker, Hotstreak slipped on his jeans, and buttoned them carelessly as he once again eyed Richie’s sleeping form. He really didn’t want to wake him–but if Richie continued to sleep, depression would just make it all harder and harder to deal with. Hotstreak was familiar with depression–he knew how easy it could take over if one let it.
And he wouldn’t let it with Richie–no, he felt that unfamiliar ache just below his sternum that let him know the last time he’d seen a bright smile on the blond’s face. That easy, seemingly carefree disposition of his seemed foreign on this new stranger–Ebon would win once more if Hotstreak let Richie sleep away his life.
A hot flash of determination and anger warmed his insides as he walked around the bed, and lightly gripped Richie’s shoulder, urging him awake with that single gesture. Richie, without opening his eyes, uttered something incoherent, and batted his hand away, turning away from him.
“No, get up,” Hotstreak ordered, pulling on his shoulder, forcing him onto his back.
Richie once again batted at his hand, snarling something that sounded like, “Fuck off...”
“No, getcher ass up. You can’t sleep all fuckin’ day. Get up.”
“NO. Lemme alone...”
Impatiently, Hotstreak then jerked the pillow out from underneath Richie’s head, the blond hitting the mattress with a startled sound. He turned his head, giving the redhead a mean glower as Hotstreak tossed the pillow over his shoulder.
“Get. Up,” he repeated evenly.
“NO,” Richie shot back, glaring at him. “I don’t want to. Leave me alone!”
“You ain’t gonna sleep all day! You did that, yesterday! GET. UP.”
“Don’t you have some chick to impregnate? Some faggot to bust open? Get out of my face!”
“You getcher whiny ass out of bed, an’ get in that shower. Get yaself together. Don’t do this shit.”
“You don’t know what I’m going through! You don’t know how I feel! I don’t want to do anything! I just want to sleep! LEAVE ME ALONE!” Richie ended in a cracking shout, angrily kicking at Hotstreak. Then winced at the movement, almost curling into a pained fetal position.
Hotstreak forced himself to ignore that, and grabbed Richie by his belt loops, forcing his legs and hips off the bed. Richie was forced to stand, or else fall onto his ass, his hands groping for support as he slipped off the bed. Angrily, he latched onto Hotstreak’s pants, and with an ugly expression due to his mounting rage, he socked the older male with a growl. Hotstreak wasn’t going to have any of that–he grabbed the fist and forcefully yanked Richie’s arm behind his back, shoving the blond toward the bathroom. Richie was snarling the entire way, kicking and thrashing against him, calling him every name in the book.
It was quite a struggle as the two pushed and shoved at each other, limbs banging against wood and cheap porcelain. Hotstreak reached out for the cold water knob of the tub and turned that on, Richie managing a good kick against his shin. He winced, but forcefully shoved Richie’s head underneath the spray of water, making him gasp in shock. This time, as he thrashed, he was trying to get out from the cold, his fingers bunching into Hotstreak’s shirt, clinging onto him as he sputtered and coughed.
Getting wet in the process, Hotstreak pulled Richie out from the spray, and forced the blond to look at him, his hands set firmly on the sides of his face.
“You can’t just letcher self sleep through it all,” he said, tightening his grip when Richie tried to yank himself away. “You need to get up. You need ta take a shower. Wake up. I gots some food–when you come out, you’ll have somethin’ there. But ya can’t. Sleep. All. Day. I let you do that, yesterday. Ya gotta get up. Unnerstand?”
“I don’t want to do anything...I just want to sleep...I just want to forget what happened, and–!”
“You gonna let him win? Huh?” Hotstreak jerked Richie’s face up when the blond tried squirming away from him, a choked sound of defeat coming from his lips. “Don’t let him win. Don’t let him do this to you. You let him win like this, you give ‘im that satisfaction.”
“He–raped–me! How the hell am I supposed to feel about it? I didn’t want it! I didn’t want him–!”
“Get in there an’ wash up. Your breath stinks.” Hotstreak released him, Richie’s hands going up to cover his face.
Seeing the blond in throes of self-shame, dripping wet from the dunking, Hotstreak felt awkward and uncomfortable with what to do now. He didn’t move for a few seconds–giving Richie enough time to forcefully draw his hands over his face to clear away the droplets of water. His expression was so pitiful and agonized that Hotstreak flinched.
Feeling painfully embarrassed, he reached over, slinging an arm around Richie’s shoulders and drawing him against his side. He kissed the blond’s forehead–a sloppy knock of lips and teeth against skull that hurt them both. But the gesture, in itself, was recognized. After a moment, Richie’s arms curled around his waist, lowered his head, his face was pressed against the older male’s shoulder. It sort of surprised Hotstreak, at that instant–the blond had gained a few inches. Over a year ago, Richie had barely come up to his shoulder–now, his forehead was level with his lips. There was a better fit between them both as his arm slipped from his shoulders, gently nudging him with an elbow toward the running shower.
Richie’s arms fell away from his waist, an embarrassed flush taking over his features.
“Shower up. There’s some clothes right there,” Hotstreak muttering, gesturing in the vague direction of the set of clothes on the sink. He let himself out from the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he went to look for that food he’d promised.
When Richie finished showering, he went through the motions of brushing his teeth, applying the uncomfortable cream over his stitches, and shifting through the clothes that Hotstreak had left on the counter. They were worn and faded, and a couple of sizes bigger than he normally wore. But he tossed on brand new pair of boxers, the size thirty-six jeans and the double XL shirt. He was thinking the entire time, about Hotstreak’s words; about his own feelings and fears. But he eventually came to a point where he realized that the older male was right–if he broke, Ebon would win.
He took a deep breath before walking out from the bathroom, seeing that Hotstreak was sipping at a styrofoam cup of coffee, staring off to some point in the room. Richie hesitated as he looked over at him, then quietly walked over to join him on the mattress’s edge.
The room was silent for a few minutes–occasionally interrupted by the sound of Hotstreak sipping at the hot, black coffee in his cup. Richie sat in silence, smelling the other’s natural body scent and the strong flavor of his coffee.
This man had been there with him through those tumultuous times after Ebon’s attack, and had provided him with safe and secure nights of comfort. He was just as strong and bright as the flames he conjured–and with it all, Richie felt extremely grateful for his presence, and for his strength.
He shifted, leaning against Hotstreak, the better side of his face pressed against Hotstreak’s shoulder. He exhaled heavily, arranging his legs into a comfortable position.
“I’m so sorry for saying all those things,” he said, his voice muffled into Hotstreak’s sleeve. “You’re right–I need to get moving again. I’m just–I don’t know what to do!”
Hotstreak grunted, lowering his cup, careful to keep it out of Richie’s reach, in case of a spill. He reached up to run his fingers through his soul patch, staring absently into space. Lifting the cup to his lips, he studied the bare furnishings of the room, mentally noting their need for more food–and in that area, more money for the rent. He had a feeling they were going to be here, for awhile.
He didn’t mind that aspect; he just felt strange knowing that he was planning things in this manner. Planning for two instead of one.
He felt the moisture against his shoulder, and flinched. Richie wasn’t making any noise as he cried, but his tears were obvious enough. It made him uncomfortable–Hotstreak didn’t want to see that.
But he reached down, and curled his fingers over the blond’s knee.
“Git it all out, now,” he said gruffly, shifting. He leaned back on one arm so that Richie was able to hold onto him in a less awkward position. “Cuz you ain’t doin’ it again.”
Richie nodded against his shoulder, his arms going around his neck, sniffling as his own shoulders shook. Wincing again, Hotstreak reached out to squeeze his thigh with reassuring pressure.
OooooooooooO
Theresa shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed sullenly over her chest. There was something creepy about the girl across from her–they were separated by at least five years, but there was an aura of maturity about her that Theresa recognized in herself. This girl had seen some shit–and from the looks of it, it hadn’t bothered her. Meeting with cold-hearted thugs was something she was used to–but this one was different. Maybe it was just the age difference...or, perhaps, seeing herself in that girl...
The other two men were in the same heat–but they projected a sense of business and brisk attunement to their matters as they stood across from Ebon. They were all dressed high-city; both men in three pieces, the girl in a blazer, jeans and shoes that Theresa had seen in fashion magazines. It was unsettling, what they represented, compared to the thugs they were used to dealing with. She didn’t like it, already.
Beside her, Shiv was shifting restlessly as well, possibly thinking the same lines. Kangorr and five other guys were standing off to the side, while another group stood off to the left, all of them conveying their importance and their involvement with Ebon’s business–everyone was armed. Ebon was keeping it casual, but there was a sense of uncertainty about him that made her wonder how in the hell he was able to acquire this.
The trio didn’t look like much–but he was acting as if he were meeting the king of the world...or someone of the same status.
What unsettled her even more was their lack of an entourage–Ebon, when he traveled, usually had two or three guys, including one or all of the former metas, with him. These three–that’s all there was.
“This is D, I’m V, and this is S,” the one in charge said, briskly pointing to his partner, himself, and the girl at his side. “Pay no attention to S. She’s security. You’ll be talking mainly with me. He’s here only to explain certain aspects that we may get to, later.”
“Fine,” Ebon said, looking at each one with a measuring expression. “You’ve checked out my net points; you know that I’m serious shit.”
“Yes. Well...you’ve established good lines in and out of Dakota,” V said, lifting an eyebrow. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five; but his eyes were shrewd, his mouth tight. He had done this long enough. “And we’ve performed a rundown on all your connections. They are solid, and formulate a good pattern to keep the feds off your tail. On that end...I’ve noticed your usage of violent negotiating with your people, and with some competition...”
“I need to keep my people in line. They ain’t followin’, then they out. I don’t mess around wit’ that shit,” Ebon said, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t want nobody goin’ to the authorities an’ tryin’ to bring me down. As for my competition, they know that I play to win.”
“You’re running things in a way that we prefer to stay out of,” V said without falter. “While violence is necessary in some instances, intimidation is something we would prefer to use as a last resort. However...you show promise in future standings. We can run a route through Dakota...we can use you as a major distributor and manufacturer for our supplies...that’s if, of course, you have the means.”
“Yeah...I can do that. I’ve already got places set up. Labs an’ shit...some fields...nothin’s been discovered yet.”
“How far have you reached into the city mainline?” V asked, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “The police force? The council? The sewage, power, and less noticeable contracts?”
“If’n yer askin’ what I got, all I’m sayin’ is that I got my foot in. All that they need is a word. I pay my officers top notch to keep them on my side.”
“What do they do in return?”
“They keep the others from bustin’ down my door.”
“Any other outreaches? Perhaps brand lines that are manufactured in Dakota? Maybe some connections benefitting the masses...”
“Ain’t got none of that. I ain’t sellin’ entertainment to people like that. I got the stuff that people be payin’ mad money for.”
“Fine...whatever...D?”
D tilted his head curiously. “Schools?”
“Got them covered. We offer protection and stability to kids in need. In turn for their services, they get schoolin’ needed on the streets. So far, many have taken my business seriously. I’ve had a few fuck-ups here an’ there, but nothing major.”
“What about the emergency medical fields?”
“I’ve got my dependents runnin’ that show, too. This city’s easy to corrupt.” Ebon gave a smirk, full lips gathered in a smile.
“What about this... ‘Static’?” D asked curiously, his eyebrows furrowing.
Ebon made a snorting sound. “Don’t even worry about them. They big time heros, but they can’t stop me. ‘Sides, I worked on that one. Static ain’t even been around–he’s just a kid.”
“Kids are actually pretty tough, these days,” V said, lifting his eyebrows. He gestured at the girl behind him.
“Yeah well, good for her. But Static ain’t nothin’–and there was two of them, but there only been him that we kept an eye on. His bitch was useless.”
“He’s really not that much trouble? What about your history?”
“History’s history,” Ebon scoffed. “He ain’t bothered me that much. He don’t know how. They lost what they could control. They only up to stop petty shit. Can’t stop me.”
“You have a cocky attitude,” D pointed out. “We don’t like that.”
“Ya’ll got a problem with confidence? I rule this bitch city!” Ebon snapped, gesturing at himself. “This is my turf! There be plenty of bitches that roll around, tryin’ to say otherwise–but they ain’t got shit!”
“We’ll see,” V murmured, shuffling. He glanced at D, then looked back at Ebon. “We’ll stick around for a couple of days...get a feel of things. I want you to show us around...show us the factories, the manufacturing shops, the labs–everything. Then I want to see your city operations, your superheroes, possible rivals...hell, your bathroom. We’re thorough people, Mr. Ivans...and we check for dust everywhere. But the moment we feel as if we are in danger, we’re cutting loose. We don’t like sloppiness...”
“Fine. Sure. Whatever. Whatever ya want to know...these are my main boys....” He turned, introducing the key players in his drug schemes; from the men that ran the chemical labs to the men that ran the actual product to distributors.
While he was introducing, Shiv nudged Theresa, and the pair exchanged looks. Kangorr saw the look, frowning at the both of them.
The girl had been silent the entire time–she looked over at them, her blunt cut bangs catching the night breeze as she unfolded her arms. Theresa scoffed openly at her–the girl belonged in high school with the rest of the kids. Not in the streets, dressed like that. Shiv made a growling noise, while Kangorr looked away with a bored expression. Ebon glanced at them to see what they were up to, and glared at them, with all the full force a parent would with an unruly child.
“Wonder what kinda underwear they wear?” Shiv whispered to Theresa.
She gave him a shocked look. “Why you wonderin’ what kinda underwear they wearin’?”
“I mean, those suits of theirs are like...the shit you see in GQ! You haveta wonder what kinda shit they’re wearing!”
“I don’t!”
“Well...that’s just you, I guess. I pay attention to this sort of thing. My fashion advice is sage.”
Theresa frowned at him, shaking her head in exasperation. She looked over as Ebon continued talking with the two men, who were asking bountiful questions of those they were being introduced to. It made her gut curdle upon hearing that they were producing information about their own families; how many kids, what schools they went to, daughters, wives, sisters...it was as if everyone were being stocked away for insurance.
If someone messed up, those innocents would have to pay the price. Ebon didn’t mess around–as he constantly repeated.
She crossed her arms over her chest, then turned, walking away to find a payphone. Her stomach was giving her problems all day, today...it burned with both physical and emotional reaction to the actions taking place as of yet. While she felt she could overcome it all, the fact that she had to live with all that she did paid a physical toll on her slight form. To appease some of this guilt, she immediately thought of Hotstreak, and rustled through her pockets for some quarters.
She felt apprehension and caution...and burning curiosity as she wondered why he hadn’t rushed in to kill anybody, yet.
Kangorr trailed her like a shadow, and Shiv was distracted by trying to intimidate the girl.
She was lucky, that night–Hotstreak didn’t answer Maria’s cell, she didn’t feel like leaving a message, and Kangorr was called off to pay a visit to someone else.
OooooooooooO
Wednesday afternoon came about–Richie had stopped taking the painkillers, figuring that he wouldn’t need them. He felt it would be dangerous to keep them, to rely on their power to forget what had happened. They took a person far away from the pain, rendered them invincible and then powerless against dreamless sleep.
No...they weren’t for him.
“I’m just going to take the Tylenol,” he said, eyeing the prescription. He set the other two aside.
The table in the motel room was covered with sandwich making material, and he had already finished two hams on rye–a third had several bites in it. He was starving. His stomach was telling him he was full, but he felt he were still hungry.
“Not the other two?” Hotstreak asked, glancing at them with a contemplative look. Richie had seen the way the older male had been eyeing them the entire time.
“No. I don’t need them. I give them to you for your own...whatever. Make your money off of them.”
“I can sell these, two at a time, for at least ten bucks each. Maybe more if I get greedy...”
“Good God! That’s spiffy, I guess, for druggies...”
“...’Spiffy’?”
“Spiffy. You don’t like it–tough.”
“...Yer such a fuckin’ nerd.”
Richie grinned at him over his sandwich, taking another bite.
Hotstreak leaned back in his chair, idly flicking flame with his fingers. He eyed the blond across from him, noting that the swelling, with constant ice pressure, had gone down considerably. Richie was able to see out of that eye, now, but it was a grotesque mass of color that contrasted with the paleness of his skin.
As for the others, he’d been assured they’d fade with time. The ones on his neck had already grown faint–still recognizable, but they were faint. As least the skin was starting to scab over the bite marks. They were ugly, and Richie had tried covering them–but the angle at which they sat made it impossible without a turtleneck shirt–which he didn’t have.
Along that route, Richie had problems; things that Hotstreak had been warned of. Richie had shown him that he was fine at moments; he joked, he laughed, he baited the redhead into something that had Francis Stone cursing up a storm and threatening to beat him. But the nights... those had been troublesome. Richie had nightmares–and Hotstreak kept waking up to them, more than startled at hearing clenched groans and whispered pleas...it scared him, because it told him the severity of the attack.
Richie also had trouble with the dark; he would turn on the lights to fall asleep, and sleep so closely to Hotstreak that the redhead felt smothered, torn between pushing him away and having him wake up in the darkness and freaking out, or just holding onto him. The latter was embarrassing, for him–holding a guy was different than holding a girl.
Girls were soft, delicate, small–Richie had the strong, steady frame that made a guy tough, sturdy and reliant. It was like hugging himself, in a way. He felt so awkward. He hadn’t given it a thought, that time when they agreed that they couldn’t be together–that had been different, under different circumstances. This time...he was just so aware of their similarities that his own insecurities kept him from responding to things.
Other things he’d noticed about Richie since their leave from the hospital was the clingliness–Richie held onto him every chance he got. Even if it weren’t hugs, or casual touching, Richie reached out to hold onto his sleeves, his pockets, his belt loops; anything he could reach. As if he were keeping Hotstreak from escaping. That was awkward, as well. Because it made the redhead feel tied down; like he had a job, or duty to perform. He cared for Richie, he really did–but he was slowly starting to feel as if he were being smothered with the constant need to give what he himself was uncomfortable with.
Montoya had warned him of PTSD–Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That when life threatening events occurred, the survivor experienced a myriad conflict and often overwhelming course of stress related effects that made it crucial for the need of therapy to sort through. He’d been warned that Richie would feel the outcome within a variety of conflicts: sadness, grief, fear, anger, disgust, shame.
At the hospital, while Richie had been in the shower, she’d performed a small exercise with Hotstreak.
“Ball your hand into a fist, and hold your arm out,” she’d said, holding out an arm, looking at him to do the same. He’d held his arm out, balling his fingers into a fist. “Tighten them; make your knuckles white. Hold it until I tell you to release it.”
He’d given her a curious look, but had done so. He’d felt his entire hand tighten considerably with the exercise, and had waited, impatiently, for her to tell him to release the tension.
She’d waited over a minute, and asked him to release his fingers–slowly. He had done so, noting how stiff the digits were, the half moons in his palm. It hurt, feeling all his muscles adjust and relax after being held so tightly in that position for so long. He’d rubbed his hand, rubbing all the soreness out as she went on to explain: “The body of a trauma victim reacts in that very same way. It’s slow to respond right away. It takes several hours, even days for the body to physically reset itself, to put itself back into balance. He might be talking, walking, right now–but when things settle in, that’s when the journey gets even harder. He might go through every typecast on the list–he might just suffer through a few, with either a grand or minuscule effect. But the thing is, he’s going to experience them. And depending on the help he gets right away to help him cope, it could seriously overtake him in the future. Which is why I stress the need for therapy...for counseling.”
She’d warned him that it was an overwhelming process–that even if a person was trying their best to support him, everyone reacted differently to their trauma. Things could go easy one day; hard the next. She continued to stress the need for a counselor until he felt that he needed one.
And...shamefully...he felt overwhelmed by what he was set to face, causing his thoughts to whirl with the need for self-preservation and reluctance to commit himself for something so beyond his control. He hadn’t asked for this–he was the last person on Earth to turn to for comfort. He hadn’t had any; and the moment he had was when he got to know Richie Foley on a more personal level over a year ago. Upon feeling how good it felt to be held and nurtured, to be complimented and encouraged when everyone else had lost the fight, Hotstreak found himself looking at Richie in an entirely different light. Placed him above anybody else that he knew.
Which is why he felt shame when he admitted to himself that he felt overwhelmed already by what was expected. Overwhelmed...fear...anxiety...uncertainty...he himself had his own problems to sort out before he knew what he was going to be able to provide.
He thought about what Richie was planning on telling his parents and Virgil, about his injuries and current fragile state. Richie hadn’t said anything–but he was sure the blond was planning.
“What are you going to tell your parents?” he then asked curiously.
Richie shrugged, finishing off his sandwich. He picked at the chips that were scattered between them. Hotstreak had noticed that since he’d grown conscious after sleeping so much, he had been eating. Picking at this and that...making this and finishing that.
“Just tell ‘em I got into a fight. The usual. I still get my ass kicked by people offended by my good looks, so it isn’t unusual.”
Hotstreak rolled his eyes, and tossed a chip at him.
“Heh. So, it won’t be that big of a surprise.”
“Your daddy...?”
“Er...well...he’ll be disappointed, of course. But probably the best thing to come out of it would be that he enroll me into some self defense class, because he’d be tired of seeing me walk around like this.”
Hotstreak picked up the can of beer he’d been drinking, and finished it. He crumpled the can, then belched hotly, wincing at the aftertaste.
Richie lifted an eyebrow, and glanced at his own soda. He looked back at the other. “Are you taking me home?”
“I’ll give you a ride to the park. You can walk back.”
“Okay...um...I had a question...you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to,” Richie then said hurriedly, giving him an embarrassed look.
Hotstreak lifted an eyebrow, then picked at the chips, crunching on them loudly. “What is it?”
“What made you kiss me that time? That first time?”
Hotstreak felt his face flush, but he hid the result by ducking underneath the table to retrieve another can of beer from the cooler underneath there. He straightened and gave Richie a scowl, seeing that the blond was pining him with an intense stare, waiting for the answer.
“Why you wanna know?”
“I...I’m just...I can’t understand why Ebon...I mean, I thought he was straight...”
The redhead was slightly confused–Richie was asking about their first kiss, and it somehow tied in with the rape? He was uncomfortable with the subject. He wanted Richie to shut up and just eat another sandwich, or something, so they didn’t have to talk like this. His eyes shifted away, taking in the furnishings of the room.
“He is,” he then said, with an abrupt clearing of his throat. “I think he did this cuz...all this fuckin’ stuff’s gone to his head. He thinks he can git away with anythin’...and he did. He showed you.”
“But I don’t get it,” Richie said softly, staring at his hands. “I’m not a threat to him. In a way, it should have be Static! I mean, not that I’m wishing he took Static instead of me, I just–!”
“Nah...I dunno, Rich. Ask that guy.”
“What guy?”
Hotstreak then remembered that Richie had no idea of the counselor that Montoya had recommended. He withdrew his wallet from his back pocket, and took out the index card. He held it over the table to him. As Richie took it, a questioning expression on his face, Hotstreak leaned back in his seat.
“That one. He deals with...that stuff.”
“I don’t want to see a counselor,” Richie then said quietly, tossing the card aside. “I don’t want to talk to someone about this.”
“She recommended it.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to...I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. It’s...it’s embarrassing.”
“Yer talkin’ to me.”
“Yeah, but not of the actual thing! He’s going to make me talk about it, and I don’t want to talk about it! I don’t want to discuss what I was feeling! Besides, it might come up that I–I don’t wanna be Gear, anymore.”
Hotstreak blinked. Richie had his fingers curled into fists, and he was staring at the table, but the abrupt change in subject caught him off guard.
“What?” he asked stupidly, wondering if he’d heard right.
“I don’t want to be Gear anymore. It’s useless. I have a stupid power, and it was all–it was just so easy for him to do that to me! I can’t defend myself! Besides...besides it all, it’s...I’m scared.”
“WHAT?”
“I’m scared, Goddamn it! I don’t want to go out there, anymore! I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to hear him, or know that–I don’t want his eyes on me! I don’t–I hate him! I hate him so fucking much–I never want–I don’t want to do it, anymore!”
“You’re going to stop being Gear? Just cuz–“
“You don’t know! You don’t know what I feel like! I’m scared of the dark, Francis! I’m terrified of it! I’ve never been that way, before! I don’t want–I get sick at the thought of being in my room, in the dark! Of anywhere! And it’s all because of him! He–it was so dark, and I couldn’t get out–!”
Hotstreak kicked the table, sending stuff flying to the floor, and forcing Richie to abruptly pull away to avoid being smacked by it. He blinked as he looked at the meta, who was rising from his seat. A finger was jabbed into his direction.
“I don’t want to hear you fuckin’ cryin’ around about it! Man up!”
“You KEEP telling me that!” Richie cried. “Was I not a man before? What am I now?”
“...I didn’t mean it like that–” Hotstreak muttered.
“No, you did! You did! And that’s what they all think, now. I’m not a man. I never was! Cuz this one guy–”
“Don’t think like that!”
“How can I not? I’m not a man...I’m not a man...”
Hotstreak threw up his hands in exasperation, and turned away from him, not wanting to hear anymore. He found the index card with the counselor’s information on it. He picked it up, waving it in Richie’s direction as the blond fought for composure.
“You call this motherfucker, and you just say that shit to him!” he snarled. “I ain’t no Goddamn tissue for you! I ain’t fuckin’ equipped wit’ the shit you need to hear! I don’t do that! I ain’t touchy-feely, an’ there’s no way in hell I’ma fuckin’ mush up just so’s you can feel better agin! I don’t do that! I don’t think that way! The most that I can do for you is–is this!”
“What?”
“You call this prick. You take that shit out on him. Not on me. Cuz I ain’t havin’ it...”
“Then what will you have?”
Hotstreak tossed the index card in his direction. “Don’t be that way again. Cuz I ain’t hearing it. And the moment you start up, I’m kicking you outside. Cuz I don’t do females cryin’, either, an’ that’s what you act like.”
Richie covered his face, struggling hard to regain his sense of balance. Hotstreak just watched him for a few moments, then made a face as he turned, hearing his cell ring. He located it atop of his dresser, and answered it with a gruff, ‘hello?’.
“Stone...hey, it’s me.”
Hotstreak stiffened at the low, heavily accented voice, and he walked to the chair to retrieve his jacket. He shrugged it on and left Richie sitting there as he went outside, wincing at the cold.
“I’m listenin’,” he said, digging out his cigarettes.
“I...did you get my last message?”
“Yeah...” He paused to light the cigarette, then exhaled smoke thoughtfully as he gazed off into the distance. “It ain’t your fault. There was nothin’ you could do.”
He could hear Theresa’s sigh of relief. Her voice was a little less shaky as she continued. “I...I feel bad, man. I mean...I know he’s your boy.”
“Ain’t my boy–”
“Don’t fuck with me, Francis. I know. Anyway...I still have his things. I can’t keep them. You need to get them, or something. Or I can drop it off, someplace where you can get it. I don’t want that shit near me.”
“Where is he?”
“Who, Ebon? I don’t do that, man....is he...okay?”
Hotstreak thought of the mood swinging mess within his room, and shrugged as he took a seat at the curb. “Eh.”
“...I went to church with Maria the other day...said ya’ll got lucky on some shit.”
Hotstreak took the moment to inhale thoughtfully. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Well. On that...I just wanted to let you know. Y’know. About...about that.”
“He gonna look for him?”
“He hasn’t talked about him. You...I don’t think he’ll go after him. He did what he wanted. I don’t think he’ll do it again. He sent Shiv to make sure that he was gone, but...he hasn’t said anything. Just brags about it, I guess. I keep telling him that Static’s gonna fuck him over. But...we ain’t seen Static for awhile. Kinda makin’ people wonder, y’know?”
“Static won’t know about it.”
“...Oh yeah? ‘S a fact?”
“He ain’t gonna tell.”
“Oh...I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t keep apologizing. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I thought you’d be pissed, an’ shit. Get all up on Ebon’s face.”
“Nah.” Hotstreak had thought about it, through. He was furious–but in a way that he wasn’t directly sure, of. Maybe he was still in shock. “Wouldn’t be wise.”
Theresa snorted. “When have you wised up, tough guy?”
“I’m always wise. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be dealt with. Don’t be talkin’ to me, anymore. Drop that shit off–you know that park near his house? Drop it in the trash can near the water fountain.”
“Refresh my memory.”
Hotstreak gave directions to the playground near Richie’s house, then said goodbye when Theresa declared she’d do it tonight. He sat on the curb for a long while, smoking his cigarette, and thinking about things. In a way, he felt bad for saying those things to Richie–but it was the truth. He was uncomfortable with comforting–he hadn’t done it very much.
It was unfamiliar, and it made him anxious. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to say this without saying that? The few times that he had, he was either mocked for it or told that it wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t be that way. It wasn’t what he was raised to do.
He finished the cigarette and started on another, wanting to avoid going back inside. He just didn’t know what to do.