Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Chapter Twenty-Six ( Chapter 26 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Things always look different in the morning...but will they ever be right again?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.03.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 441 | Status: Completed
Things always look different in the morning...but will they ever be right again?
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.03.2005 | Pages: 4 | Words: 5.0K | Visits: 441 | Status: Completed
Right Here
Chapter Twenty-Six
Somewhere, between the shifting memory of falling through the air as Gear for the first time, and facing off with his father that winter night, Richie felt himself focus. He suddenly found himself smiling upward at Francis Stone as he stood over him; he didn’t have any idea how he’d gotten there, or how it had come to this–just that he was there.
“Hi,” he croaked. Obvious injuries on the older meta were cast aside–for some reason, they didn’t matter. Even when something told him that they should.
“Hey,” Hotstreak said, crouching before him. His arm throbbed with pain–but even as it raced up his shoulder and spread throughout his body in its intensity, he felt himself able to concentrate on the blond. He’d had his share of pain throughout the years, and had the scars to prove it. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Richie murmured, wanting to reassure him.
“Then why you look like that? C’mere...what’s wrong with you?” Hotstreak asked him again, reaching out to brush Static’s jacket aside.
His roughened hands moved over the dried blood on his face–at his touch, even when Richie knew it should hurt, the blond felt the need to press into the warmth. No one mattered but him. If Hotstreak was touching him openly, if he were talking to him in that soft, caring tone, then it was obviously just them around. Because Hotstreak wasn’t this affectionate in public.
And things came to an upsetting turn as he reached for him, wanting to be comforted. Even as things shifted in ways that they shouldn’t within his mid-section, that his fingers tingled with painful intensity and refused to bend at his command, he found himself being pulled into a leaning position against Hotstreak’s chest, the older meta settling against the wall.
It was awkward, for him, using only one arm, but the older meta managed it. After much shifting, he had Richie between his outstretched legs, leaning against his front with his left side. With a low sigh of satisfaction, Richie relaxed against him, hearing the continuous beat of his heart against his head.
His eyelids shut tight, and he inhaled the sharp musk that he was familiar with, wanting to absorb...to be absorbed...
While he was aware that Hotstreak was talking to him, his roughened fingers sliding over his stomach, he once again lost touch with this present moment. He wanted to go back–but instead of random memories, he was focused on one night–when Hotstreak held him close, after a bout of sex, and told him about what he’d did that day. Nothing significant–just a day in which he’d accomplished nothing.
But Richie could feel that same relaxation, that groggy comfort he felt in just being with Hotstreak; just listening to his voice within the silence of the room; smelling his sweat and his body odors; feeling his body curled around his....it had been one of his better memories, mainly because it was something he was looking for at this moment. He wanted that same relaxation, that comfort, that security and satisfaction. He lost himself in the low drone of Hotstreak’s voice.
Static watched silently as he saw the meta pull Richie to him, the blond moving with a sort of pliancy against him–the action completely natural for them both, their bodies moving to fit against the others’.
He couldn’t accept that Hotstreak was gentle and caring–it was something out of his grasp. He’d never seen them together in this manner–he’d seen them last year, at school, while Richie tutored him; he’d seen them at the park. He hadn’t realized that Hotstreak was capable of being soft toward Richie; for Richie to respond to him so easily when he hadn’t with Static.
Staring at the two, he finally saw what his sister and Adam had seen–and it made him uncomfortable. Not because they were two males–but because all this time, he’d been so convinced that Hotstreak was just using him.
But if the meta was in it just for that, why was he being so tender with Richie? Holding onto him that way, examining his visible injuries with judging concern? Forcing himself in uncomfortable situations throughout the night for him?
He hated admitting he was wrong–but it was obvious he was wrong all this time about them.
That they were truly happy together.
And as his best friend continued to suffer quietly with his injuries, he realized that even though he was the one the blond had grown up with, had experienced all sorts of teenage drama with and weathered through various storms–he wasn’t the one that should be with him, right now. He had to stand down–and let Hotstreak in.
He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily as he forced himself to accept this decision. Even as his protective instincts kicked in, wanting to shove Hotstreak away from him to keep from hurting him even further–he was going to stay away and let them be.
He had considered flying Richie to the hospital–but he didn’t know the extent of his injuries. If he were moved....what if something happened? What if he didn’t make it from here to there? What if the shock of flying agitated his wounds? The smartest choice was to wait for the equipped medical helicopter. He was sure they had better ways of helping him. It took a lot to stick to that decision–he wanted to fly.
He forced himself to picture the paramedics that were on-board, their equipment. To keep himself from following through with the instinct.
“Talk to him, man,” he muttered, just loud enough for Hotstreak to hear. “He’s responding better to you than me. Keep him going.”
Hotstreak took in the battered features–noted that they weren’t as bad as they were when he’d found Richie that night...he shook his head, frowning as he ruffled Richie’s hair with affection.
“Here, I got used to not seein’ ya all beat up all th’ fuckin’ time,” he murmured. “Then here ya are again, all fucked up...dammit, Rich.”
He pulled Richie against him, trying to make it comfortable for the blond. His hand had gone over his stomach, where the blond’s hands were resting–and he’d felt the unnatural hardness there. He wasn’t a doctor, wasn’t experienced with related things–but he knew that was a bad sign. He checked over the bloodied t-shirt that were wrapped around his wrists, winced, and wrapped them back up.
He glanced apprehensively in Static’s direction, flushing at his loss of control over reining in his affections. But Static had his back to them, leaning against the wall–studiously ignoring them both. He lowered his head, self-consciously hiding his embarrassed features against Richie’s matted hair. It smelled of sweat, of blood, of Ivan–and his gut squeezed as he wondered if Ivan had hurt him any other way. His words, mocking and cruel, came back to him at that moment–but at least he had the satisfaction of seeing him burn.
“He’s gone, now,” Hotstreak said to him, keeping his voice low. “He won’t bother you again. After this is all over, ya can be normal, again. ‘K?”
“Is the light on, Francis?”
“The...the–whattaya talkin’ about? Yeah...” A glance at the overhead hall light assured Hotstreak that it was on. “Yeah, it’s on.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Richie muttered, his nose pressing against his neck, nuzzling his flesh. “But you deserve it for being so damn stubborn...”
“I–! Fine. I’ll let it go, just this once. Someone has to be the mature one here.”
Richie snorted, but he was annoyed that Hotstreak was saying that. “‘Mature one’...yeah, right. You’re three years older than me, but you always act like a brat. I act older than you!”
“But I’m the man of this–OW! Jesus! I’m sore right there, an’ what’d I tell ya about biting?”
“Don’t. Call. Me. A. Girl.”
“Right, right.” Hotstreak then chuckled, pressing his chin against Richie’s head, rubbing his cold arms. “At least ya ain’t shrieking. But yer nose is wrinklin’ again...”
“God...what is with you an’ my freakin’ nose?” Richie muttered, pressing said nose against Hotstreak’s shirt, as if trying to hide it.
Static had said just keep talking to him. It didn’t matter that he felt awkward and childish as he held Richie tightly against him, both happy and scared at the same time. It felt weird, knowing that he was badly hurt, not knowing where or how to fix it.
It scared him that Richie kept talking in that faint, faraway voice, as if he were ready to go to sleep at any moment. And maybe he was just tired–the sun was just starting to break over the mountains, casting its light into the building with an irritating brightness.
He’d been through a lot, Hotstreak had reasoned against the persistence of his intuition. He was exhausted. He’d feel better after some rest.
But it scared him. He didn’t want Richie to rest. Not until things were fixed.
His fingers clenched within matted, golden blond hair, and he growled lowly, “Don’t you go to sleep, dammit. You talk to me. You keep talking to me.”
“I don’t know anything,” Richie complained. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You...your parents, Rich. Did you–?”
“I–they won’t talk to me. You know why!”
“Then you don’t know...?” Hotstreak murmured, shaking his head. “You don’t need to know, now.”
Richie was staring blankly at the floor. In his mind’s eye, he could see Hotstreak crawling into his room that first time. That first time when things had shifted between them, when pretenses were hidden behind actions beyond their control. He shifted slightly, to address this.
“How’d you find me?” he asked, lost in the memory.
It was fitting for Hotstreak to take it how he heard it, having no idea what Richie was actually thinking. “Shiv told us where to go. He helped you. Wanted you to know that...wanted you ta know he was sorry. He...he died after tellin’ us.”
Richie thought of Shiv and that night. How Shiv and Theresa helped Ebon trap him. Was unsure if he felt satisfaction...or gratitude. At this moment, lying here within the security of Hotstreak’s arms–he felt gratitude. Shiv had defied Ivan, had gone against him. For feeling guilty over that night? It was hard to think of the Asian going against Ivan, but he had. And he’d died for it. Richie couldn’t hold those feelings of hostility and hate forever.
“Theresa felt the same way, Rich. She kept apologizin’, too. She died because that fucker knew she was talkin’ to me. They tried makin’ things right, for you.”
Thinking about that, about Theresa’s death and how happy he’d been that she got what she deserved made Richie feel guilty. He hadn’t known that. But he now realized how Hotstreak had found him, that night. It had to have been her. Both Theresa and Shiv had died for him. How could he continue to hate them?
The guilt he felt made his stomach hurt, and he winced. He felt lips against his temple, and his eyes closed slowly. He lost focus for that moment–lost in one of the many lectures Sean was giving about homework. Middle school. He remembered how awkward he’d felt in middle school–for being small, for not having money like everyone else–how Virgil had the biggest crush on a girl named Samantha.
Hotstreak glanced over at Static, seeing him leaning against the wall. There was the sound of rotors beating the air–faint wails of the siren. Finally. After things were done and gone, and they were finally showing up. It seemed unfair–but at the same time, satisfying. Because he got to get rid of Ivan; for things were finally coming to a close; for Richie to get medical attention.
He thought of the cops, and felt heavily reluctant to leave. He could find someone to help him out with his arm–which hung uselessly at his side. He didn’t think he’d get full use of it ever again. But it was okay–he still had his powers. He’d adjust.
He shifted, pulling Richie tight against him, unsure of when he’d be able to see him.
“I have to go,” he whispered, not wanting to let go. “I gotta get out of here, Rich. You gonna go to the hospital, okay? Maybe–maybe Rosa will be there. But–you–you make sure you heal. Cuz I’ll come back for you.”
“Francis has a girlfriend,” Richie sang quietly, a smile on his lips.
“...It ain’t like that.”
“Liar.”
“Jealous bitch–OW! Goddamn you...”
“I...I couldn’t find my parents,” Richie mumbled against his neck, kissing where he’d just bitten. “But...can you...let them know that I’m sorry?”
“For what? You don’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, not to them,” Hotstreak murmured. The sirens were louder–he was anxious to get moving, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of him. Not when he was talking like this.
“For...not being what they wanted. I disappointed them.”
“No, no...You didn’t. You don’t owe them that–”
“...Mr. H and Sharon...and Adam....tell them that they were like family to me. An’–an’ that I loved them like that.”
“...Why you talkin’ like this?” Hotstreak felt panic shoot through him. He looked over at Static, who was still trying to ignore them. He clutched Richie tightly to him, his fingers digging into the blond’s arms. “Stop talkin’ like that. You’re going to be fine.”
“And Virgil–”
“He’s right here. Hawkins, talk to him!” he then snapped, Static pushing away from the wall to look over. “He’s talkin’ funny.”
Hurrying over, Static dropped to his knees beside his best friend, reaching out to grab one of his cold hands. “Richie, the helicopter’s almost here, all right? You’re goin’ for a ride to the hospital–”
“–tell Virgil that–” Richie’s voice was breaking, his features screwing up with immense grief.
“I’m right here...”
“–I’m sorry, an’ that he was always like a brother to me...and I love him.”
“Me too, Rich. Me, too. You’re my bro...you’re freaking Hotstreak out, Rich. Don’t talk like that,” Static ordered, noting the panicked expression on the meta’s face.
“And Francis...”
“Rich, Goddamn it, I’m right here. I’m right here!”
“Tell Francis that I’m sorry I yelled at him. I would’ve stayed. I don’t regret anything. Tell him I love him. Tell him that I loved him very much,” Richie croaked, giving a choked sob.
“Quit talkin’ like that!” Hotstreak snapped, looking at Static in desperation.
“I’m sorry,” Richie suddenly cried, his face crumbling, tears escaping. “I wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t listen to anybody! I kept thinking I was doing the right thing! I don’t want to go!”
“Why’s he talkin’ like this?” Hotstreak cried, growing agitated. “We’re right here! You can’t leave me, this isn’t what we’re–you’re not going anywhere!”
“Francis–! I’m sorry!”
Static jerked himself to his feet, hearing the police coming into the building downstairs. He ran to the edge of the hall, hands at his mouth. He screamed out their position, willing them to work quick. Screamed out that it was safe, that they needed medical attention.
Hotstreak clutched Richie close, feeling the quiet intake and outtake of the blond’s breath against his neck. His arm was useless–he was trying to keep him propped, his other arm doing all the work–and it all surged forward, at that moment. Desperation led to negotiation.
“I can change, Rich,” he whispered fiercely. “I can change. I–if you live, I’ll change. I–I’ll do my time. I’ll–I’ll pay the consequences. I’ll wait. I can’t do this without you. I can’t–if you leave me, I’m comin’ after you to kick your ass...Goddammit, don’t you leave me. Don’t you leave me, Rich. Damn you, I’ll change–I promise! I’ll change–!”
Richie murmured something he couldn’t hear. Something that floated across his skin, a murmur of sound that he couldn’t tell the nature of. But it was also the last breath that he exhaled, slumping heavily against him. Hotstreak froze for that instant upon registering this–that no matter how still he was, he couldn’t feel any more of his breath against his neck. That a hundred and forty-five pounds had just settled dead weight against him.
Panic had him moving immediately.
“He’s not breathing! He stopped–! Sta–! Virgil! He’s not breathing!”
Static turned slowly–unsure of he’d heard right. With a numb sort of reaction, he saw that Hotstreak was laying Richie on the floor, on his back–and that his friend wasn’t breathing. For a moment, Static felt helpless, too stunned to move. That wasn’t his best friend there–that wasn’t his hated enemy fretting, panicking because he didn’t know what to do.
He blinked; once, twice–then surged forward. Landing at Richie’s other side, instructions of CPR coming immediately, he jerked off his mask, slipping off his gloves. Hotstreak was in the way; yelling at Richie to wake up, his hands flitting uselessly over Richie’s ashen skin, as if he were trying to wake up him by touching the right spot. Static pushed him away, numbly wondering if he should even attempt it–he didn’t know what sort of internal injuries Richie had. What if he made them worse?
The very thought of trying to save him, only to kill him, make Static hesitate.
“DO SOMETHING!” Hotstreak shouted at him, voice cracking. “DO SOMETHING!”
“Rich, c’mon, man, you’re making Hotstreak cry,” he muttered, determining that Richie wasn’t breathing. That there wasn’t a pulse.
He tipped the blond’s head back–chin up, palm on forehead–tip lower jaw down–squeeze nostrils shut–he fitted his mouth over his best friend’s and blew as strongly as he could. He could hear the oncoming presence of the police as they conducted their safety check, Lewis at the head; but he concentrated on performing two strong breaths, then shifting over–fingers searching out the sternum, down to the sharp point at the base; fingers interlacing, palm just above the point–to start compressing.
With concentrating force, he began putting his entire body weight into the thrust, trying to concentrate on his efforts. Hotstreak wasn’t moving, frozen in place even as the boys in blue burst around the corner, seeing what was happening.
Shouts filtered through the air, and while Static realized that they were calling for the medical team, shouts were being directed at Hotstreak.
“Neutral!” he screamed over them. “He’s neutral! I need paramedics! He’s not breathing!”
“Get the paramedics up here!” Lewis shouted, putting his gun away and rushing over. After an anxious glance at the meta standing nearby, he saw Static performing what he needed to, and joined in with the breathing factor. Grateful for the help, but growing panicked the more Richie failed to respond, Static continued the compresses after Lewis had performed the two breaths.
Amidst it all, Hotstreak stared in silence, his entire world centered on that still form. He didn’t register the cops, nor the way he had several guns trained on him. He was simply wishing for Richie to open his eyes, to sputter, to do something–his mind was racing, urgently. He didn’t want to lose him. But if he did...if Richie died...then what?
He had nothing before Richie. And when he had him, Richie was everything to him. He still was. If Richie left him...he had nothing. And there was no more point to life if Richie was gone.
The flight paramedics were on scene, and they took over where Lewis and Static had been. In a flurry of ordered movement, they were already assessing the damage and were working on resuscitating him as a stretcher was settled near him. The four worked in tandem, and before Hotstreak knew it, they were already strapping Richie onto the stretcher and taking off.
He took a few steps forward, as if moving after them, but Static stopped him with a hand over his chest. No...not Static...because he’d tossed off his mask to perform CPR. Blankly, Hotstreak faced him, looking at Virgil–the urgency to leave hit him, then. Richie was in the hands of those who knew how to take care of him. All he had to do was wait on the outcome.
The police were watching him.
When he realized that he was vulnerable, that they could take him down–he blinked himself back into focus. He needed to know if Richie was going to be okay. He couldn’t go to jail, now.
A step back, and several of the cops raised their weapons. Virgil glanced at him, then shook his head, stepping in front of him–much to everyone’s consternation.
“I know what I’m doing is wrong,” he said quietly. “But I can’t let you take him. Not yet.”
Lewis stared at Virgil with disbelief. He looked over at Hotstreak, whose expression told him that he was just as shocked as the rest of them for this interference.
“You can’t be serious...”
Virgil licked his lips. He felt everything that he stood for, everything that made him what he was, just take a flying leap. But he remained where he was standing. In all the chaos that had happened, he didn’t even realize he’d taken off his mask; that he was facing them as Virgil Hawkins.
He pivoted, to look at Hotstreak. “You promised,” he said lowly.
Hotstreak shifted his anxious glance from the guns to him. Then back. “Yeah.”
“Don’t you lie...”
Hotstreak’s face flushed in embarrassment as he darted another glance at those that heard. He took another step back...then another...until he finally turned and strode down the hall, to the stairway that he’d taken with Ivan minutes earlier.
“I don’t believe this!” one of the cops cried, moving as if he were going after him. “You’re letting him go?”
“I’m sorry,” Virgil apologized. “I truly am. But...he didn’t do anything wrong, tonight. In fact...if you’ll follow him that way...I’m pretty sure you’ll find Ivan Evans.”
Lewis’s eyes narrowed. “Ivan Evans is in prison, on death row.”
“No...he isn’t. I’ve seen him. You might wanna check in on the guy that’s supposed to be him. Shiv said his name’s Jerome.”
“...We just transported Gummer’s body to the morgue. He had some guy’s wallet on him. Someone by the name of Timmy Johnson? He had information in that wallet–possible phone numbers to all of Ivan’s contacts throughout Dakota.”
Virgil blinked, absorbing this information. He heard the helicopter lift off at that moment. Sent a prayer that his best friend would survive.
He thought of Lucille. “The girl in the hall...she was connected to the entire scheme.”
“She doesn’t have identification on her,” one of the cops said, looking annoyed as he faced the teen. “And we got several dead guys in the ballroom. One of them a former bang baby.”
“Who?”
“Used to be...the, uh, guy with the big feet.”
“Kangor,” Virgil murmured. He had thought the former meta had left Dakota. He hadn’t known that he was still around. Richie hadn’t mentioned seeing him.
“We’re going to have a look around–tonight’s been chaotic,” Lewis muttered. “Atop of it all, we’ve had more shoot-outs in the Projects, some councilman committed suicide, and some kids took a joyride in a school bus–and killed three people when it crashed.”
Hearing all this...said with annoyance and pointed exasperation, made Virgil feel as if he were slowly detaching himself from the situation. He heard Lewis continue on with various complaints and reports over the activity, but he had drifted off to another place.
He wanted to go somewhere where he wasn’t being pressured. Somewhere where he was happy again; with his friends, where everything was normal. He wasn’t a superhero, he wasn’t anything but Virgil Hawkins.
He thought of Lucille, the way she regretted not being able to be a ‘girl’. Not being ‘normal’.
And it hit him, then. Like a fist in the gut.
He looked up at Lewis. “I ain’t doin’ this, no more.”
Lewis paused in his tirade, blinking owlishly. “Huh?”
“I’m done. No more Static. I’m finished.”
“You...you can’t just–!”
“I can,” Virgil said quietly, shaking his head. “It was my decision to become Static. It’s my decision to stop being Static. I’m going to go home, Lewis. And then I’m going to the hospital to see if my best friend will make it. I can’t be Static anymore, not when I end up hurting more people than I do helping them...”
Lewis stared down at him in complete and utter surprise. While he was registering that Dakota’s superhero was throwing in the towel, he couldn’t rightly accept it.
He figured that he was throwing a teenage fit. Something that occurred whenever things grew too much. But the sincerity in Virgil’s eyes, the way his jaw set–he realized that he was, indeed, serious.
“Kid, you’re young, you don’t have training–!” he started, trying to make it work before Virgil held up a hand.
“I’m. Done. I need a normal life. I need to go to college. I need to grow up. Maybe one day–maybe one day I’ll change my mind. But for now...don’t count on me to come out. Don’t rely on me to help you. Cuz today was my last day on the job. If you have any questions regardin’ tonight’s activities–let me know. I’ll fill out a report.”
“You had a bad night...it’s understandable,” Lewis said quietly. “Go home...sleep. Maybe you’ll feel different about it later...”
Virgil stared at him in deference–then shook his head. “No...no, I’ll still feel the same. Good night, man. Good luck.”
“You–you can’t just leave–!”
But Virgil was already walking off, waving over his shoulder. Those that were listening to every word let him pass after anxious glances thrown Lewis’ way. Picking up his mask and goggles from the floor, Virgil quietly left the building.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Somewhere, between the shifting memory of falling through the air as Gear for the first time, and facing off with his father that winter night, Richie felt himself focus. He suddenly found himself smiling upward at Francis Stone as he stood over him; he didn’t have any idea how he’d gotten there, or how it had come to this–just that he was there.
“Hi,” he croaked. Obvious injuries on the older meta were cast aside–for some reason, they didn’t matter. Even when something told him that they should.
“Hey,” Hotstreak said, crouching before him. His arm throbbed with pain–but even as it raced up his shoulder and spread throughout his body in its intensity, he felt himself able to concentrate on the blond. He’d had his share of pain throughout the years, and had the scars to prove it. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Richie murmured, wanting to reassure him.
“Then why you look like that? C’mere...what’s wrong with you?” Hotstreak asked him again, reaching out to brush Static’s jacket aside.
His roughened hands moved over the dried blood on his face–at his touch, even when Richie knew it should hurt, the blond felt the need to press into the warmth. No one mattered but him. If Hotstreak was touching him openly, if he were talking to him in that soft, caring tone, then it was obviously just them around. Because Hotstreak wasn’t this affectionate in public.
And things came to an upsetting turn as he reached for him, wanting to be comforted. Even as things shifted in ways that they shouldn’t within his mid-section, that his fingers tingled with painful intensity and refused to bend at his command, he found himself being pulled into a leaning position against Hotstreak’s chest, the older meta settling against the wall.
It was awkward, for him, using only one arm, but the older meta managed it. After much shifting, he had Richie between his outstretched legs, leaning against his front with his left side. With a low sigh of satisfaction, Richie relaxed against him, hearing the continuous beat of his heart against his head.
His eyelids shut tight, and he inhaled the sharp musk that he was familiar with, wanting to absorb...to be absorbed...
While he was aware that Hotstreak was talking to him, his roughened fingers sliding over his stomach, he once again lost touch with this present moment. He wanted to go back–but instead of random memories, he was focused on one night–when Hotstreak held him close, after a bout of sex, and told him about what he’d did that day. Nothing significant–just a day in which he’d accomplished nothing.
But Richie could feel that same relaxation, that groggy comfort he felt in just being with Hotstreak; just listening to his voice within the silence of the room; smelling his sweat and his body odors; feeling his body curled around his....it had been one of his better memories, mainly because it was something he was looking for at this moment. He wanted that same relaxation, that comfort, that security and satisfaction. He lost himself in the low drone of Hotstreak’s voice.
Static watched silently as he saw the meta pull Richie to him, the blond moving with a sort of pliancy against him–the action completely natural for them both, their bodies moving to fit against the others’.
He couldn’t accept that Hotstreak was gentle and caring–it was something out of his grasp. He’d never seen them together in this manner–he’d seen them last year, at school, while Richie tutored him; he’d seen them at the park. He hadn’t realized that Hotstreak was capable of being soft toward Richie; for Richie to respond to him so easily when he hadn’t with Static.
Staring at the two, he finally saw what his sister and Adam had seen–and it made him uncomfortable. Not because they were two males–but because all this time, he’d been so convinced that Hotstreak was just using him.
But if the meta was in it just for that, why was he being so tender with Richie? Holding onto him that way, examining his visible injuries with judging concern? Forcing himself in uncomfortable situations throughout the night for him?
He hated admitting he was wrong–but it was obvious he was wrong all this time about them.
That they were truly happy together.
And as his best friend continued to suffer quietly with his injuries, he realized that even though he was the one the blond had grown up with, had experienced all sorts of teenage drama with and weathered through various storms–he wasn’t the one that should be with him, right now. He had to stand down–and let Hotstreak in.
He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily as he forced himself to accept this decision. Even as his protective instincts kicked in, wanting to shove Hotstreak away from him to keep from hurting him even further–he was going to stay away and let them be.
He had considered flying Richie to the hospital–but he didn’t know the extent of his injuries. If he were moved....what if something happened? What if he didn’t make it from here to there? What if the shock of flying agitated his wounds? The smartest choice was to wait for the equipped medical helicopter. He was sure they had better ways of helping him. It took a lot to stick to that decision–he wanted to fly.
He forced himself to picture the paramedics that were on-board, their equipment. To keep himself from following through with the instinct.
“Talk to him, man,” he muttered, just loud enough for Hotstreak to hear. “He’s responding better to you than me. Keep him going.”
Hotstreak took in the battered features–noted that they weren’t as bad as they were when he’d found Richie that night...he shook his head, frowning as he ruffled Richie’s hair with affection.
“Here, I got used to not seein’ ya all beat up all th’ fuckin’ time,” he murmured. “Then here ya are again, all fucked up...dammit, Rich.”
He pulled Richie against him, trying to make it comfortable for the blond. His hand had gone over his stomach, where the blond’s hands were resting–and he’d felt the unnatural hardness there. He wasn’t a doctor, wasn’t experienced with related things–but he knew that was a bad sign. He checked over the bloodied t-shirt that were wrapped around his wrists, winced, and wrapped them back up.
He glanced apprehensively in Static’s direction, flushing at his loss of control over reining in his affections. But Static had his back to them, leaning against the wall–studiously ignoring them both. He lowered his head, self-consciously hiding his embarrassed features against Richie’s matted hair. It smelled of sweat, of blood, of Ivan–and his gut squeezed as he wondered if Ivan had hurt him any other way. His words, mocking and cruel, came back to him at that moment–but at least he had the satisfaction of seeing him burn.
“He’s gone, now,” Hotstreak said to him, keeping his voice low. “He won’t bother you again. After this is all over, ya can be normal, again. ‘K?”
“Is the light on, Francis?”
“The...the–whattaya talkin’ about? Yeah...” A glance at the overhead hall light assured Hotstreak that it was on. “Yeah, it’s on.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Richie muttered, his nose pressing against his neck, nuzzling his flesh. “But you deserve it for being so damn stubborn...”
“I–! Fine. I’ll let it go, just this once. Someone has to be the mature one here.”
Richie snorted, but he was annoyed that Hotstreak was saying that. “‘Mature one’...yeah, right. You’re three years older than me, but you always act like a brat. I act older than you!”
“But I’m the man of this–OW! Jesus! I’m sore right there, an’ what’d I tell ya about biting?”
“Don’t. Call. Me. A. Girl.”
“Right, right.” Hotstreak then chuckled, pressing his chin against Richie’s head, rubbing his cold arms. “At least ya ain’t shrieking. But yer nose is wrinklin’ again...”
“God...what is with you an’ my freakin’ nose?” Richie muttered, pressing said nose against Hotstreak’s shirt, as if trying to hide it.
Static had said just keep talking to him. It didn’t matter that he felt awkward and childish as he held Richie tightly against him, both happy and scared at the same time. It felt weird, knowing that he was badly hurt, not knowing where or how to fix it.
It scared him that Richie kept talking in that faint, faraway voice, as if he were ready to go to sleep at any moment. And maybe he was just tired–the sun was just starting to break over the mountains, casting its light into the building with an irritating brightness.
He’d been through a lot, Hotstreak had reasoned against the persistence of his intuition. He was exhausted. He’d feel better after some rest.
But it scared him. He didn’t want Richie to rest. Not until things were fixed.
His fingers clenched within matted, golden blond hair, and he growled lowly, “Don’t you go to sleep, dammit. You talk to me. You keep talking to me.”
“I don’t know anything,” Richie complained. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You...your parents, Rich. Did you–?”
“I–they won’t talk to me. You know why!”
“Then you don’t know...?” Hotstreak murmured, shaking his head. “You don’t need to know, now.”
Richie was staring blankly at the floor. In his mind’s eye, he could see Hotstreak crawling into his room that first time. That first time when things had shifted between them, when pretenses were hidden behind actions beyond their control. He shifted slightly, to address this.
“How’d you find me?” he asked, lost in the memory.
It was fitting for Hotstreak to take it how he heard it, having no idea what Richie was actually thinking. “Shiv told us where to go. He helped you. Wanted you to know that...wanted you ta know he was sorry. He...he died after tellin’ us.”
Richie thought of Shiv and that night. How Shiv and Theresa helped Ebon trap him. Was unsure if he felt satisfaction...or gratitude. At this moment, lying here within the security of Hotstreak’s arms–he felt gratitude. Shiv had defied Ivan, had gone against him. For feeling guilty over that night? It was hard to think of the Asian going against Ivan, but he had. And he’d died for it. Richie couldn’t hold those feelings of hostility and hate forever.
“Theresa felt the same way, Rich. She kept apologizin’, too. She died because that fucker knew she was talkin’ to me. They tried makin’ things right, for you.”
Thinking about that, about Theresa’s death and how happy he’d been that she got what she deserved made Richie feel guilty. He hadn’t known that. But he now realized how Hotstreak had found him, that night. It had to have been her. Both Theresa and Shiv had died for him. How could he continue to hate them?
The guilt he felt made his stomach hurt, and he winced. He felt lips against his temple, and his eyes closed slowly. He lost focus for that moment–lost in one of the many lectures Sean was giving about homework. Middle school. He remembered how awkward he’d felt in middle school–for being small, for not having money like everyone else–how Virgil had the biggest crush on a girl named Samantha.
Hotstreak glanced over at Static, seeing him leaning against the wall. There was the sound of rotors beating the air–faint wails of the siren. Finally. After things were done and gone, and they were finally showing up. It seemed unfair–but at the same time, satisfying. Because he got to get rid of Ivan; for things were finally coming to a close; for Richie to get medical attention.
He thought of the cops, and felt heavily reluctant to leave. He could find someone to help him out with his arm–which hung uselessly at his side. He didn’t think he’d get full use of it ever again. But it was okay–he still had his powers. He’d adjust.
He shifted, pulling Richie tight against him, unsure of when he’d be able to see him.
“I have to go,” he whispered, not wanting to let go. “I gotta get out of here, Rich. You gonna go to the hospital, okay? Maybe–maybe Rosa will be there. But–you–you make sure you heal. Cuz I’ll come back for you.”
“Francis has a girlfriend,” Richie sang quietly, a smile on his lips.
“...It ain’t like that.”
“Liar.”
“Jealous bitch–OW! Goddamn you...”
“I...I couldn’t find my parents,” Richie mumbled against his neck, kissing where he’d just bitten. “But...can you...let them know that I’m sorry?”
“For what? You don’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, not to them,” Hotstreak murmured. The sirens were louder–he was anxious to get moving, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of him. Not when he was talking like this.
“For...not being what they wanted. I disappointed them.”
“No, no...You didn’t. You don’t owe them that–”
“...Mr. H and Sharon...and Adam....tell them that they were like family to me. An’–an’ that I loved them like that.”
“...Why you talkin’ like this?” Hotstreak felt panic shoot through him. He looked over at Static, who was still trying to ignore them. He clutched Richie tightly to him, his fingers digging into the blond’s arms. “Stop talkin’ like that. You’re going to be fine.”
“And Virgil–”
“He’s right here. Hawkins, talk to him!” he then snapped, Static pushing away from the wall to look over. “He’s talkin’ funny.”
Hurrying over, Static dropped to his knees beside his best friend, reaching out to grab one of his cold hands. “Richie, the helicopter’s almost here, all right? You’re goin’ for a ride to the hospital–”
“–tell Virgil that–” Richie’s voice was breaking, his features screwing up with immense grief.
“I’m right here...”
“–I’m sorry, an’ that he was always like a brother to me...and I love him.”
“Me too, Rich. Me, too. You’re my bro...you’re freaking Hotstreak out, Rich. Don’t talk like that,” Static ordered, noting the panicked expression on the meta’s face.
“And Francis...”
“Rich, Goddamn it, I’m right here. I’m right here!”
“Tell Francis that I’m sorry I yelled at him. I would’ve stayed. I don’t regret anything. Tell him I love him. Tell him that I loved him very much,” Richie croaked, giving a choked sob.
“Quit talkin’ like that!” Hotstreak snapped, looking at Static in desperation.
“I’m sorry,” Richie suddenly cried, his face crumbling, tears escaping. “I wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t listen to anybody! I kept thinking I was doing the right thing! I don’t want to go!”
“Why’s he talkin’ like this?” Hotstreak cried, growing agitated. “We’re right here! You can’t leave me, this isn’t what we’re–you’re not going anywhere!”
“Francis–! I’m sorry!”
Static jerked himself to his feet, hearing the police coming into the building downstairs. He ran to the edge of the hall, hands at his mouth. He screamed out their position, willing them to work quick. Screamed out that it was safe, that they needed medical attention.
Hotstreak clutched Richie close, feeling the quiet intake and outtake of the blond’s breath against his neck. His arm was useless–he was trying to keep him propped, his other arm doing all the work–and it all surged forward, at that moment. Desperation led to negotiation.
“I can change, Rich,” he whispered fiercely. “I can change. I–if you live, I’ll change. I–I’ll do my time. I’ll–I’ll pay the consequences. I’ll wait. I can’t do this without you. I can’t–if you leave me, I’m comin’ after you to kick your ass...Goddammit, don’t you leave me. Don’t you leave me, Rich. Damn you, I’ll change–I promise! I’ll change–!”
Richie murmured something he couldn’t hear. Something that floated across his skin, a murmur of sound that he couldn’t tell the nature of. But it was also the last breath that he exhaled, slumping heavily against him. Hotstreak froze for that instant upon registering this–that no matter how still he was, he couldn’t feel any more of his breath against his neck. That a hundred and forty-five pounds had just settled dead weight against him.
Panic had him moving immediately.
“He’s not breathing! He stopped–! Sta–! Virgil! He’s not breathing!”
Static turned slowly–unsure of he’d heard right. With a numb sort of reaction, he saw that Hotstreak was laying Richie on the floor, on his back–and that his friend wasn’t breathing. For a moment, Static felt helpless, too stunned to move. That wasn’t his best friend there–that wasn’t his hated enemy fretting, panicking because he didn’t know what to do.
He blinked; once, twice–then surged forward. Landing at Richie’s other side, instructions of CPR coming immediately, he jerked off his mask, slipping off his gloves. Hotstreak was in the way; yelling at Richie to wake up, his hands flitting uselessly over Richie’s ashen skin, as if he were trying to wake up him by touching the right spot. Static pushed him away, numbly wondering if he should even attempt it–he didn’t know what sort of internal injuries Richie had. What if he made them worse?
The very thought of trying to save him, only to kill him, make Static hesitate.
“DO SOMETHING!” Hotstreak shouted at him, voice cracking. “DO SOMETHING!”
“Rich, c’mon, man, you’re making Hotstreak cry,” he muttered, determining that Richie wasn’t breathing. That there wasn’t a pulse.
He tipped the blond’s head back–chin up, palm on forehead–tip lower jaw down–squeeze nostrils shut–he fitted his mouth over his best friend’s and blew as strongly as he could. He could hear the oncoming presence of the police as they conducted their safety check, Lewis at the head; but he concentrated on performing two strong breaths, then shifting over–fingers searching out the sternum, down to the sharp point at the base; fingers interlacing, palm just above the point–to start compressing.
With concentrating force, he began putting his entire body weight into the thrust, trying to concentrate on his efforts. Hotstreak wasn’t moving, frozen in place even as the boys in blue burst around the corner, seeing what was happening.
Shouts filtered through the air, and while Static realized that they were calling for the medical team, shouts were being directed at Hotstreak.
“Neutral!” he screamed over them. “He’s neutral! I need paramedics! He’s not breathing!”
“Get the paramedics up here!” Lewis shouted, putting his gun away and rushing over. After an anxious glance at the meta standing nearby, he saw Static performing what he needed to, and joined in with the breathing factor. Grateful for the help, but growing panicked the more Richie failed to respond, Static continued the compresses after Lewis had performed the two breaths.
Amidst it all, Hotstreak stared in silence, his entire world centered on that still form. He didn’t register the cops, nor the way he had several guns trained on him. He was simply wishing for Richie to open his eyes, to sputter, to do something–his mind was racing, urgently. He didn’t want to lose him. But if he did...if Richie died...then what?
He had nothing before Richie. And when he had him, Richie was everything to him. He still was. If Richie left him...he had nothing. And there was no more point to life if Richie was gone.
The flight paramedics were on scene, and they took over where Lewis and Static had been. In a flurry of ordered movement, they were already assessing the damage and were working on resuscitating him as a stretcher was settled near him. The four worked in tandem, and before Hotstreak knew it, they were already strapping Richie onto the stretcher and taking off.
He took a few steps forward, as if moving after them, but Static stopped him with a hand over his chest. No...not Static...because he’d tossed off his mask to perform CPR. Blankly, Hotstreak faced him, looking at Virgil–the urgency to leave hit him, then. Richie was in the hands of those who knew how to take care of him. All he had to do was wait on the outcome.
The police were watching him.
When he realized that he was vulnerable, that they could take him down–he blinked himself back into focus. He needed to know if Richie was going to be okay. He couldn’t go to jail, now.
A step back, and several of the cops raised their weapons. Virgil glanced at him, then shook his head, stepping in front of him–much to everyone’s consternation.
“I know what I’m doing is wrong,” he said quietly. “But I can’t let you take him. Not yet.”
Lewis stared at Virgil with disbelief. He looked over at Hotstreak, whose expression told him that he was just as shocked as the rest of them for this interference.
“You can’t be serious...”
Virgil licked his lips. He felt everything that he stood for, everything that made him what he was, just take a flying leap. But he remained where he was standing. In all the chaos that had happened, he didn’t even realize he’d taken off his mask; that he was facing them as Virgil Hawkins.
He pivoted, to look at Hotstreak. “You promised,” he said lowly.
Hotstreak shifted his anxious glance from the guns to him. Then back. “Yeah.”
“Don’t you lie...”
Hotstreak’s face flushed in embarrassment as he darted another glance at those that heard. He took another step back...then another...until he finally turned and strode down the hall, to the stairway that he’d taken with Ivan minutes earlier.
“I don’t believe this!” one of the cops cried, moving as if he were going after him. “You’re letting him go?”
“I’m sorry,” Virgil apologized. “I truly am. But...he didn’t do anything wrong, tonight. In fact...if you’ll follow him that way...I’m pretty sure you’ll find Ivan Evans.”
Lewis’s eyes narrowed. “Ivan Evans is in prison, on death row.”
“No...he isn’t. I’ve seen him. You might wanna check in on the guy that’s supposed to be him. Shiv said his name’s Jerome.”
“...We just transported Gummer’s body to the morgue. He had some guy’s wallet on him. Someone by the name of Timmy Johnson? He had information in that wallet–possible phone numbers to all of Ivan’s contacts throughout Dakota.”
Virgil blinked, absorbing this information. He heard the helicopter lift off at that moment. Sent a prayer that his best friend would survive.
He thought of Lucille. “The girl in the hall...she was connected to the entire scheme.”
“She doesn’t have identification on her,” one of the cops said, looking annoyed as he faced the teen. “And we got several dead guys in the ballroom. One of them a former bang baby.”
“Who?”
“Used to be...the, uh, guy with the big feet.”
“Kangor,” Virgil murmured. He had thought the former meta had left Dakota. He hadn’t known that he was still around. Richie hadn’t mentioned seeing him.
“We’re going to have a look around–tonight’s been chaotic,” Lewis muttered. “Atop of it all, we’ve had more shoot-outs in the Projects, some councilman committed suicide, and some kids took a joyride in a school bus–and killed three people when it crashed.”
Hearing all this...said with annoyance and pointed exasperation, made Virgil feel as if he were slowly detaching himself from the situation. He heard Lewis continue on with various complaints and reports over the activity, but he had drifted off to another place.
He wanted to go somewhere where he wasn’t being pressured. Somewhere where he was happy again; with his friends, where everything was normal. He wasn’t a superhero, he wasn’t anything but Virgil Hawkins.
He thought of Lucille, the way she regretted not being able to be a ‘girl’. Not being ‘normal’.
And it hit him, then. Like a fist in the gut.
He looked up at Lewis. “I ain’t doin’ this, no more.”
Lewis paused in his tirade, blinking owlishly. “Huh?”
“I’m done. No more Static. I’m finished.”
“You...you can’t just–!”
“I can,” Virgil said quietly, shaking his head. “It was my decision to become Static. It’s my decision to stop being Static. I’m going to go home, Lewis. And then I’m going to the hospital to see if my best friend will make it. I can’t be Static anymore, not when I end up hurting more people than I do helping them...”
Lewis stared down at him in complete and utter surprise. While he was registering that Dakota’s superhero was throwing in the towel, he couldn’t rightly accept it.
He figured that he was throwing a teenage fit. Something that occurred whenever things grew too much. But the sincerity in Virgil’s eyes, the way his jaw set–he realized that he was, indeed, serious.
“Kid, you’re young, you don’t have training–!” he started, trying to make it work before Virgil held up a hand.
“I’m. Done. I need a normal life. I need to go to college. I need to grow up. Maybe one day–maybe one day I’ll change my mind. But for now...don’t count on me to come out. Don’t rely on me to help you. Cuz today was my last day on the job. If you have any questions regardin’ tonight’s activities–let me know. I’ll fill out a report.”
“You had a bad night...it’s understandable,” Lewis said quietly. “Go home...sleep. Maybe you’ll feel different about it later...”
Virgil stared at him in deference–then shook his head. “No...no, I’ll still feel the same. Good night, man. Good luck.”
“You–you can’t just leave–!”
But Virgil was already walking off, waving over his shoulder. Those that were listening to every word let him pass after anxious glances thrown Lewis’ way. Picking up his mask and goggles from the floor, Virgil quietly left the building.