Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Ten ( Chapter 10 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Theresa is caught; Richie goes home.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 534 | Status: Completed
Theresa is caught; Richie goes home.
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 09.30.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 534 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Ten
Kangorr watched as Theresa hurried through the darkness, carrying a blue Wal-mart bag. He narrowed his eyes, disliking what he had to do as she deposited the bag within a metal trash can near the water fountain. He’d tracked her since he’d overheard her phone call to Hotstreak–which he knew was going to piss Ebon off–and had taken care to keep from being seen. He was curious as to know what that ‘stuff’ was...he was trying to get over the fact that Theresa was openly communicating with one of Ebon’s enemies.
It bothered him–he knew what was going to happen. And he knew he had to cooperate–he may not be with his children, but he loved them. He knew he put them in danger being who he was and running around with. The only way he was able to keep them safe was to perform every single thing Ebon wanted.
He clenched his jaw as he watched her hurry off, and he found out what he needed to know; he didn’t need to tail her, anymore. He’d walked the last three blocks after her, not recognizing the area. Cooperating with a few of his own friends, who were waiting in a car nearby, he’d tailed her from Ebon’s hideout to her motel to this place. He wasn’t sure what was here, but Theresa had been thorough with her effort.
He withdrew his cellphone from his jacket pocket, exhaling heavily as he accessed Ebon’s number. Placing the phone against his ear, he blew into his other hand, shifting from foot to foot. It was nearly ten degrees, and the air was thick with the pending snowstorm that was slated to drop inches of snow within Dakota.
When Ebon’s bored gravel answered, he quietly related what he’d just seen, keeping his voice down than he usually spoke with. Theresa was long gone–but this place was pretty quiet. He knew people were hiding within the comforts of the warmth of their homes, but there was practically no sound or activity in this neighborhood. It was far enough away from the Projects to be considered safe, but from the indications of the worn paint and old style houses, he guessed that this was just another one of those neighborhoods that housed the more poor to middle class of Dakota’s citizens.
He heard Ebon give a tired sigh. He could picture the man shaking his head from side to side with a mournful frown.
No...not mournful...annoyed.
“Well...like I did with the others...she’s got to go,” Ebon replied solemnly. “Find out what she dropped off. Check it.”
“Sure t’ing.”
Kangorr’s accent always became more pronounced the more he was troubled. Ebon must have sensed his doubt and hesitation.
“You’re not going to do it, bro. I ain’t that hard-up,” Ebon said cheerfully. “I already made some arrangements...got it? She headed home?”
“I don’t know. Wait...wait...” Kangorr watched as a black Pontiac Grand Am pulled up to the north end of the park’s curb. He watched for a few moments, seeing that whomever was inside wasn’t ready to come out just yet. The car rumbled quietly, the engine protesting the high activation of its heater.
He licked his lips, furrowing his brow.
“Nothin’,” he replied to Ebon’s inquiry. “Just watchin’. I’ll check it out.”
“Fine. Later.”
He hung up as he continued watching the car, relaxing. Probably just some teenage couple getting their rocks off, or something. He was going to wait for them to leave before he went to check out what Theresa had stuffed into the trash can. He tucked his cold hands into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders. The night was pretty slow; everyone was tucked in warm beds, before warm fires, or sleeping with a warm body. He couldn’t wait to get back to the community center to rest; it felt as if he had been running all week, doing the errands that Ebon commanded of him.
He was about to light a cigarette when the passenger side door opened, and someone got out. He squinted, trying to determine if it were someone of importance. But whomever it was, he was dressed from head to toe in dark clothing, a hood over his head. He watched the person slam the door shut, the Pontiac lurching away from the curb and tearing down the street. Clenching his jaw, he watched as the person headed, rather stiffly, toward the trash can that Theresa had dumped the bag into.
He watched the person with an odd expression, wondering why the pause, the long stare, and the final exhalation that had him removing the bag from the trash can. Kangorr shifted away from the tree, moving quietly behind it to observe as the figure then hurried away from the park, heading down the street.
Kangorr followed quickly, using the shadows and the parked cars to his advantage as he tailed the stiffly moving figure. He was wondering if this person should simply be taken down before he took that bag to Hotstreak, but decided it wasn’t a good idea. When he hustled up to a plain two story that was covered with a thin layer of snow, a green Corolla in the driveway, Kangorr hesitated. He was about to turn and leave, memorizing the address when the figure removed his hood, revealing who he was before opening the front door.
Kangorr blinked in rapid confusion. How was Gear–no...Richie Foley–associated with Theresa? His mind was whirling with bewilderment, albeit a bit of surprise in that the guy was actually alive. Reliving moments of that horrid night, Kangorr winced and pulled out of his hiding spot to head back toward the park, new information in hand. He’d witnessed a great deal of things that made a hardened man flinch, and that night had been one of them. He hadn’t let it affect him as much as it did with Shiv and Theresa, though; to him, it wasn’t that big of a deal.
He pulled out his cellphone, redialing Ebon’s number.
“Get this,” he started, hustling to get out of the cold. He relayed what he’d just seen; starting with Theresa calling Hotstreak, giving Ebon what he’d heard of the conversation.
Ebon was silent for a few minutes, absorbing everything that had been said. Then, he began to laugh.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed. Kangorr could hear him opening up a beer. “I knew she was fuckin’ around with that bitch! An’...shit....she-eet!...”
Kangorr lit his cigarette, finally. The cancer stick made his lungs warm briefly, but the effect was lost the moment he breathed in the night air. “She was talkin’ to Hotstreak...she made that clear. I don’t get how Gear is involved with–”
“That’s cuz that’s his bitch,” Ebon said with a sarcastic sneer. He laughed again. “Now I see the appeal! No wonder fire fag hangs around him so much!”
Kangorr inhaled deeply of the unfiltered cigarette, feeling his lungs burn as he did so.
“So...whatever it was, Theresa talked to Stone...and dropped something off for Gear...no, Foley. Foley, now.” Ebon gave a chuckle, his earrings bumping against his phone as he shifted. “Get that address for me, Kangorr, ole buddy ole pal. If he’s hangin’ around Stone, then he’s important to me.”
The Jamaican showed nothing as he reached his buddies’ car, and climbed into the back, signaling for the driver to leave. He relayed the address stoically, ignoring the curious looks of his friends as they listened to the conversation.
“Hey...take a break. Go visit your kids. Buy them somethin’ extra special from K-Mart, or somethin’. You did what you did. I’ll call ya when I need ya.”
“Yeah...fine.”
Kangorr hung up with a sigh, leaning back in his seat as he opened the window and flicked out his half burned cigarette. He looked back at the others, shaking his head with an expression of exhaustion.
OooooooooooO
Richie had been embarrassed by his earlier outburst; his feelings were in turmoil at the moment, and he didn’t feel stable. He felt as if someone had pressed some sort of button to render him unreasonable for rational thinking. His mind had grasped the concept of being ‘unfair’; but his emotions had other plans, telling him that one didn’t fully operate with the other. He knew that the trauma he’d experienced was something life-altering. He’d never think the same way–he felt as if a shadow had been placed over his reason and his cheer, and turned things around so that all he thought of were ways to determine newfound threats and fears that he’d never experienced, before.
He’d never been afraid of the dark–but Ebon had changed all of that. That shadow wall of his had turned everything dark, so that all he saw, really, were his eyes–those eyes constantly hounded him in his dreams.
But he associated the dark with that horror, that helplessness, and he couldn’t think of it in the same way again. Over the past few days, he’d woken up in the dark, instantly reverted back to that cold rooftop. He’d awakened the redhead with his crazed reaction to being trapped once more, until the meta was forced to restrain him to keep from hurting himself or him.
He hated the dark.
Which was why, when Hotstreak produced those flames of his to disperse the blackness, he’d found himself relying heavily and solely on him; a sort of knight in shining armor that killed all the dragons and rescued the guy in distress. It had made him feel utterly sick at thinking like that; he knew Francis Stone would be pissed if he knew Richie had thought of him that way.
But how could Richie not think of Hotstreak in that way? The man had been there for him. He wasn’t sure how, or why, or what; just that he’d been there when Richie woke up. That he’d taken care of him, and continued to do so in his own way. Hotstreak was his hero; he had flushed at the thought.
He did some thinking while Hotstreak stayed outside at the motel; it wasn’t fair for the Dakota menace to be subjected to his mood swings...but then again, Richie never realized what he was doing until he’d produced an undesired effect in the other male. By the time he realized he was speaking irrationally, Hotstreak was already worked up in his own way.
Richie felt he had to apologize; for he was really grateful for Hotstreak and his actions, and there wasn’t enough praise in the world to really express all that he needed to.
The car ride was silent when Hotstreak finally decided that he had to go back home; Richie was busy gathering his courage to say what he wanted, and the redhead was cursing at the radio and its lack of good music.
The redhead had told Richie that his Gear things were being taken care of; he was informed of where to find them. It bothered Richie that he didn’t know who Hotstreak was talking to that knew of his identity and of his situation. He felt shame upon realizing that Ebon was probably bragging to all that he knew what he’d done to Richie. He had to talk to Virgil about this. Upon that thought, he felt his stomach curdle at having to reveal to Virgil what had happened to him.
He didn’t want to; he didn’t want Virgil to know that he’d been right. Virgil’s words from that day they were to leave came back to him with a rather annoying clarity: “Yeah, well...if you do go out and play...just be careful...I’m serious, Rich! Just be careful...”
Virgil had given him that Look; the one that told Richie that he didn’t trust the blond’s actions and was silently telling him that he doubted him. It was that that made Richie feel useless at times. He knew his friend meant well...but his own pride and dignity demanded that he save face and not reveal the horror that happened. If he changed the story around, Virgil wouldn’t know. And if he did, Richie would just lie to him otherwise.
He could explain his injuries as those he’d gotten in a fist fight; but then he had to explain what happened to his costume, why Ebon knew who he was, why he no longer wanted to be Gear...it was going to be a difficult process. He was not looking forward to it. But now that Ebon knew his identity, Richie Foley and Virgil Hawkins, not Static and Gear, were in danger. And their families were in danger. Their friends...
Richie would have to tell Virgil everything.
When Hotstreak pulled up the park, Richie hesitated. He really didn’t want to leave him–but he’d told his mother he’d be back by Wednesday. At least he could move a little easier, and the wounds had lost some of their intensity. He looked over at the meta, who was grumbling about the heater as he switched it on full blast. It made Richie smile; because Hotstreak wasn’t thinking of himself. The man was warm all the time–even now he was thinking of Richie’s comfort, and it made his heart ache with the intensity of feelings he had for the meta.
“I’m sorry for being so awkward with you,” he finally said, his voice quiet. He sneaked a look in his direction as he fumbled with his seatbelt. He was bundled up in one of Hotstreak’s hooded Nike sweaters and that same brown jacket that Hotstreak had bought at the Salvation Army a few days ago; Backpack clung to his front, needing a recharge as it held on with a determined strength.
“Yeah...whatever...”
Richie had learned that when Hotstreak was feeling awkward himself, it was in the sullen shrug of his shoulder, the way he avoided looking at him.
He took a deep breath, feeling slightly self-conscious by his own uneasiness. He reached out, touching the redhead’s forearm as that hand lightly gripped the gear shift.
“I–Francis, thank you. I can’t–I don’t know how to express it anymore than just saying it, I guess...I really, really appreciate what you did for me. I am just so grateful for all that you did for me; you were there for me, and you didn’t have to be. Francis... thank you...you were really, absolutely wonderful for all of it. I wish I told you sooner–I’m still a mess over things. But you...you did more than anyone else is capable of. And I really, really appreciate it. All of it.”
Hotstreak blinked, then shifted in his seat, giving Richie a sideways glance. It was too dark to see his flush from the expressed thank-you; but he could feel it, and it embarrassed him. He shrugged a shoulder, but he was feeling utterly delighted at the praise. Richie had shown that he’d believed him capable of things when no one else had; so when this sort of expressed approval came from him, it always made Hotstreak feel rather special and human; not a fuck up.
“Yer welcome,” he muttered, shifting in his seat once more.
Richie reached over with an awkward lurch, and hugged him tightly with one arm. He then kissed the corner of Hotstreak’s mouth with a careful press of his lips, then pulled away. He got out of the car, flinching at the cold that stole his breath away. Zipping up his coat to hide Backpack, he watched the Grand Am pull away from the curb and take off down the street.
He turned and let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit park. Even though his heart leapt into his throat at the ominous shadows that covered the area, he trudged determinedly forward. It didn’t hurt to walk as much–but there was a definite pull of discomfort as he kept his steps short and even. He found the trash can Hotstreak had described, and stared down at it with trepidation.
His costume had protected him against small arm gunfire; serious impacts; kicks and punches; hazardous chemicals and weather related incidents; but it had been shredded by one man bent on destroying him.
Delicately, he tongued the tear where the single stitch had been administered on the inside of his bottom lip; he’d removed it, because if his parents saw it, they’d question his hospital visit. It had been closed enough to allow the removal, but it had been painful doing so. As a result, it felt sore, and he kept tonguing it, tasting the rawness of the wound. He reminded himself to gargle with strong mouthwash every chance he could get to keep it from getting infected.
He looked into the trash can, seeing the bag laying up top. Glancing around, seeing that there was no one there to see what he was doing, he removed the bag from the open mouth. It was heavy–double bagged. It held his skates for sure, and he could feel the hard bulk of his helmet. He closed his eyes to regain a sense of assuredness that whomever had gathered these things for him had done so for a good reason–not to marvel or hurt him with the knowledge of what had been done.
As he headed home, he kept running a solid story through his thoughts, putting everything together to explain his absence and his wounds to his parents.
He couldn’t wait to move out–it had been a tense sort of hell, lately, as Sean Foley grew more irritated with the cold. Combined with the fact that lay-offs were persisting at the shipping factory where he worked, Sean had been extra peeved.
But Richie was more than proud to admit that ever since he began fighting back, Sean had backed off him significantly.
It had started off small. Richie had gotten tired of being shoved around at home when that was all he’d been subjected to as Gear. Sean had punched him in the gut during a fight that Richie couldn’t remember the cause of, and had received an answering blow to the jaw. Once the older Foley realized that the younger was capable of knocking his senses about, he’d backed off.
But Sean wasn’t that easily intimidated–if he couldn’t physically show his dislike and disapproval for his son’s actions and words, he could easily lash out with words and actions. Silent treatments, general bitching sessions, harsh insults and vulgar regularities of his son’s preferences, Sean had gone that route rather than risk another tussle with his son that forced him to explain his own bruises.
It was a small accomplishment; but things were still tense and stormy within the household.
He walked up the driveway, noting with a wince the thick layer of ice that he knew he’d be ordered to clear off the next day. As he walked up the front steps and hesitated on the porch, he felt utterly weak. It was only for a moment, though–because the moment he reached up to remove the hood from his head, he caught a slight waft of Hotstreak’s scent on the sleeve of his jacket. It was all he needed as he opened the door, and walked in. Having the older male’s sweater on him was going to be as close as he could get to actually being with the meta for awhile–he wasn’t sure how for how long. That dark material fitted on him in an overly large draping that were sizes bigger than he normally wore, and gave him the impression of the meta’s bigger bulk holding him in a comforting and protective grasp.
It made him smile goofily at that; Hotstreak comforting and protective.
“Richie?” He heard his mother, Maggie, call from the living room. He glanced over as he shut the door, tonguing that raw spot on the inside of his lip. He squinted at her as he walked toward the stairway, intending to put Backpack and the Wal-Mart bag away. “Richie, where have you–? What happened to your face?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said hurriedly, moving stiffly up the stairway. He heard his parents’ bathroom fan on, and the shuffles of feet within. His father was there–he had a few seconds to put his things away before they came to question him. He could hear Maggie moving after him, having abandoned her cross-stitching to trail after him on the stairway.
Quickly, he unzipped and removed his jacket, Backpack leaping down from his chest and scuttling quickly underneath the bed. The Wal-Mart bag joined it as Richie lowered himself to his knees, quietly giving a command for Backpack to charge with the outlet located near the headboard. At this time, Maggie stopped in the doorway, looking down at him.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, walking around him to peer again at his face. She winced and gave a sigh as her hands ghosted up to her chest in an expression of dismay. “Richie...what happened, baby?”
“The usual,” he said with a frown. “Where’s dad?”
“Taking a shower...oh, Richie...are you hurt anywhere else? Let me see your eyes, honey.”
“I’m fine, mom. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I disrespected you over the phone...I was kinda in a bind. I couldn’t talk for very long–”
“Who is Maria Gonzales?” she then questioned with a curious expression. “That’s what showed up on the Caller ID...”
“Oh...um...just a...friend. I just used her cell phone to call you. I’m sorry. I should have called again after that, but...” Richie shrugged.
“Your father’s very angry at you,” Maggie said with a tired grimace. She reached out, her cool fingertips tenderly trailing over the bruise over his right eye, and then ruffling through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “Richie...I get so tired of seeing so many bruises on you, baby. I wish there was just something that could take it all away...but your father’s very angry. He doesn’t like it when you go out...he’s afraid you’re up to no good.”
“Mom,” Richie gently pushed her fretting hands from his face, “it’s all right. Don’t worry about it. I’m not doing anything bad–honest. I was with friends. It’s Winter Break; we went to Gotham. Just us, because Felix has a car.”
“He’s your age, Richie! He’s not an experienced driver!” Maggie exclaimed. “And how dare you leave Dakota like that? Gotham is HOURS away, and is full of crime! Something could have happened to you two–”
“Three. Chuck was with us, remember?”
“It doesn’t matter! Something could have happened! And we probably would have never known!”
“Mom, it’s all right,” Richie said on a sigh, pulling away from her. Now that he was warming up, he could inhale deeply of the sweater that kept him warm; he could smell the spice of Hotstreak’s cologne, traces of his natural scent and cigarettes. Upon that thought, he wondered if Maggie could smell it, too.
From the wrinkle of her nose, Richie guess that she had, but then Sean entered the bedroom with a darkened frown.
It felt as if all air was sucked away from him–but Richie had to admit that he didn’t feel as intimidated by Sean as he had in the past. Since Sean began backing down, Richie grew a little more confident with the lack of mistreatment that Sean had dished out since he was young.
Sean’s scrutinizing brown eyes landed on Richie’s visible wounds with a calculating expression. It looked as if he were going to say something menacing and forceful, but he merely crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded.
Richie could smell the alcohol on him; but he could also smell the scent of toothpaste and shampoo. He would write it off as mouthwash, rather than a recent trip to the pub.
“Out. With friends,” he answered, a little more sullenly than he liked.
But there was one good thing that came out of Ebon’s attack; as he faced Sean, he realized that his father wasn’t as intimidating, as scary as he’d grown up to think...no, Sean was small fry compared to Ebon. Ebon was more intimidating, more evil, more dangerous than his father could ever be.
And it was that inspiration of confidence that had him straightening his shoulders and staring his father square in the eye; because Sean wasn’t Ebon, he wasn’t a threat.
Sean interpreted the look with a quizzical frown; he determined his son’s newfound confidence to face him directly, the way he looked at him in the eye.
Because he felt he’d only end up the fool in this situation, he turned and left Richie’s room without another word or look.
Maggie looked at her son, who looked at her with the same incredulous expression. Maggie reached out to flick Richie’s hair from his face, and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t do that again,” she advised. “We love you, Richie. We only want you to be safe.”
“I...I know, mom. I’m sorry....”
“‘Night, baby...”
“Good night, mom.”
Richie watched her leave his room, shutting his door after her. He couldn’t help but grin crazily as he recalled his father’s expression–his silent admission of defeat. This was accompanied by a burst of warmth throughout his entire being, his thoughts racing not of Ebon, but of how he stood up to his father without exchanging a word or fist, and won.
Later on, after he showered and readied himself for bed, he searched through the extra room his mother kept for storage space, and found a couple of night lights. He knew he couldn’t sleep without some source of light–he could always leave the curtains in his room open to allow the illumination of the street lamps in, but it wasn’t enough. And Backpack had to recharge; it was incapable of providing the light he needed to feel comfortable with.
He felt stupid, actually, as he plugged one of them in the outlet near his bed, and another near his desk. An eighteen year old needing night lights to fall asleep to.
His room was cast in a gentle glow, providing the light needed to disperse the darkness around him. He didn’t feel as confident, though; it would be the first night since the attack he would sleep on his own. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown to depend on the older male as he slipped into his bed. Wearing his plaid lounge pants and that black sweater that made him feel comforted, he exhaled heavily into his cold pillow, getting comfortable. His brain was racing with various fears and discomforts, but it was entirely strange–while there was a certain reluctance to go to sleep, his neediness wanting Hotstreak right next to him, his eyelids simply shut tight. Sleep seemed to come easily to him as of late; he suspected that it had to do with the attack. His mind was just so eager to escape everything that it just shut down, rather than remain operating.
He fell asleep to Hotstreak’s scent and the uncomfortable reluctance to let down his guard. He thought he heard Backpack give a panicked beep, but it was lost within the visages of his sleep filled haze.
Chapter Ten
Kangorr watched as Theresa hurried through the darkness, carrying a blue Wal-mart bag. He narrowed his eyes, disliking what he had to do as she deposited the bag within a metal trash can near the water fountain. He’d tracked her since he’d overheard her phone call to Hotstreak–which he knew was going to piss Ebon off–and had taken care to keep from being seen. He was curious as to know what that ‘stuff’ was...he was trying to get over the fact that Theresa was openly communicating with one of Ebon’s enemies.
It bothered him–he knew what was going to happen. And he knew he had to cooperate–he may not be with his children, but he loved them. He knew he put them in danger being who he was and running around with. The only way he was able to keep them safe was to perform every single thing Ebon wanted.
He clenched his jaw as he watched her hurry off, and he found out what he needed to know; he didn’t need to tail her, anymore. He’d walked the last three blocks after her, not recognizing the area. Cooperating with a few of his own friends, who were waiting in a car nearby, he’d tailed her from Ebon’s hideout to her motel to this place. He wasn’t sure what was here, but Theresa had been thorough with her effort.
He withdrew his cellphone from his jacket pocket, exhaling heavily as he accessed Ebon’s number. Placing the phone against his ear, he blew into his other hand, shifting from foot to foot. It was nearly ten degrees, and the air was thick with the pending snowstorm that was slated to drop inches of snow within Dakota.
When Ebon’s bored gravel answered, he quietly related what he’d just seen, keeping his voice down than he usually spoke with. Theresa was long gone–but this place was pretty quiet. He knew people were hiding within the comforts of the warmth of their homes, but there was practically no sound or activity in this neighborhood. It was far enough away from the Projects to be considered safe, but from the indications of the worn paint and old style houses, he guessed that this was just another one of those neighborhoods that housed the more poor to middle class of Dakota’s citizens.
He heard Ebon give a tired sigh. He could picture the man shaking his head from side to side with a mournful frown.
No...not mournful...annoyed.
“Well...like I did with the others...she’s got to go,” Ebon replied solemnly. “Find out what she dropped off. Check it.”
“Sure t’ing.”
Kangorr’s accent always became more pronounced the more he was troubled. Ebon must have sensed his doubt and hesitation.
“You’re not going to do it, bro. I ain’t that hard-up,” Ebon said cheerfully. “I already made some arrangements...got it? She headed home?”
“I don’t know. Wait...wait...” Kangorr watched as a black Pontiac Grand Am pulled up to the north end of the park’s curb. He watched for a few moments, seeing that whomever was inside wasn’t ready to come out just yet. The car rumbled quietly, the engine protesting the high activation of its heater.
He licked his lips, furrowing his brow.
“Nothin’,” he replied to Ebon’s inquiry. “Just watchin’. I’ll check it out.”
“Fine. Later.”
He hung up as he continued watching the car, relaxing. Probably just some teenage couple getting their rocks off, or something. He was going to wait for them to leave before he went to check out what Theresa had stuffed into the trash can. He tucked his cold hands into his jacket pockets, hunching his shoulders. The night was pretty slow; everyone was tucked in warm beds, before warm fires, or sleeping with a warm body. He couldn’t wait to get back to the community center to rest; it felt as if he had been running all week, doing the errands that Ebon commanded of him.
He was about to light a cigarette when the passenger side door opened, and someone got out. He squinted, trying to determine if it were someone of importance. But whomever it was, he was dressed from head to toe in dark clothing, a hood over his head. He watched the person slam the door shut, the Pontiac lurching away from the curb and tearing down the street. Clenching his jaw, he watched as the person headed, rather stiffly, toward the trash can that Theresa had dumped the bag into.
He watched the person with an odd expression, wondering why the pause, the long stare, and the final exhalation that had him removing the bag from the trash can. Kangorr shifted away from the tree, moving quietly behind it to observe as the figure then hurried away from the park, heading down the street.
Kangorr followed quickly, using the shadows and the parked cars to his advantage as he tailed the stiffly moving figure. He was wondering if this person should simply be taken down before he took that bag to Hotstreak, but decided it wasn’t a good idea. When he hustled up to a plain two story that was covered with a thin layer of snow, a green Corolla in the driveway, Kangorr hesitated. He was about to turn and leave, memorizing the address when the figure removed his hood, revealing who he was before opening the front door.
Kangorr blinked in rapid confusion. How was Gear–no...Richie Foley–associated with Theresa? His mind was whirling with bewilderment, albeit a bit of surprise in that the guy was actually alive. Reliving moments of that horrid night, Kangorr winced and pulled out of his hiding spot to head back toward the park, new information in hand. He’d witnessed a great deal of things that made a hardened man flinch, and that night had been one of them. He hadn’t let it affect him as much as it did with Shiv and Theresa, though; to him, it wasn’t that big of a deal.
He pulled out his cellphone, redialing Ebon’s number.
“Get this,” he started, hustling to get out of the cold. He relayed what he’d just seen; starting with Theresa calling Hotstreak, giving Ebon what he’d heard of the conversation.
Ebon was silent for a few minutes, absorbing everything that had been said. Then, he began to laugh.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed. Kangorr could hear him opening up a beer. “I knew she was fuckin’ around with that bitch! An’...shit....she-eet!...”
Kangorr lit his cigarette, finally. The cancer stick made his lungs warm briefly, but the effect was lost the moment he breathed in the night air. “She was talkin’ to Hotstreak...she made that clear. I don’t get how Gear is involved with–”
“That’s cuz that’s his bitch,” Ebon said with a sarcastic sneer. He laughed again. “Now I see the appeal! No wonder fire fag hangs around him so much!”
Kangorr inhaled deeply of the unfiltered cigarette, feeling his lungs burn as he did so.
“So...whatever it was, Theresa talked to Stone...and dropped something off for Gear...no, Foley. Foley, now.” Ebon gave a chuckle, his earrings bumping against his phone as he shifted. “Get that address for me, Kangorr, ole buddy ole pal. If he’s hangin’ around Stone, then he’s important to me.”
The Jamaican showed nothing as he reached his buddies’ car, and climbed into the back, signaling for the driver to leave. He relayed the address stoically, ignoring the curious looks of his friends as they listened to the conversation.
“Hey...take a break. Go visit your kids. Buy them somethin’ extra special from K-Mart, or somethin’. You did what you did. I’ll call ya when I need ya.”
“Yeah...fine.”
Kangorr hung up with a sigh, leaning back in his seat as he opened the window and flicked out his half burned cigarette. He looked back at the others, shaking his head with an expression of exhaustion.
OooooooooooO
Richie had been embarrassed by his earlier outburst; his feelings were in turmoil at the moment, and he didn’t feel stable. He felt as if someone had pressed some sort of button to render him unreasonable for rational thinking. His mind had grasped the concept of being ‘unfair’; but his emotions had other plans, telling him that one didn’t fully operate with the other. He knew that the trauma he’d experienced was something life-altering. He’d never think the same way–he felt as if a shadow had been placed over his reason and his cheer, and turned things around so that all he thought of were ways to determine newfound threats and fears that he’d never experienced, before.
He’d never been afraid of the dark–but Ebon had changed all of that. That shadow wall of his had turned everything dark, so that all he saw, really, were his eyes–those eyes constantly hounded him in his dreams.
But he associated the dark with that horror, that helplessness, and he couldn’t think of it in the same way again. Over the past few days, he’d woken up in the dark, instantly reverted back to that cold rooftop. He’d awakened the redhead with his crazed reaction to being trapped once more, until the meta was forced to restrain him to keep from hurting himself or him.
He hated the dark.
Which was why, when Hotstreak produced those flames of his to disperse the blackness, he’d found himself relying heavily and solely on him; a sort of knight in shining armor that killed all the dragons and rescued the guy in distress. It had made him feel utterly sick at thinking like that; he knew Francis Stone would be pissed if he knew Richie had thought of him that way.
But how could Richie not think of Hotstreak in that way? The man had been there for him. He wasn’t sure how, or why, or what; just that he’d been there when Richie woke up. That he’d taken care of him, and continued to do so in his own way. Hotstreak was his hero; he had flushed at the thought.
He did some thinking while Hotstreak stayed outside at the motel; it wasn’t fair for the Dakota menace to be subjected to his mood swings...but then again, Richie never realized what he was doing until he’d produced an undesired effect in the other male. By the time he realized he was speaking irrationally, Hotstreak was already worked up in his own way.
Richie felt he had to apologize; for he was really grateful for Hotstreak and his actions, and there wasn’t enough praise in the world to really express all that he needed to.
The car ride was silent when Hotstreak finally decided that he had to go back home; Richie was busy gathering his courage to say what he wanted, and the redhead was cursing at the radio and its lack of good music.
The redhead had told Richie that his Gear things were being taken care of; he was informed of where to find them. It bothered Richie that he didn’t know who Hotstreak was talking to that knew of his identity and of his situation. He felt shame upon realizing that Ebon was probably bragging to all that he knew what he’d done to Richie. He had to talk to Virgil about this. Upon that thought, he felt his stomach curdle at having to reveal to Virgil what had happened to him.
He didn’t want to; he didn’t want Virgil to know that he’d been right. Virgil’s words from that day they were to leave came back to him with a rather annoying clarity: “Yeah, well...if you do go out and play...just be careful...I’m serious, Rich! Just be careful...”
Virgil had given him that Look; the one that told Richie that he didn’t trust the blond’s actions and was silently telling him that he doubted him. It was that that made Richie feel useless at times. He knew his friend meant well...but his own pride and dignity demanded that he save face and not reveal the horror that happened. If he changed the story around, Virgil wouldn’t know. And if he did, Richie would just lie to him otherwise.
He could explain his injuries as those he’d gotten in a fist fight; but then he had to explain what happened to his costume, why Ebon knew who he was, why he no longer wanted to be Gear...it was going to be a difficult process. He was not looking forward to it. But now that Ebon knew his identity, Richie Foley and Virgil Hawkins, not Static and Gear, were in danger. And their families were in danger. Their friends...
Richie would have to tell Virgil everything.
When Hotstreak pulled up the park, Richie hesitated. He really didn’t want to leave him–but he’d told his mother he’d be back by Wednesday. At least he could move a little easier, and the wounds had lost some of their intensity. He looked over at the meta, who was grumbling about the heater as he switched it on full blast. It made Richie smile; because Hotstreak wasn’t thinking of himself. The man was warm all the time–even now he was thinking of Richie’s comfort, and it made his heart ache with the intensity of feelings he had for the meta.
“I’m sorry for being so awkward with you,” he finally said, his voice quiet. He sneaked a look in his direction as he fumbled with his seatbelt. He was bundled up in one of Hotstreak’s hooded Nike sweaters and that same brown jacket that Hotstreak had bought at the Salvation Army a few days ago; Backpack clung to his front, needing a recharge as it held on with a determined strength.
“Yeah...whatever...”
Richie had learned that when Hotstreak was feeling awkward himself, it was in the sullen shrug of his shoulder, the way he avoided looking at him.
He took a deep breath, feeling slightly self-conscious by his own uneasiness. He reached out, touching the redhead’s forearm as that hand lightly gripped the gear shift.
“I–Francis, thank you. I can’t–I don’t know how to express it anymore than just saying it, I guess...I really, really appreciate what you did for me. I am just so grateful for all that you did for me; you were there for me, and you didn’t have to be. Francis... thank you...you were really, absolutely wonderful for all of it. I wish I told you sooner–I’m still a mess over things. But you...you did more than anyone else is capable of. And I really, really appreciate it. All of it.”
Hotstreak blinked, then shifted in his seat, giving Richie a sideways glance. It was too dark to see his flush from the expressed thank-you; but he could feel it, and it embarrassed him. He shrugged a shoulder, but he was feeling utterly delighted at the praise. Richie had shown that he’d believed him capable of things when no one else had; so when this sort of expressed approval came from him, it always made Hotstreak feel rather special and human; not a fuck up.
“Yer welcome,” he muttered, shifting in his seat once more.
Richie reached over with an awkward lurch, and hugged him tightly with one arm. He then kissed the corner of Hotstreak’s mouth with a careful press of his lips, then pulled away. He got out of the car, flinching at the cold that stole his breath away. Zipping up his coat to hide Backpack, he watched the Grand Am pull away from the curb and take off down the street.
He turned and let his eyes adjust to the dimly lit park. Even though his heart leapt into his throat at the ominous shadows that covered the area, he trudged determinedly forward. It didn’t hurt to walk as much–but there was a definite pull of discomfort as he kept his steps short and even. He found the trash can Hotstreak had described, and stared down at it with trepidation.
His costume had protected him against small arm gunfire; serious impacts; kicks and punches; hazardous chemicals and weather related incidents; but it had been shredded by one man bent on destroying him.
Delicately, he tongued the tear where the single stitch had been administered on the inside of his bottom lip; he’d removed it, because if his parents saw it, they’d question his hospital visit. It had been closed enough to allow the removal, but it had been painful doing so. As a result, it felt sore, and he kept tonguing it, tasting the rawness of the wound. He reminded himself to gargle with strong mouthwash every chance he could get to keep it from getting infected.
He looked into the trash can, seeing the bag laying up top. Glancing around, seeing that there was no one there to see what he was doing, he removed the bag from the open mouth. It was heavy–double bagged. It held his skates for sure, and he could feel the hard bulk of his helmet. He closed his eyes to regain a sense of assuredness that whomever had gathered these things for him had done so for a good reason–not to marvel or hurt him with the knowledge of what had been done.
As he headed home, he kept running a solid story through his thoughts, putting everything together to explain his absence and his wounds to his parents.
He couldn’t wait to move out–it had been a tense sort of hell, lately, as Sean Foley grew more irritated with the cold. Combined with the fact that lay-offs were persisting at the shipping factory where he worked, Sean had been extra peeved.
But Richie was more than proud to admit that ever since he began fighting back, Sean had backed off him significantly.
It had started off small. Richie had gotten tired of being shoved around at home when that was all he’d been subjected to as Gear. Sean had punched him in the gut during a fight that Richie couldn’t remember the cause of, and had received an answering blow to the jaw. Once the older Foley realized that the younger was capable of knocking his senses about, he’d backed off.
But Sean wasn’t that easily intimidated–if he couldn’t physically show his dislike and disapproval for his son’s actions and words, he could easily lash out with words and actions. Silent treatments, general bitching sessions, harsh insults and vulgar regularities of his son’s preferences, Sean had gone that route rather than risk another tussle with his son that forced him to explain his own bruises.
It was a small accomplishment; but things were still tense and stormy within the household.
He walked up the driveway, noting with a wince the thick layer of ice that he knew he’d be ordered to clear off the next day. As he walked up the front steps and hesitated on the porch, he felt utterly weak. It was only for a moment, though–because the moment he reached up to remove the hood from his head, he caught a slight waft of Hotstreak’s scent on the sleeve of his jacket. It was all he needed as he opened the door, and walked in. Having the older male’s sweater on him was going to be as close as he could get to actually being with the meta for awhile–he wasn’t sure how for how long. That dark material fitted on him in an overly large draping that were sizes bigger than he normally wore, and gave him the impression of the meta’s bigger bulk holding him in a comforting and protective grasp.
It made him smile goofily at that; Hotstreak comforting and protective.
“Richie?” He heard his mother, Maggie, call from the living room. He glanced over as he shut the door, tonguing that raw spot on the inside of his lip. He squinted at her as he walked toward the stairway, intending to put Backpack and the Wal-Mart bag away. “Richie, where have you–? What happened to your face?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said hurriedly, moving stiffly up the stairway. He heard his parents’ bathroom fan on, and the shuffles of feet within. His father was there–he had a few seconds to put his things away before they came to question him. He could hear Maggie moving after him, having abandoned her cross-stitching to trail after him on the stairway.
Quickly, he unzipped and removed his jacket, Backpack leaping down from his chest and scuttling quickly underneath the bed. The Wal-Mart bag joined it as Richie lowered himself to his knees, quietly giving a command for Backpack to charge with the outlet located near the headboard. At this time, Maggie stopped in the doorway, looking down at him.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, walking around him to peer again at his face. She winced and gave a sigh as her hands ghosted up to her chest in an expression of dismay. “Richie...what happened, baby?”
“The usual,” he said with a frown. “Where’s dad?”
“Taking a shower...oh, Richie...are you hurt anywhere else? Let me see your eyes, honey.”
“I’m fine, mom. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I disrespected you over the phone...I was kinda in a bind. I couldn’t talk for very long–”
“Who is Maria Gonzales?” she then questioned with a curious expression. “That’s what showed up on the Caller ID...”
“Oh...um...just a...friend. I just used her cell phone to call you. I’m sorry. I should have called again after that, but...” Richie shrugged.
“Your father’s very angry at you,” Maggie said with a tired grimace. She reached out, her cool fingertips tenderly trailing over the bruise over his right eye, and then ruffling through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “Richie...I get so tired of seeing so many bruises on you, baby. I wish there was just something that could take it all away...but your father’s very angry. He doesn’t like it when you go out...he’s afraid you’re up to no good.”
“Mom,” Richie gently pushed her fretting hands from his face, “it’s all right. Don’t worry about it. I’m not doing anything bad–honest. I was with friends. It’s Winter Break; we went to Gotham. Just us, because Felix has a car.”
“He’s your age, Richie! He’s not an experienced driver!” Maggie exclaimed. “And how dare you leave Dakota like that? Gotham is HOURS away, and is full of crime! Something could have happened to you two–”
“Three. Chuck was with us, remember?”
“It doesn’t matter! Something could have happened! And we probably would have never known!”
“Mom, it’s all right,” Richie said on a sigh, pulling away from her. Now that he was warming up, he could inhale deeply of the sweater that kept him warm; he could smell the spice of Hotstreak’s cologne, traces of his natural scent and cigarettes. Upon that thought, he wondered if Maggie could smell it, too.
From the wrinkle of her nose, Richie guess that she had, but then Sean entered the bedroom with a darkened frown.
It felt as if all air was sucked away from him–but Richie had to admit that he didn’t feel as intimidated by Sean as he had in the past. Since Sean began backing down, Richie grew a little more confident with the lack of mistreatment that Sean had dished out since he was young.
Sean’s scrutinizing brown eyes landed on Richie’s visible wounds with a calculating expression. It looked as if he were going to say something menacing and forceful, but he merely crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded.
Richie could smell the alcohol on him; but he could also smell the scent of toothpaste and shampoo. He would write it off as mouthwash, rather than a recent trip to the pub.
“Out. With friends,” he answered, a little more sullenly than he liked.
But there was one good thing that came out of Ebon’s attack; as he faced Sean, he realized that his father wasn’t as intimidating, as scary as he’d grown up to think...no, Sean was small fry compared to Ebon. Ebon was more intimidating, more evil, more dangerous than his father could ever be.
And it was that inspiration of confidence that had him straightening his shoulders and staring his father square in the eye; because Sean wasn’t Ebon, he wasn’t a threat.
Sean interpreted the look with a quizzical frown; he determined his son’s newfound confidence to face him directly, the way he looked at him in the eye.
Because he felt he’d only end up the fool in this situation, he turned and left Richie’s room without another word or look.
Maggie looked at her son, who looked at her with the same incredulous expression. Maggie reached out to flick Richie’s hair from his face, and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t do that again,” she advised. “We love you, Richie. We only want you to be safe.”
“I...I know, mom. I’m sorry....”
“‘Night, baby...”
“Good night, mom.”
Richie watched her leave his room, shutting his door after her. He couldn’t help but grin crazily as he recalled his father’s expression–his silent admission of defeat. This was accompanied by a burst of warmth throughout his entire being, his thoughts racing not of Ebon, but of how he stood up to his father without exchanging a word or fist, and won.
Later on, after he showered and readied himself for bed, he searched through the extra room his mother kept for storage space, and found a couple of night lights. He knew he couldn’t sleep without some source of light–he could always leave the curtains in his room open to allow the illumination of the street lamps in, but it wasn’t enough. And Backpack had to recharge; it was incapable of providing the light he needed to feel comfortable with.
He felt stupid, actually, as he plugged one of them in the outlet near his bed, and another near his desk. An eighteen year old needing night lights to fall asleep to.
His room was cast in a gentle glow, providing the light needed to disperse the darkness around him. He didn’t feel as confident, though; it would be the first night since the attack he would sleep on his own. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown to depend on the older male as he slipped into his bed. Wearing his plaid lounge pants and that black sweater that made him feel comforted, he exhaled heavily into his cold pillow, getting comfortable. His brain was racing with various fears and discomforts, but it was entirely strange–while there was a certain reluctance to go to sleep, his neediness wanting Hotstreak right next to him, his eyelids simply shut tight. Sleep seemed to come easily to him as of late; he suspected that it had to do with the attack. His mind was just so eager to escape everything that it just shut down, rather than remain operating.
He fell asleep to Hotstreak’s scent and the uncomfortable reluctance to let down his guard. He thought he heard Backpack give a panicked beep, but it was lost within the visages of his sleep filled haze.