Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Sixteen ( Chapter 16 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Don't ever call him an idiot; V's plans are coming out to light, and what a surprise it is
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.2K | Visits: 514 | Status: Completed
Don't ever call him an idiot; V's plans are coming out to light, and what a surprise it is
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.02.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.2K | Visits: 514 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Sixteen
Even in his drunken state, Hotstreak recognized that maybe he’d been too obvious in his own beliefs of ‘family’ and unconditional love. It was funny what a little bit of alcohol did to a person–making them think in a way they wouldn’t have sober. But as he staggered in the direction of his car, all he kept thinking about was how Theresa had tried going home; how she may have been looking for some sort of comfort and reassurance after once again being cast away from her ‘family’. He hated what had happened to her–hated it even more whenever a squeaky little voice prompted him to wonder if he, in someway, felt that same need deep within.
He knew he could always go to Richie and feel that sense of satisfaction with him. Times before in the past had proven that it was so. But it was entirely difficult when the norms of society prevented this sort of love and interaction with the same sex. Even more so when he had his rep on the line. In a way, he felt just exhausted with keeping up pretenses when he was already juggling too many tasks at hand. His constant hustling of Ebon’s profit and supplies; his continued avoidance of the law; his life at stake against other rival gang members; Static...all of it made a guy exhausted from time to time. He thought he was about due for a break–but that information Shiv had given him that day of Theresa’s funeral had him brainstorming with the others of his gang, and they’d worked out a plan.
Their inside informant had let them know that the ‘new people’ had arranged for a small, experimental drug transport; they’d bring in their cocaine that was shipped directly from South America, and Ebon’s own crew would distribute it, foregoing their already established suppliers from within the Midwest. Trying out new products was an adventure on its own; but Hotstreak’s informant had let him know that this was only the tip of things to come. After that, there were plans to open a crack shop just within the industrial area of Dakota, under the guise of a clothing manufacturing and distributing work shop.
They were starting off very small; but with Ebon in jail, D and V were already mapping out plans in how they were going to link their supply lines with the ones Ebon had already established. While they continued to grow and expand using Ebon’s networks, Ebon himself would be merging in with the strong network that they themselves worked, ensuring that Dakota’s drug supply was constant.
With all the trade-off and forging bonds that were happening, Hotstreak saw his own plans failing. But that didn’t mean he had to stop what he was doing. Even if he couldn’t take Ebon down in this manner, he could still run his own mercantile using Ebon’s new expansion. He felt petty enough just to drop clues to the DEA to give a heads-up on what the shadow man was up to, but that meant losing his own organization, and he had to think that over.
For now, they were going to wait for the night when the shipment from Texas came in–they had already planned on pilfering at least half the load before it left the docks. He had his informant and at least three others that were going to hit the deal with assured cash up front. The driver taking the shipment to Ebon’s various distributers was going to drive away from scene, park into an appointed trucking garage, where Hotstreak and his crew would take half the shipment, replace with fake drugs (usually a mixture of sugar and salt with some flour mixed in, so it looked like the real thing until it was actually handled) and have the driver out and going before anybody had a clue. It always worked–there hadn’t been a failure yet.
So, all the plan was waiting for was the arrival.
And in the meantime, he kept thinking of Richie. The blond wasn’t far from his thoughts. He wondered how he was doing, what he was doing. Most often, Hotstreak wondered if he were okay, or if Richie ever wondered how he was doing. That was a thought that bothered him most. Did Richie think of him as much as he thought of him?
He wanted to spend more time with him; he needed to feel that stability once more, the way he felt whenever he spent time with the younger male. Richie always made him feel as if he were something and that feeling was hard to come by.
Mind made up, he made his way back to his car, which he’d parked down the block from Theresa’s old neighborhood. He climbed in, started it up, and rummaged through the plastic bags in the back seat for something to quench his thirst. He came upon an unopened forty ounce, and opened it eagerly as he sped out from the area, heading toward Richie’s house. Maybe he could sneak in and prompt Richie to leave with him. Climb the balcony like he had back in the day.
The more he approved of this plan, the more excited and happy he felt in knowing that he was going to see Richie again. It made him smile ludicrously.
Alcohol made him fuzzy–he was faintly aware he was driving recklessly, that his reaction times were slower than normal. The last two cars that he nearly clipped should have told him that he should be slowing down. But the closer he got to Richie’s house, the happier and more eager he felt upon just getting there and getting him. It had been a couple of weeks...maybe Richie felt a little better and would agree to some messing around. Not going all the way, of course. Montoya made it clear that that shouldn’t be approached for some time.
The more he thought about things, the faster he drove.
He was nearly ten blocks from Richie’s neighborhood when a quick turn around a corner sent his malt flying out of his lap. Cursing as the liquor spilt all over his pants and over the middle console, he took his eyes off the road to somehow right the bottle and prevent anymore spills. He looked up in time to realize he’d swerved into the opposite lane, an oncoming car heading straight at him, the driver’s sight blinded by his headlights.
Hotstreak cursed, pulling the wheel harshly to avoid collusion, the car’s wheels bumping up onto the sidewalk, smashing with a spectacular crash of sound against a stoplight. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt–but for some miraculous reason, he wasn’t thrown through the windshield at the sudden stop–the airbag proved that it worked as it inflated in time to keep him from smashing against the steering wheel.
Whatever force of rationality, Hotstreak didn’t die that night; and neither did the utterly petrified pedestrian that stared almost sightlessly at the grill of the car, which had been moments away from crushing him if it hadn’t been for the stop light. The other car had come to a stop, the concerned driver hurrying out of his vehicle to see if everyone was okay.
The black Grand Am was propped against the pole, which had tipped at an angle over the sidewalk from the impact. The lights themselves were still dancing, dangling from damaged wires. The hood was pulled back, accordion style, revealing its contents within, smoke from damaged parts drifting up into the cold air. The windshield was an impressive array of cracks, drooping in the middle, where the frame had been bent upon impact.
The driver immediately assessed that no one was hurt, moving around to the driver’s side. He pulled the door open, and Hotstreak spilled out from the car with a ragged laugh. Upon recognizing the guy, the bystander gave a started exclamation, wondering if all metahumans were invincible.
“I can’t believe that shit!” Hotstreak laughed, obviously buzzed. “Lookit that shit! Where the fuck didja come from, anyway? Sunnavabitch! Isn’t that the funniest shit you ever seen in your laugh? Er, life? Ha ha ha ha!”
The bystander gave him an incredulous look, blinking repeatedly as he listened to the slurred words and the obvious drunken actions.
Hotstreak staggered away, and promptly vomited against the wall of a nearby residence. The bystander winced, and noticed movement from the front of the car. His heart nearly stopped as he realized that there was somebody there. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to investigate, sure that he’d find a dead body between the car’s front bumper and the light pole. But instead, he saw an incredibly stunned expression on an equally dazed person.
“Are you all right, buddy?” he shouted in alarm, hurrying over to see what he could do to help.
He saw that it was a teenager; a blond, bespectacled boy with no jacket and a large backpack. He was obviously in shock, and the man reacted with natural tendency to help, taking off his own jacket to wrap around his shoulders. When he looked up to judge the boy’s reactions, he was startled to see just how close the damaged grill was from their faces. Another few inches...it was amazing. And also quite frightening.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he demanded, looking for any signs of obvious trauma. He then pulled them both out from underneath the light upon hearing a protesting crack, moving into a safer area.
“F-Francis?” the teen choked, staring at the meta that was still losing all that he’d ever ate in the last week against the wall. Then the teen snapped. “Goddamn it, Francis Stone! You almost killed me! What the hell were you thinking?”
The bystander gave him an incredulous expression as the teen marched over and kicked Dakota’s fiery menace in the thigh with obvious familiarity. Once the meta realized who’d attacked him, he seemed just as surprised and shocked as the teen had been earlier.
He immediately straightened, albeit shakily, and had his arms wrapped around the teen’s shoulders, forcing him around to point in awe at the car. It looked like he was just using the action to get the teen to hold him up.
“Rich! Rich, man...man, didja see that shit?”
“HOLY GOD you REEK!”
“STOP YELLIN’ AT ME! LOOKIT MY CAR!”
“YOU ALMOST HIT ME, YOU DRUNKEN LOON!”
“...I did? What the hell were you doin’ in the street, then?”
“I WASN’T ON THE GODDAMN STREET, YOU LUNATIC! I WAS RIGHT THERE! I GOT OFF THE STREET BECAUSE I SAW SOME IDIOT DRIVING ERRATICALLY----!”
“What the HELL are you doing out this late?”
“DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT!!”
“Don’t’cha be callin’ ME an idiot!...Loon, I’ll accept. Lunatic, hell, fine. That’s okay, too. BUT DON’T CALL ME AN IDIOT!”
The bystander began to inch away, seeing that both males were obviously okay if they were yelling at each other. Shaking his head, he reached for the cellphone that hung off the back of his belt, speed-dialing a number.
“Rosa...honey...you’re never going to believe what just happened,” he said on a high pitched laugh as he made his way to his car.
OooooooooooO
“You’re a damned idiot!” Richie snarled, shoving Hotstreak into the room, then fighting the doorknob for the small set of keys. They had made it to Hotstreak’s motel room, the drunken meta still laughing and exclaiming over what had happened to his ride. Richie had to hail down a cab to drop them close enough to the motel in order to walk the rest of the way, using Ebon’s money to get them there.
The car had been taken care of; Richie was still surprised and unnerved at how easily Hotstreak was able to call up some friends of his (one that worked for a small garage nearby, equipped with a personal towing truck) to clean up the scene. In a matter of minutes, they’d come, laughed at what happened, and taken off with his car. Richie had pointed out that vomit could easily be used to identify him, and while Hotstreak had pondered that dubiously, had managed to get rid of that as well, using the plastic bag that had held his liquor and burying it all within the residence’s side yard.
When the police had come, all they’d found was the bent stoplight and shards of glass.
Hotstreak laughed uproariously at himself and his damned good luck as he kicked off his muddy shoes. He hadn’t worn a jacket at all–simply allowed his unnatural warmth to keep him warm while he worked. Having sobered up a little from the shock of the car accident and the long journey home, Hotstreak looked back at Richie and grinned cheerfully. He didn’t know how, or why, but Richie had been there and he was here with him.
He felt quite content for the moment.
“What the hell were you thinking, driving around like that? You could have killed somebody! Well, obviously you weren’t thinking...” Richie was saying as he tossed his backpack aside, shrugging off the bystander’s jacket. “It isn’t funny, Francis!”
“Ya haveta admit, though, it’s funny when ya think about it...”
“No, it isn’t! Did you see how close you were to hitting me? Oh my god, I’m so glad that I was too cold to piss,” Richie moaned, shaking his head as he rubbed his arms. “Otherwise...I wouldn’t have cared.”
“Well...saved me the time from headin’ to your house an’ bein’ all David Blaine on that fuckin’ tree...”
“Which isn’t there anymore...dad had the thing ripped out, last year,” Richie said as he crossed the open space between them. He immediately latched onto Hotstreak, his arms curling around his waist, a sound of content escaping his lips as he nuzzled into the familiar sturdiness of the older male’s frame.
“Why ain’t it there, anymore?” Hotstreak asked curiously, reveling in his own feelings upon Richie touching him so happily. Not feeling awkward anymore, his own arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulders, hugging him just as tightly. He breathed in deeply of his scent, pushing his nose against his skin.
“Because my father’s a dick and wants to destroy any sort of happiness I have...oh, god, I missed you so much,” Richie said on a sigh, breathing in deep of the mixture of scents that he found. He felt satisfied upon having this chance again–so unexpectedly. Feeling the meta’s arms tighten around him gave him all the confirmation he needed in knowing that Hotstreak felt the same way.
He felt the tip of his nose nudge his ear, lips against his skin–it made him tingle all the way down to his still cold toes, making him shiver. He felt fingertips on his chin, directing him to face him. But once he realized what Hotstreak was silently questing for, he immediately slapped his fingers over his mouth, pointing his face away.
“Ew...no way! Yeah, I’m a guy, and I think farting’s funny, but there’s no way I’m kissing you after you vomited up half your intestines just recently! You still smell of it!”
“Ah, c’mon! I’ll keep my mouth shut!”
“No! That’s disgusting...go brush your teeth.”
“...Prude.”
“No, just consciously driven for much cleaner things...”
“...How can that be when I go up your–?”
“GO BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”
“Sheesh, shut your bitchin’...don’t go anywhere.”
Richie snorted, looking around himself, taking in the familiarity of the room as Hotstreak grumbled his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Smiling slightly, Richie saw that things were just the same; just a little messier than it had been when he’d last been here. He picked up a few crushed beer and soda cans and disposed of them in the trash can nearby; then put away the opened bag of bread. Tossing all the dirty clothes into the corner of the room, kicking all shoes and boots aside, Richie cleared enough of the room to feel a little safe in that he wasn’t going to snap his neck if he chose to walk around the small space.
He made sure the door was locked, then walked over to his bag to see which one it was that he’d grabbed. Seeing that it was full of his clothes, he sighed in half relief, half exasperation as he realized that his school work was still in that house. He felt sad for a moment; still wondering with confusion and uncertainty if he’d truly been kicked out. Or if this was just one of Sean’s drunken rages that would be ignored in the morning. He wondered if he could go back. If not to stay, to at least get his things.
But that sad feeling left as he heard Hotstreak finish up in the bathroom, and straightened from his bag. He brushed off his pants and gave an uncertain look at the bed when he heard his name being called urgently from the Shock Vox. He found it within the front pocket of his bag, depressing the transmitter to answer Static’s call.
“I’m at the gas station...where are you?” Static demanded, sounding rushed.
“Er...uh...V, something happened,” Richie started with some uncertainty. “I–my dad was freaking out, earlier. Um...well, long story short, I’m kinda out of a place to stay.”
“Your–your dad kicked ya out? What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I was heading toward your house, but, uhm...I think I have a place to stay for the night.”
“Where ya at?”
“...Three guesses. And none of them is Felix, Chuck or anybody else from school.”
Silence. Then an annoyed growl. “He’d better not let me find either of you! Or otherwise I’m gonna really lay down the law–!”
“What’s up, anyway?”
“Ah–nothin’. I was just wonderin’, cuz the last I spoke with ya, you were outside? Ah, shit. Gotta go. Someone thought it was fun to hold up this Burger Fool. Later.”
“Be careful, V.”
“Okay! I’m done! C’mere!” Richie rolled his eyes, refusing to comment on the childishness of Hotstreak’s tone.
But he tossed the Vox over his shoulder and walked over, giving a muffled sound of surprise when he was forced into a rather pleasing kiss. But he wasn’t complaining, returning the action eagerly, his arms untangling from the forceful hug to curl around his neck. Words couldn’t express the happiness he felt upon doing this again; for physical contact and interaction with the one he loved.
He had thought he’d have trouble with it–had expected to be disgusted at the interaction. He had worried that he wouldn’t be able to feel the same toward Hotstreak after that violent attack–but he thought nothing of it now.
Touching as much as he could of the meta’s hair, the back of his neck, the stubbly traces of his face, Richie gave an expressed sound of enjoyment, briefly sucking on the tongue that had been reacquainting itself with the inside of his mouth. He had to pull his head back, feeling breathless as he felt Hotstreak’s hands over his back, drifting down to his lower waist, questing underneath the hem of his shirt to come into contact with his skin. Richie closed his eyes, feeling lips at his neck, gently kissing over his pulse points, over his throat–his collar was pulled aside and sensitive skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder was treated to the same tender action.
He felt weak, knees shaking as he curled his fingers into the material of Hotstreak’s shirt. He breathed in the scent of alcohol, natural scents and recent use of toothpaste, finding the entire combination fulfilling. He didn’t mind the alcohol smell–not even when his father had reeked of it in the same manner. There was just a bigger difference between them both that satisfied him. There was something funny about the entire thing, but he wasn’t going to think about it right now.
He turned his head, kissing along the length of Hotstreak’s neck, nuzzling into the warmth and thickness there. He used his tongue to taste what he’d just kissed, hearing the older male’s appreciative murmur in return. He pulled the redhead’s earlobe between his lips, then moved on to kiss along his jaw line, heading back to his lips.
He registered that they were moving; he just didn’t comprehend the action until he found himself being dragged down onto the mattress. He hesitated for an instant, unsure of where things were going–Francis always had a way of moving things along so quickly!–but relaxed when the meta rolled onto his back, pulling Richie atop of him. It was a comfortable enough position, he realized as he settled over him, resuming the action of kissing. He felt Hotstreak’s hands once again moving up his shirt, roughened fingers smoothing over his back, rubbing and kneading in a gentle way that kept him relaxed.
It had been too long since they’d last had this contact, and both expressed their pent up feelings in the continued actions they were taking now. It certainly kept them both from thinking of their current troubles...
OooooooooooO
Richie was surprised that when he caught sight of the time, he found that hours had passed since they’d arrived here at the motel. All that time had been spent talking and kissing, appreciative hands taking gentle explorations upon ‘safe’ areas–and he didn’t feel tired at all, despite the long day he’d had. This was how time was normally spent with Hotstreak, anyway. It just seemed to fly when they were together. They’d caught up on things in each other’s lives, avoiding the obvious trouble they’d encountered, and had just progressed from there.
Some of it, he realized, was just inane–apparently, Hotstreak found it troublesome that Dora the Explorer promoted gang violence, the subject making Richie laugh and ponder such things (mainly that of how Hotstreak even knew what Dora the Explorer was). Others were of learning what was bothering the other, and hearing advice and suggestions from another point of view.
This was why he enjoyed being with Hotstreak–this was exactly what others didn’t know of him. And Richie felt so grateful that he was one of the few that did.
Having lost his shirt (how on Earth the older meta had acquired this amazing talent of removing clothing without Richie being conscious of it was beyond him), he snuggled up closely against the older male for warmth and contact, his arms slinging over his bare chest. Somewhere along the way, Hotstreak had lost his shirt as well. The skin-to-skin contact made Richie feel all tingly inside.
“What are you going to do, today?” he asked curiously, not wanting to think about school.
“I don’t know...kinda–well, I gotta get another car. I got the money, but I just gotta find one.”
“From a used-car dealership? Is that where you got the last one?”
“Nah, I got that from a guy. I can get another car–I just gotta see if this one guy still has it. I dunno. Vehicle’s a vehicle. I ain’t all that picky. Well...long as it ain’t no fuckin’ Gremlin, or Rabbit, or somethin’ stupid...”
“I think a Gremlin would fit you,” Richie said with a light laugh, picturing the meta hunched over in the small car. He laughed harder, lifting his head. “You remember that Simpsons’ episode? Where Bart was going through that Twilight Zone thing? I can see you drivin’ alongside a bus, and the driver freaking out because he saw that it was you. He’d totally ram ya off the road...just like that little old guy...”
Hotstreak laughed with him. “You’re an idiot. I would lose all dignity, then. Gettin’ slammed off the road by some bus...Fuckin’ bad enough I’m crammed into that p.o.s. in the first place.”
Quelling his chuckles, Richie explored that soft skin up the length of Hotstreak’s left pectoral, his lips and tongue tasting and appreciating what he found. “But other than that...what else?”
Hotstreak was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. But he managed to eke out, “...Uh...well...oh. I was going to meet with some guys, today. About...stuff...”
“What kind of stuff?”
Focusing on the ceiling, Hotstreak tried to remember. But his hormones kept him riveted to the tongue that was gently wetting his left nipple.
“Um...somethin’...uh...concerning–don 217;t you have school?”
“Ugh...way to ruin the moment,” Richie muttered, pulling his head away from the treat he’d been enjoying.
“No...don’t you? It’s Thursday...you’ve got school.” Hotstreak glanced at his watch. “In, like, two hours.”
“I told you...all my stuff’s at my parents’ house...I was going to skip, today. See if I can get in there to get my stuff...but I don’t even know where I’m going to stay. The Hawkins’ will let me stay with them, but with the way Virgil’s acting lately...I don’t know...I’m just going to wait for my father to calm down. He gets like this, sometimes, when he drinks. I’m sure he’ll be okay by this weekend...”
Hotstreak stared up at the ceiling with renewed concentration. His thoughts were churning and twisting, and while most of his buzz was gone, he still wasn’t thinking so clearly. Lack of sleep, his own happiness at having Richie close–he wasn’t up to par with making big decisions. But this one persisted in that it be solved immediately.
“You can stay with me,” he decided, feeling the surprised look Richie was giving him. He turned his head to look at the blond, taking in his bewildered features. He reached up to touch his neck, fingers moving over his throat and down to his collarbone. “If that’s what yer daddy’s like.”
Richie slowly shook his head. “It wouldn’t be safe. Not–if Ebon found out–”
“Fuck that ho. He’s in jail.”
“But those guys–!”
“They ain’t gonna know! They don’t know where I live!”
Inspired by this, Hotstreak sat up, feeling more and more satisfied with his decision. That way...Richie could be with him. He wouldn’t have to wonder what he was doing or where he was going, or if he were okay. The more he thought of it, the more absolute he was. He had to wonder, though, if the recent events, combined with what he felt over Theresa’s death, left him feeling clingy to the blond.
“You can just stay here. No one comes here, anyway. I just go out to meet them. Ain’t no one bother you, here.”
“But–! Think about it, Francis! If someone catches me leaving here, or in this area–! They’d find out that I’m with you...and I don’t want to put you in that sort of trouble...I don’t want you making decisions that will force you to chose between me an’ your...um, other business...Stuff. Sorry. I think I’m tired. I’m not thinking clearly...”
“I ain’t either...c’mere...”
“No, seriously...I don’t want to trouble you or–”
“You’re troubling me right now.”
“...Sorry. But–”
“We’ll think about it when we wake up. C’mere.”
“...I’ve got school–”
“Jesus Christ! Shut up an’ don’t worry about it. I’ll wake you up. Then you could figure out how to get back there.”
“Wow, thanks so much, Francis.”
“You’re welcome. Glad ta be of service.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“...Fuckin’ dick.”
Richie laughed softly, reaching out to pull him forward for another kiss. But Hotstreak had other plans, maneuvering him down onto the mattress, pining him underneath him. He reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, throwing the whole room into blackness and effectively quieting any other words the other had to say.
Richie thought he was going to be uncomfortable, expected to be subjected to any of those horrid flashbacks from that night, but those smells from the older male seemed to be the only thing that kept him grounded.
His lips were given a firm kiss, then Hotstreak was pulling away from him, slithering down until his head could rest upon Richie’s chest. The blond tensed for a few moments, but felt himself relax as Hotstreak settled against him, his heavy weight causing Richie some discomfort. With some stiffness in his fingers, he reached up to scratch idly at Hotstreak’s scalp, the way his mother used to do to him when he was younger. He’d found the gesture comforting back then; administering it to someone else, for him, was just as similar.
He felt the older male’s arms curl around his hips, settling for sleep. Richie was staring up at the ceiling, nervously running his tongue over his lips, tasting his lover, when Hotstreak asked sleepily, “‘Ey, you know that movie...that one with, fuckin’...the short guy with the nose...?”
Richie scrunched his forehead up with thought. “Be more specific.”
“The one with the hot chick...the one my age...well, older than me, actually...”
“Oh. Tom Cruise?”
“Let’s go watch that movie. I heard it was good.”
Richie chuckled, tilting his head to somehow look into his face. “You want to? Really?”
“Yeah...mainly cuz, if I don’t, I think I’ll be thinkin’ too much of really stupid stuff...an’ I need other things to think about...an’ cuz you like that stuff, don’t ya? Sci-fi shit?”
“Well, yeah, but...I don’t want you going out of your way–”
“Nah, I heard there’s a lot of killing and aliens an’ shit like that...I don’t care. I just...I just wanna spend time wit’ you...that’s all...”
Richie felt that wonderful feeling in his chest, that expansion of realizing once more how much the older male cared for him. It made him feel more dependent than ever on him; and even more sure of his own feelings for him.
“Okay,” he agreed, pulling gently on the multi-colored hair.
OooooooooooO
Shiv heard himself swallow hard as he and the others stared, in wide-eyed amazement, at the man that stood before him. His hooded eyes, the full lips–in almost every manner, even with his unkept afro, this black man resembled Ebon in a very eerie way. He was the same height, the same lanky shape and even had his rough voice down to the pitch. He heard hissed exclamations and stunned exaggerations from those he stood with, Kangorr giving a low whistle.
D looked quite proud of himself, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Jerome M. Williams, gents. He owed us, down in L.A. Good thing we found good use for him before carrying out the usual garbage disposal methods...”
Shiv could barely afford to blink as he stared at Jerome, who was looking sullen as he shifted in his overly baggy clothing. He could see that the man resembled Ivan–but his mannerisms were entirely different from his boss’s. The continuous lick of the bottom lip, the way he kept his brows scrunched together, the way that one of his nostrils was noticeably bigger than the other...
Now that he caught on to the slight differences, Shiv also noticed that he was lacking earrings, that his ears were curled more sharply, and that he had a few pounds more on him than Ivan did.
He wanted to point that out–but he found himself unable to speak up.
“Isn’t that right, Jerome?” D asked, reaching up to slap his back. He looked at the others. “Ivan turned himself in for a reason. We already worked out the technical problems with his impulsive decisions to have his crew members killed...while he sweats it out, we’ve gotten the lines established and Jerome flown in. What we need to wait for is the day Ivan will be transferred to the metahuman penitentiary for more of that cure-stuff-thingamajig-whatever to be administered...Ivan will be transferred out, and Jerome will be transferred in to take his place as they head back to the jail. We’ve already worked with Jerome on Ivan’s stories and reasoning on recent events –so there isn’t a reason why anybody should worry...”
“We’re on top of things,” V cut in, giving Jerome a scrupulous stare. “Jerome, for his failure in providing us his end of a certain deal, will serve Ivan’s time in prison. You like it there, don’t ya, Jerome? It ain’t L.A. Maybe the boys will be a little more easier to knock around.”
V chuckled, Jerome shooting him a look of disgust. But his eyes flicked over to S, who was giving him a bored stare, techno continually pounding out from her iPod.
Shiv worried his brow, staring at Jerome for a few moments–then looked at D. “But Ivan–er, Ebon doesn’t have his powers anymore–”
“We’ve got that settled as well, er...Shiv, is it?” V looked over at him with a frown, clearly seeing the Asian as a bug that needed to be squashed under foot–immediately. “We have realized that Ivan without his powers is nothing more threatening than a baby...we performed some research, hashed out some ideas. He saved his own ass in that aspect. Which is why, when it’s time, we’ll discuss with you on what we’ll do. As for now...don’t worry about it. For now, all you people need to do is interact with Jerome–give him the same action, mannerisms, freedom and loyalty that you would give Ivan...so he’ll learn what to do and say once he’s in prison.”
D and V turned and left, chuckling amongst each other with their job well done. Jerome shifted, looking at the group of guys with another one of his sullen faces, capturing a trademark expression that would have fooled anybody that didn’t know Ivan that closely.
Shiv and the others exchanged looks, wondering how well this was going to be pulled off.
Chapter Sixteen
Even in his drunken state, Hotstreak recognized that maybe he’d been too obvious in his own beliefs of ‘family’ and unconditional love. It was funny what a little bit of alcohol did to a person–making them think in a way they wouldn’t have sober. But as he staggered in the direction of his car, all he kept thinking about was how Theresa had tried going home; how she may have been looking for some sort of comfort and reassurance after once again being cast away from her ‘family’. He hated what had happened to her–hated it even more whenever a squeaky little voice prompted him to wonder if he, in someway, felt that same need deep within.
He knew he could always go to Richie and feel that sense of satisfaction with him. Times before in the past had proven that it was so. But it was entirely difficult when the norms of society prevented this sort of love and interaction with the same sex. Even more so when he had his rep on the line. In a way, he felt just exhausted with keeping up pretenses when he was already juggling too many tasks at hand. His constant hustling of Ebon’s profit and supplies; his continued avoidance of the law; his life at stake against other rival gang members; Static...all of it made a guy exhausted from time to time. He thought he was about due for a break–but that information Shiv had given him that day of Theresa’s funeral had him brainstorming with the others of his gang, and they’d worked out a plan.
Their inside informant had let them know that the ‘new people’ had arranged for a small, experimental drug transport; they’d bring in their cocaine that was shipped directly from South America, and Ebon’s own crew would distribute it, foregoing their already established suppliers from within the Midwest. Trying out new products was an adventure on its own; but Hotstreak’s informant had let him know that this was only the tip of things to come. After that, there were plans to open a crack shop just within the industrial area of Dakota, under the guise of a clothing manufacturing and distributing work shop.
They were starting off very small; but with Ebon in jail, D and V were already mapping out plans in how they were going to link their supply lines with the ones Ebon had already established. While they continued to grow and expand using Ebon’s networks, Ebon himself would be merging in with the strong network that they themselves worked, ensuring that Dakota’s drug supply was constant.
With all the trade-off and forging bonds that were happening, Hotstreak saw his own plans failing. But that didn’t mean he had to stop what he was doing. Even if he couldn’t take Ebon down in this manner, he could still run his own mercantile using Ebon’s new expansion. He felt petty enough just to drop clues to the DEA to give a heads-up on what the shadow man was up to, but that meant losing his own organization, and he had to think that over.
For now, they were going to wait for the night when the shipment from Texas came in–they had already planned on pilfering at least half the load before it left the docks. He had his informant and at least three others that were going to hit the deal with assured cash up front. The driver taking the shipment to Ebon’s various distributers was going to drive away from scene, park into an appointed trucking garage, where Hotstreak and his crew would take half the shipment, replace with fake drugs (usually a mixture of sugar and salt with some flour mixed in, so it looked like the real thing until it was actually handled) and have the driver out and going before anybody had a clue. It always worked–there hadn’t been a failure yet.
So, all the plan was waiting for was the arrival.
And in the meantime, he kept thinking of Richie. The blond wasn’t far from his thoughts. He wondered how he was doing, what he was doing. Most often, Hotstreak wondered if he were okay, or if Richie ever wondered how he was doing. That was a thought that bothered him most. Did Richie think of him as much as he thought of him?
He wanted to spend more time with him; he needed to feel that stability once more, the way he felt whenever he spent time with the younger male. Richie always made him feel as if he were something and that feeling was hard to come by.
Mind made up, he made his way back to his car, which he’d parked down the block from Theresa’s old neighborhood. He climbed in, started it up, and rummaged through the plastic bags in the back seat for something to quench his thirst. He came upon an unopened forty ounce, and opened it eagerly as he sped out from the area, heading toward Richie’s house. Maybe he could sneak in and prompt Richie to leave with him. Climb the balcony like he had back in the day.
The more he approved of this plan, the more excited and happy he felt in knowing that he was going to see Richie again. It made him smile ludicrously.
Alcohol made him fuzzy–he was faintly aware he was driving recklessly, that his reaction times were slower than normal. The last two cars that he nearly clipped should have told him that he should be slowing down. But the closer he got to Richie’s house, the happier and more eager he felt upon just getting there and getting him. It had been a couple of weeks...maybe Richie felt a little better and would agree to some messing around. Not going all the way, of course. Montoya made it clear that that shouldn’t be approached for some time.
The more he thought about things, the faster he drove.
He was nearly ten blocks from Richie’s neighborhood when a quick turn around a corner sent his malt flying out of his lap. Cursing as the liquor spilt all over his pants and over the middle console, he took his eyes off the road to somehow right the bottle and prevent anymore spills. He looked up in time to realize he’d swerved into the opposite lane, an oncoming car heading straight at him, the driver’s sight blinded by his headlights.
Hotstreak cursed, pulling the wheel harshly to avoid collusion, the car’s wheels bumping up onto the sidewalk, smashing with a spectacular crash of sound against a stoplight. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt–but for some miraculous reason, he wasn’t thrown through the windshield at the sudden stop–the airbag proved that it worked as it inflated in time to keep him from smashing against the steering wheel.
Whatever force of rationality, Hotstreak didn’t die that night; and neither did the utterly petrified pedestrian that stared almost sightlessly at the grill of the car, which had been moments away from crushing him if it hadn’t been for the stop light. The other car had come to a stop, the concerned driver hurrying out of his vehicle to see if everyone was okay.
The black Grand Am was propped against the pole, which had tipped at an angle over the sidewalk from the impact. The lights themselves were still dancing, dangling from damaged wires. The hood was pulled back, accordion style, revealing its contents within, smoke from damaged parts drifting up into the cold air. The windshield was an impressive array of cracks, drooping in the middle, where the frame had been bent upon impact.
The driver immediately assessed that no one was hurt, moving around to the driver’s side. He pulled the door open, and Hotstreak spilled out from the car with a ragged laugh. Upon recognizing the guy, the bystander gave a started exclamation, wondering if all metahumans were invincible.
“I can’t believe that shit!” Hotstreak laughed, obviously buzzed. “Lookit that shit! Where the fuck didja come from, anyway? Sunnavabitch! Isn’t that the funniest shit you ever seen in your laugh? Er, life? Ha ha ha ha!”
The bystander gave him an incredulous look, blinking repeatedly as he listened to the slurred words and the obvious drunken actions.
Hotstreak staggered away, and promptly vomited against the wall of a nearby residence. The bystander winced, and noticed movement from the front of the car. His heart nearly stopped as he realized that there was somebody there. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to investigate, sure that he’d find a dead body between the car’s front bumper and the light pole. But instead, he saw an incredibly stunned expression on an equally dazed person.
“Are you all right, buddy?” he shouted in alarm, hurrying over to see what he could do to help.
He saw that it was a teenager; a blond, bespectacled boy with no jacket and a large backpack. He was obviously in shock, and the man reacted with natural tendency to help, taking off his own jacket to wrap around his shoulders. When he looked up to judge the boy’s reactions, he was startled to see just how close the damaged grill was from their faces. Another few inches...it was amazing. And also quite frightening.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he demanded, looking for any signs of obvious trauma. He then pulled them both out from underneath the light upon hearing a protesting crack, moving into a safer area.
“F-Francis?” the teen choked, staring at the meta that was still losing all that he’d ever ate in the last week against the wall. Then the teen snapped. “Goddamn it, Francis Stone! You almost killed me! What the hell were you thinking?”
The bystander gave him an incredulous expression as the teen marched over and kicked Dakota’s fiery menace in the thigh with obvious familiarity. Once the meta realized who’d attacked him, he seemed just as surprised and shocked as the teen had been earlier.
He immediately straightened, albeit shakily, and had his arms wrapped around the teen’s shoulders, forcing him around to point in awe at the car. It looked like he was just using the action to get the teen to hold him up.
“Rich! Rich, man...man, didja see that shit?”
“HOLY GOD you REEK!”
“STOP YELLIN’ AT ME! LOOKIT MY CAR!”
“YOU ALMOST HIT ME, YOU DRUNKEN LOON!”
“...I did? What the hell were you doin’ in the street, then?”
“I WASN’T ON THE GODDAMN STREET, YOU LUNATIC! I WAS RIGHT THERE! I GOT OFF THE STREET BECAUSE I SAW SOME IDIOT DRIVING ERRATICALLY----!”
“What the HELL are you doing out this late?”
“DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT!!”
“Don’t’cha be callin’ ME an idiot!...Loon, I’ll accept. Lunatic, hell, fine. That’s okay, too. BUT DON’T CALL ME AN IDIOT!”
The bystander began to inch away, seeing that both males were obviously okay if they were yelling at each other. Shaking his head, he reached for the cellphone that hung off the back of his belt, speed-dialing a number.
“Rosa...honey...you’re never going to believe what just happened,” he said on a high pitched laugh as he made his way to his car.
OooooooooooO
“You’re a damned idiot!” Richie snarled, shoving Hotstreak into the room, then fighting the doorknob for the small set of keys. They had made it to Hotstreak’s motel room, the drunken meta still laughing and exclaiming over what had happened to his ride. Richie had to hail down a cab to drop them close enough to the motel in order to walk the rest of the way, using Ebon’s money to get them there.
The car had been taken care of; Richie was still surprised and unnerved at how easily Hotstreak was able to call up some friends of his (one that worked for a small garage nearby, equipped with a personal towing truck) to clean up the scene. In a matter of minutes, they’d come, laughed at what happened, and taken off with his car. Richie had pointed out that vomit could easily be used to identify him, and while Hotstreak had pondered that dubiously, had managed to get rid of that as well, using the plastic bag that had held his liquor and burying it all within the residence’s side yard.
When the police had come, all they’d found was the bent stoplight and shards of glass.
Hotstreak laughed uproariously at himself and his damned good luck as he kicked off his muddy shoes. He hadn’t worn a jacket at all–simply allowed his unnatural warmth to keep him warm while he worked. Having sobered up a little from the shock of the car accident and the long journey home, Hotstreak looked back at Richie and grinned cheerfully. He didn’t know how, or why, but Richie had been there and he was here with him.
He felt quite content for the moment.
“What the hell were you thinking, driving around like that? You could have killed somebody! Well, obviously you weren’t thinking...” Richie was saying as he tossed his backpack aside, shrugging off the bystander’s jacket. “It isn’t funny, Francis!”
“Ya haveta admit, though, it’s funny when ya think about it...”
“No, it isn’t! Did you see how close you were to hitting me? Oh my god, I’m so glad that I was too cold to piss,” Richie moaned, shaking his head as he rubbed his arms. “Otherwise...I wouldn’t have cared.”
“Well...saved me the time from headin’ to your house an’ bein’ all David Blaine on that fuckin’ tree...”
“Which isn’t there anymore...dad had the thing ripped out, last year,” Richie said as he crossed the open space between them. He immediately latched onto Hotstreak, his arms curling around his waist, a sound of content escaping his lips as he nuzzled into the familiar sturdiness of the older male’s frame.
“Why ain’t it there, anymore?” Hotstreak asked curiously, reveling in his own feelings upon Richie touching him so happily. Not feeling awkward anymore, his own arms wrapped around Richie’s shoulders, hugging him just as tightly. He breathed in deeply of his scent, pushing his nose against his skin.
“Because my father’s a dick and wants to destroy any sort of happiness I have...oh, god, I missed you so much,” Richie said on a sigh, breathing in deep of the mixture of scents that he found. He felt satisfied upon having this chance again–so unexpectedly. Feeling the meta’s arms tighten around him gave him all the confirmation he needed in knowing that Hotstreak felt the same way.
He felt the tip of his nose nudge his ear, lips against his skin–it made him tingle all the way down to his still cold toes, making him shiver. He felt fingertips on his chin, directing him to face him. But once he realized what Hotstreak was silently questing for, he immediately slapped his fingers over his mouth, pointing his face away.
“Ew...no way! Yeah, I’m a guy, and I think farting’s funny, but there’s no way I’m kissing you after you vomited up half your intestines just recently! You still smell of it!”
“Ah, c’mon! I’ll keep my mouth shut!”
“No! That’s disgusting...go brush your teeth.”
“...Prude.”
“No, just consciously driven for much cleaner things...”
“...How can that be when I go up your–?”
“GO BRUSH YOUR TEETH!”
“Sheesh, shut your bitchin’...don’t go anywhere.”
Richie snorted, looking around himself, taking in the familiarity of the room as Hotstreak grumbled his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Smiling slightly, Richie saw that things were just the same; just a little messier than it had been when he’d last been here. He picked up a few crushed beer and soda cans and disposed of them in the trash can nearby; then put away the opened bag of bread. Tossing all the dirty clothes into the corner of the room, kicking all shoes and boots aside, Richie cleared enough of the room to feel a little safe in that he wasn’t going to snap his neck if he chose to walk around the small space.
He made sure the door was locked, then walked over to his bag to see which one it was that he’d grabbed. Seeing that it was full of his clothes, he sighed in half relief, half exasperation as he realized that his school work was still in that house. He felt sad for a moment; still wondering with confusion and uncertainty if he’d truly been kicked out. Or if this was just one of Sean’s drunken rages that would be ignored in the morning. He wondered if he could go back. If not to stay, to at least get his things.
But that sad feeling left as he heard Hotstreak finish up in the bathroom, and straightened from his bag. He brushed off his pants and gave an uncertain look at the bed when he heard his name being called urgently from the Shock Vox. He found it within the front pocket of his bag, depressing the transmitter to answer Static’s call.
“I’m at the gas station...where are you?” Static demanded, sounding rushed.
“Er...uh...V, something happened,” Richie started with some uncertainty. “I–my dad was freaking out, earlier. Um...well, long story short, I’m kinda out of a place to stay.”
“Your–your dad kicked ya out? What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. I was heading toward your house, but, uhm...I think I have a place to stay for the night.”
“Where ya at?”
“...Three guesses. And none of them is Felix, Chuck or anybody else from school.”
Silence. Then an annoyed growl. “He’d better not let me find either of you! Or otherwise I’m gonna really lay down the law–!”
“What’s up, anyway?”
“Ah–nothin’. I was just wonderin’, cuz the last I spoke with ya, you were outside? Ah, shit. Gotta go. Someone thought it was fun to hold up this Burger Fool. Later.”
“Be careful, V.”
“Okay! I’m done! C’mere!” Richie rolled his eyes, refusing to comment on the childishness of Hotstreak’s tone.
But he tossed the Vox over his shoulder and walked over, giving a muffled sound of surprise when he was forced into a rather pleasing kiss. But he wasn’t complaining, returning the action eagerly, his arms untangling from the forceful hug to curl around his neck. Words couldn’t express the happiness he felt upon doing this again; for physical contact and interaction with the one he loved.
He had thought he’d have trouble with it–had expected to be disgusted at the interaction. He had worried that he wouldn’t be able to feel the same toward Hotstreak after that violent attack–but he thought nothing of it now.
Touching as much as he could of the meta’s hair, the back of his neck, the stubbly traces of his face, Richie gave an expressed sound of enjoyment, briefly sucking on the tongue that had been reacquainting itself with the inside of his mouth. He had to pull his head back, feeling breathless as he felt Hotstreak’s hands over his back, drifting down to his lower waist, questing underneath the hem of his shirt to come into contact with his skin. Richie closed his eyes, feeling lips at his neck, gently kissing over his pulse points, over his throat–his collar was pulled aside and sensitive skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder was treated to the same tender action.
He felt weak, knees shaking as he curled his fingers into the material of Hotstreak’s shirt. He breathed in the scent of alcohol, natural scents and recent use of toothpaste, finding the entire combination fulfilling. He didn’t mind the alcohol smell–not even when his father had reeked of it in the same manner. There was just a bigger difference between them both that satisfied him. There was something funny about the entire thing, but he wasn’t going to think about it right now.
He turned his head, kissing along the length of Hotstreak’s neck, nuzzling into the warmth and thickness there. He used his tongue to taste what he’d just kissed, hearing the older male’s appreciative murmur in return. He pulled the redhead’s earlobe between his lips, then moved on to kiss along his jaw line, heading back to his lips.
He registered that they were moving; he just didn’t comprehend the action until he found himself being dragged down onto the mattress. He hesitated for an instant, unsure of where things were going–Francis always had a way of moving things along so quickly!–but relaxed when the meta rolled onto his back, pulling Richie atop of him. It was a comfortable enough position, he realized as he settled over him, resuming the action of kissing. He felt Hotstreak’s hands once again moving up his shirt, roughened fingers smoothing over his back, rubbing and kneading in a gentle way that kept him relaxed.
It had been too long since they’d last had this contact, and both expressed their pent up feelings in the continued actions they were taking now. It certainly kept them both from thinking of their current troubles...
OooooooooooO
Richie was surprised that when he caught sight of the time, he found that hours had passed since they’d arrived here at the motel. All that time had been spent talking and kissing, appreciative hands taking gentle explorations upon ‘safe’ areas–and he didn’t feel tired at all, despite the long day he’d had. This was how time was normally spent with Hotstreak, anyway. It just seemed to fly when they were together. They’d caught up on things in each other’s lives, avoiding the obvious trouble they’d encountered, and had just progressed from there.
Some of it, he realized, was just inane–apparently, Hotstreak found it troublesome that Dora the Explorer promoted gang violence, the subject making Richie laugh and ponder such things (mainly that of how Hotstreak even knew what Dora the Explorer was). Others were of learning what was bothering the other, and hearing advice and suggestions from another point of view.
This was why he enjoyed being with Hotstreak–this was exactly what others didn’t know of him. And Richie felt so grateful that he was one of the few that did.
Having lost his shirt (how on Earth the older meta had acquired this amazing talent of removing clothing without Richie being conscious of it was beyond him), he snuggled up closely against the older male for warmth and contact, his arms slinging over his bare chest. Somewhere along the way, Hotstreak had lost his shirt as well. The skin-to-skin contact made Richie feel all tingly inside.
“What are you going to do, today?” he asked curiously, not wanting to think about school.
“I don’t know...kinda–well, I gotta get another car. I got the money, but I just gotta find one.”
“From a used-car dealership? Is that where you got the last one?”
“Nah, I got that from a guy. I can get another car–I just gotta see if this one guy still has it. I dunno. Vehicle’s a vehicle. I ain’t all that picky. Well...long as it ain’t no fuckin’ Gremlin, or Rabbit, or somethin’ stupid...”
“I think a Gremlin would fit you,” Richie said with a light laugh, picturing the meta hunched over in the small car. He laughed harder, lifting his head. “You remember that Simpsons’ episode? Where Bart was going through that Twilight Zone thing? I can see you drivin’ alongside a bus, and the driver freaking out because he saw that it was you. He’d totally ram ya off the road...just like that little old guy...”
Hotstreak laughed with him. “You’re an idiot. I would lose all dignity, then. Gettin’ slammed off the road by some bus...Fuckin’ bad enough I’m crammed into that p.o.s. in the first place.”
Quelling his chuckles, Richie explored that soft skin up the length of Hotstreak’s left pectoral, his lips and tongue tasting and appreciating what he found. “But other than that...what else?”
Hotstreak was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. But he managed to eke out, “...Uh...well...oh. I was going to meet with some guys, today. About...stuff...”
“What kind of stuff?”
Focusing on the ceiling, Hotstreak tried to remember. But his hormones kept him riveted to the tongue that was gently wetting his left nipple.
“Um...somethin’...uh...concerning–don 217;t you have school?”
“Ugh...way to ruin the moment,” Richie muttered, pulling his head away from the treat he’d been enjoying.
“No...don’t you? It’s Thursday...you’ve got school.” Hotstreak glanced at his watch. “In, like, two hours.”
“I told you...all my stuff’s at my parents’ house...I was going to skip, today. See if I can get in there to get my stuff...but I don’t even know where I’m going to stay. The Hawkins’ will let me stay with them, but with the way Virgil’s acting lately...I don’t know...I’m just going to wait for my father to calm down. He gets like this, sometimes, when he drinks. I’m sure he’ll be okay by this weekend...”
Hotstreak stared up at the ceiling with renewed concentration. His thoughts were churning and twisting, and while most of his buzz was gone, he still wasn’t thinking so clearly. Lack of sleep, his own happiness at having Richie close–he wasn’t up to par with making big decisions. But this one persisted in that it be solved immediately.
“You can stay with me,” he decided, feeling the surprised look Richie was giving him. He turned his head to look at the blond, taking in his bewildered features. He reached up to touch his neck, fingers moving over his throat and down to his collarbone. “If that’s what yer daddy’s like.”
Richie slowly shook his head. “It wouldn’t be safe. Not–if Ebon found out–”
“Fuck that ho. He’s in jail.”
“But those guys–!”
“They ain’t gonna know! They don’t know where I live!”
Inspired by this, Hotstreak sat up, feeling more and more satisfied with his decision. That way...Richie could be with him. He wouldn’t have to wonder what he was doing or where he was going, or if he were okay. The more he thought of it, the more absolute he was. He had to wonder, though, if the recent events, combined with what he felt over Theresa’s death, left him feeling clingy to the blond.
“You can just stay here. No one comes here, anyway. I just go out to meet them. Ain’t no one bother you, here.”
“But–! Think about it, Francis! If someone catches me leaving here, or in this area–! They’d find out that I’m with you...and I don’t want to put you in that sort of trouble...I don’t want you making decisions that will force you to chose between me an’ your...um, other business...Stuff. Sorry. I think I’m tired. I’m not thinking clearly...”
“I ain’t either...c’mere...”
“No, seriously...I don’t want to trouble you or–”
“You’re troubling me right now.”
“...Sorry. But–”
“We’ll think about it when we wake up. C’mere.”
“...I’ve got school–”
“Jesus Christ! Shut up an’ don’t worry about it. I’ll wake you up. Then you could figure out how to get back there.”
“Wow, thanks so much, Francis.”
“You’re welcome. Glad ta be of service.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“...Fuckin’ dick.”
Richie laughed softly, reaching out to pull him forward for another kiss. But Hotstreak had other plans, maneuvering him down onto the mattress, pining him underneath him. He reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, throwing the whole room into blackness and effectively quieting any other words the other had to say.
Richie thought he was going to be uncomfortable, expected to be subjected to any of those horrid flashbacks from that night, but those smells from the older male seemed to be the only thing that kept him grounded.
His lips were given a firm kiss, then Hotstreak was pulling away from him, slithering down until his head could rest upon Richie’s chest. The blond tensed for a few moments, but felt himself relax as Hotstreak settled against him, his heavy weight causing Richie some discomfort. With some stiffness in his fingers, he reached up to scratch idly at Hotstreak’s scalp, the way his mother used to do to him when he was younger. He’d found the gesture comforting back then; administering it to someone else, for him, was just as similar.
He felt the older male’s arms curl around his hips, settling for sleep. Richie was staring up at the ceiling, nervously running his tongue over his lips, tasting his lover, when Hotstreak asked sleepily, “‘Ey, you know that movie...that one with, fuckin’...the short guy with the nose...?”
Richie scrunched his forehead up with thought. “Be more specific.”
“The one with the hot chick...the one my age...well, older than me, actually...”
“Oh. Tom Cruise?”
“Let’s go watch that movie. I heard it was good.”
Richie chuckled, tilting his head to somehow look into his face. “You want to? Really?”
“Yeah...mainly cuz, if I don’t, I think I’ll be thinkin’ too much of really stupid stuff...an’ I need other things to think about...an’ cuz you like that stuff, don’t ya? Sci-fi shit?”
“Well, yeah, but...I don’t want you going out of your way–”
“Nah, I heard there’s a lot of killing and aliens an’ shit like that...I don’t care. I just...I just wanna spend time wit’ you...that’s all...”
Richie felt that wonderful feeling in his chest, that expansion of realizing once more how much the older male cared for him. It made him feel more dependent than ever on him; and even more sure of his own feelings for him.
“Okay,” he agreed, pulling gently on the multi-colored hair.
OooooooooooO
Shiv heard himself swallow hard as he and the others stared, in wide-eyed amazement, at the man that stood before him. His hooded eyes, the full lips–in almost every manner, even with his unkept afro, this black man resembled Ebon in a very eerie way. He was the same height, the same lanky shape and even had his rough voice down to the pitch. He heard hissed exclamations and stunned exaggerations from those he stood with, Kangorr giving a low whistle.
D looked quite proud of himself, his hands slipping into his pockets. “Jerome M. Williams, gents. He owed us, down in L.A. Good thing we found good use for him before carrying out the usual garbage disposal methods...”
Shiv could barely afford to blink as he stared at Jerome, who was looking sullen as he shifted in his overly baggy clothing. He could see that the man resembled Ivan–but his mannerisms were entirely different from his boss’s. The continuous lick of the bottom lip, the way he kept his brows scrunched together, the way that one of his nostrils was noticeably bigger than the other...
Now that he caught on to the slight differences, Shiv also noticed that he was lacking earrings, that his ears were curled more sharply, and that he had a few pounds more on him than Ivan did.
He wanted to point that out–but he found himself unable to speak up.
“Isn’t that right, Jerome?” D asked, reaching up to slap his back. He looked at the others. “Ivan turned himself in for a reason. We already worked out the technical problems with his impulsive decisions to have his crew members killed...while he sweats it out, we’ve gotten the lines established and Jerome flown in. What we need to wait for is the day Ivan will be transferred to the metahuman penitentiary for more of that cure-stuff-thingamajig-whatever to be administered...Ivan will be transferred out, and Jerome will be transferred in to take his place as they head back to the jail. We’ve already worked with Jerome on Ivan’s stories and reasoning on recent events –so there isn’t a reason why anybody should worry...”
“We’re on top of things,” V cut in, giving Jerome a scrupulous stare. “Jerome, for his failure in providing us his end of a certain deal, will serve Ivan’s time in prison. You like it there, don’t ya, Jerome? It ain’t L.A. Maybe the boys will be a little more easier to knock around.”
V chuckled, Jerome shooting him a look of disgust. But his eyes flicked over to S, who was giving him a bored stare, techno continually pounding out from her iPod.
Shiv worried his brow, staring at Jerome for a few moments–then looked at D. “But Ivan–er, Ebon doesn’t have his powers anymore–”
“We’ve got that settled as well, er...Shiv, is it?” V looked over at him with a frown, clearly seeing the Asian as a bug that needed to be squashed under foot–immediately. “We have realized that Ivan without his powers is nothing more threatening than a baby...we performed some research, hashed out some ideas. He saved his own ass in that aspect. Which is why, when it’s time, we’ll discuss with you on what we’ll do. As for now...don’t worry about it. For now, all you people need to do is interact with Jerome–give him the same action, mannerisms, freedom and loyalty that you would give Ivan...so he’ll learn what to do and say once he’s in prison.”
D and V turned and left, chuckling amongst each other with their job well done. Jerome shifted, looking at the group of guys with another one of his sullen faces, capturing a trademark expression that would have fooled anybody that didn’t know Ivan that closely.
Shiv and the others exchanged looks, wondering how well this was going to be pulled off.