Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Right Here ❯ Epilogue ( Chapter 28 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Right Here
Epilogue



He awoke to the gentle sway of a vehicle moving along a dirt road. Lifting his head from the seat, Richie could see the two orderlies sitting uncomfortably in the front seats of the van, both of them speaking anxiously amongst each other. He laid his head back down on the seat and watched the trees flutter by. While he was curious to know where he was going, he didn’t rightly care if he were being led to his death.

His hands were free, he noticed. He had trouble with his hands being tied, in the same manner he felt with his eyes being covered. The orderlies seemed to be working with him, instead of against him. He couldn’t help but reflect that they were rather kind in that aspect.

The van pulled to a stop, the brakes squealing just slightly. The vehicle rocked as the orderlies left their seats, and the side door was opened, Svenson revealing his strong bulk as he noticed that Richie was awake.

“C’mon out,” Svenson said quietly, moving away from the door.

Feeling that tilting whirl he was familiar with after being drugged in that manner, Richie sat up and crawled out from the van. They had arrived and parked before a one story cabin that was derelict, once a bait shop for a nearby fishing hole. He could still see Dakota in the distance, and could hear the comforting hum of boat engines on the lake. As Swark walked into the shop, Svenson followed after Richie, making the blond walk in front of him.

The shop was old, dusty–the counters still had various objects awaiting to be sold, and fishing rods hung on the walls. Stuffed fish decorated various areas, and it reeked of a musty wetness that was slightly comforting. He stood still when Svenson reached out to touch his arm, and both of them waited in silence.

He heard the drifting snatches of conversation that were impossible to hear clearly. Swark walked back into the front room, his face grimly set as he folded up a piece of paper.

“Let’s go,”he muttered to Svenson, who gave Richie an uncertain expression.

Richie watched them both leave with an expression of apathy, then looked up when he heard a set of footsteps coming his way. He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly tense as he awaited his fate.

When he saw Hotstreak emerge from the back room, looking decidedly thinner and haggard than he had the last time he saw him, he felt shock and disbelief shoot through his system, paralyzing him. For several long moments, he was stunned into silence, staring up at the older meta, feeling that indifference chased away by the warming heat of his anger.
Hotstreak stared down at him, taking in his appearance. Richie had grown a couple more inches, standing around five foot ten, but he was thinner than he’d ever seen him. His face was edged with a sickly pallor, dark circles surrounding his eyes in a seemingly gothic appearance; his brown eyes glazed with both drugs and depression. His glasses were no where to be found. His blond hair was limp and lifeless–not messy the way it had been back then. It was definitely longer, the ends trailing over the back of his neck and down to his jaw, but it was unsettling in that it was fashioned to try to hide his features. His face had been clear and smooth back then; now, it looked as if he hadn’t been able to shave, for scraggly blond hairs sprouted over his jaw line and upper lip. The hospital issued clothes–light gray t-shirt over blue lounge pants and socks–made him seem thinner and more frailer, deceptively creating a total stranger. But he could see Richie in there; somewhere, he knew the Richie that he’d grown to love and cherish was hiding within that burnt-out shell.

Richie took in the older male’s appearance, noting the baggy circles that made narrow eyes even darker, smaller; took in the rigid set of his mouth, the lack of distinguishing lower jaw hair; the dark brown color where it used to be red and bleached gold. The shape of his face was more broadcast, his cheeks almost sunken, his chin broader, his jawline much more sterner. His neck had lost most of its thickness, his shoulders having lost that broad width. His hair was longer, trailing over his face in messy appearance, a set of glasses shoved atop of his head. He was obviously thinner, as if he’d stopped working out and let himself go, muscles slowly edging away to reveal a slender frame he didn’t know existed in him. He was even dressed in clothes that weren’t his usual style; a pair of dark blue slacks with a tucked in button up shirt, the sleeves clinging tightly to his wrists. One would glance at him, not recognize him, and move on.

But the longer he stared, the more he began to recognize his features, making him familiar once more. As Hotstreak paused before him, his own eyes taking in Richie’s appearance, the blond felt all the anger he’d bottled up wash over him. All his yearning, his disappointment, his anger, betrayal, helplessness and vulnerability–everything surged up and throughout his body, and before he knew it, he was sending a fist against Hotstreak’s face, surprising the meta and himself.

“Fucking bastard,” Richie hissed, feeling that fury consume him. His hand hurt like mad, but the pain edged away from the consuming anger. He advanced, his other fist catching Hotstreak across his jaw. Wanting to inflict the pain that he’d felt over the past year and a half, he sent his other fist, painfully awkwardly, against his nose.

He wanted blood, wanted pain–blind to anything else, he just wanted to hurt him for all that he’d felt he’d been betrayed by. Hotstreak started to lift his hands to stop him, but lowered them with noticeable struggle to his sides, letting Richie hit him repeatedly.

His glasses fell to the floor, and crunched underneath the weight of someone’s foot–but Richie kept hitting him, cursing him repeatedly, using every name that he knew bothered the older meta. Hotstreak could see, from the viciously ugly expression on Richie’s face and from the force he was using to strike him with, that things weren’t going to be easy. But he felt he deserved this; felt that Richie had every right to be furious at him; so he stood as still as he could and took the physical fury that Richie was releasing on him.
“How dare you?” Richie finally spoke, panting heavily, visibly shaking with his rage. He hit Hotstreak’s chest, the dull thud painfully loud within the front room. “How dare you do this to me? Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Hotstreak felt the warm trickle of liquid dripping from his nose; he blinked away the wateriness he felt as the pain of impact slowly faded away. He reached up to wipe his nostrils with his thumb and index finger, looking away briefly as he searched his pockets for something to wipe his nose with.

Finding nothing, he resorted to unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and pressed the back of his wrist against his nose. It wasn’t bleeding that much–but this stanched the flow.

Sniffing, he composed himself quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking at the furious blond. He’d never seen him this angry, before. But he felt he deserved it. Punishment for making him feel abandoned and betrayed.

“You’re ‘sorry’? SORRY?” Richie repeated, shoving him hard. “Like THAT fixes anything!”

“Look, it was just–! I’m sorry. I–I had things...I had things I needed to do–!”

“Oh, and I just take your fuckin’ rap? FUCK YOU!”

Hotstreak stared down at him in silence, and winced when Richie hit him again.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head. “It wasn’t...I didn’t know they would do that. But you don’t know anythin’...I didn’t tell you shit. I didn’t show you anythin’. You don’t have enough evidence or whatever–”

“They think I’m lying! I lived with you for over four months! They think I’m covering for you! They don’t believe me–! Since you aren’t accepting responsibility, they’re making me take it. I’m taking the heat of your stupid actions! I went through so much, an’–an’ you just RUN AWAY!”

“How does it feel? Huh?”

Richie’s eyes widened with fury, and he leapt at him, his fingers digging into Hotstreak’s hair. He yanked his head forward, and then slammed it against the wall. With a low growl, Hotstreak reached up and pulled his hand off–in the end, he lost hair as Richie yanked. For a moment, the two struggled against each other, until Hotstreak managed to push him away.

“Was that a lesson?” Richie demanded furiously, reaching out to hit him again. “Because I made one stupid decision? DO YOU STILL HOLD THAT AGAINST ME? You fucking dick! You fucking CHILD! I LOST EVERYTHING THAT NIGHT! I LOST IT ALL!”

Hotstreak looked away from him, then snarled when Richie’s palm connected with his cheek. He grabbed his wrist, Richie lunging forward with his other arm and hitting him again. Hotstreak pushed him away, the blond losing his footing and falling onto the floor. Sweeping his hands through his hair, Hotstreak struggled for composure.

“Look, I can’t just...I’m sorry. I...I know I fucked up, ‘k? But...I...I had things I needed to do–”

“And I didn’t?” Richie exclaimed incredulously from the floor, his fingers digging into the tile. “I DIDN’T? So YOU LET ME TAKE YOUR PLACE? While you had ‘things to do’?”

“It’s not like that! I–I didn’t know they’d do that...I didn’t know you’d tell them that–!”

“I had no other CHOICE!

“You HAD to tell them about us?”

“I HAD TO TELL THEM EVERYTHING!”

“...You didn’t have to tell them about us!” Hotstreak growled, but it was a pointless argument. Something that would go no where. He looked away. “When that bullshit came out, everyone turned against me. Called me a faggot–I turned into nothing. Wit’ my fuckin’ busted arm, I’m fuckin’ nothin’, anymore. I don’t have anything. I lost it all. Talkin’ shit like that only made things worse.”

Richie’s eyes brightened with furious, hateful tears. “You think only of yourself? Even after all this time, you still think only of yourself? FUCK YOU! I fucking HATE YOU!”

Hotstreak stared at him in silence. Richie stared right back, his shoulders rigid and his expression set. For a few silent moments, Hotstreak let the words wash over him. Even though it hurt, earning that jab from someone that he’d grown to respect and cherish, he accepted its sincerity and the reason why they were directed at him.

Still, his chest felt tight, and he felt himself growing momentarily sick. He forced himself to look away, his lips pulling in between his teeth as he fought for balance. He turned away from him, feeling his shoulders slump. Running a hand through his darkened hair, he shook his head.

“That hurts, man,” he confessed quietly.

“...I don’t care.” Richie’s voice broke in the middle, but he punctuated the expression with another of his set glares.

For a few moments, Hotstreak was at a loss for what to do next. What to say. Or think.

He turned his back to Richie, feeling himself crumble from the inside. He fiddled with the fingers of his lame arm–it hadn’t completely healed. After that night, he’d gone to a man that had worked as a surgeon before his drinking habits took completely over. After much determination, he’d told Hotstreak that even though his arm would heal with proper care, he’d never regain full use of it.

He’d done what he could–but true to the former surgeon’s words, he couldn’t lift anything with it, nor completely grip things. As a result, his left arm had lost its thickness, and he’d lost a good majority of his confidence. Not used to feeling helpless and vulnerable, he’d gone through a grieving period, dealing with what he could when the story of his romance with Richie began circulating. At the loss of his own comforts, knowing that he had to ‘disappear’, he’d fallen into a depression.

All that had kept him afloat was his thoughts on Richie.

He struggled not to get angry–in all honesty, he felt too tired to be angry. The decision to keep his promise, to keep going even through everything was against him, had worn him down. He didn’t want to run, anymore. Didn’t want to keep hiding. He was ready to give up.

But to not have Richie’s support and love...it felt different, all of a sudden. It had been easier, knowing that Richie would love him–but at this point, with the blond declaring how much he hated him; the venom in his words and stare; that small confidence began to wilt away.

He had hoped that things would be different. That they could reassure each other and that he would have Richie’s love and support keeping him up as he spent his time in paying for his consequences.

He had wanted to spend some time with Richie before turning himself in–he admitted that this wasn’t the best plan, but there was no other way.

He had considered Richie’s anger–but hadn’t expected his hate.

Feeling at a loss for anything more to say or do, he glanced back at Richie, looking at the way the blond stared up at him with so much dislike. Hotstreak lowered his head and turned away once more, struggling to keep himself composed. Having nothing to say, he walked out of the room, heading into the back.

He stared at the floor, where he’d piled blankets and pillows for his bed for the last week, and the pile of clothing that he’d obtained over the last few months. His backpack, full of the damning evidence of what he’d known and done over the years (his ‘friends’ had turned their backs on him; he was taking them down with him), including the Composition notebook, and a shoebox that was full of the things he’d found on Richie from the newspaper was sitting nearby.

Swiping his hand through his hair again, he wandered away from it all, quietly walking over to the back of the room. The windows overlooked the mountains–in the distance, he could see Dakota’s sprawl.

He felt that sickening heaviness sweep over him once more–he had known what depression did to him. He was familiar with it–had grown reacquainted with it over the past year and a half. But he didn’t have alcohol or drugs to help him deal and hide from it–he had to face it head on.

Hearing Richie’s words ring throughout his thoughts, beating himself up belatedly for saying useless things, Hotstreak stared out the window and wondered if it were truly worth it, now.

Richie had survived, and had gone through levels of Hell. He would continue to recover–he’d have a home with the Hawkins’. He’d move on.

As for himself...he reached out to touch the window, his fingers settling over the pane. He had nothing. He didn’t have a future–he hadn’t passed high school; drugs and other illegal outlets had been his only means of getting around; he had no aim; he had years of criminal activity that had given him a reputation others had grown wary of. His friends had betrayed him–none of them would ever look at him the same, knowing that he’d had a sexual relationship with another male. No one would take him seriously–especially being who he was, with who he was with.

Hotstreak lowered his head, exhaling quietly–his hand made a squeaking noise as he let it drop from the glass. He had just wanted to spend time with him–but Richie’s anger prevented that. It didn’t look promising at all.

In a way, Hotstreak was happy to see him–just knowing that he was nearby was enough to quell that small part of him that had yearned for months to see, hear, talk and feel him. But the pain he felt from Richie’s hate seemed determined to silence that part of him.

As months of planning crumbled, his determination to change things around shifting into self-remorse, he felt himself slowly lower to the floor, sitting with uneasy stiffness against the hard tile. Dropping his head into his hands, he closed his eyes–then swept his good hand through his hair and paused in mid-action to clench the colored strands.

He had no idea how long he sat in that position–just took himself away from the pain and the hurt, the emptiness and desolation. He lost himself in happier memories–those of Richie, those of them together, of when things were okay.

He thought of his life on the streets, of the Big Bang; of Static, of Talon and the MetaBreed; he thought of everything before all of that. His abusive father, the mother that ran away...he thought of Montoya and her family. Thought of Richie’s, and Virgil’s.

He wished things were different–that things hadn’t gone this way.

Tears prickled at his eyelids, and he opened his eyes, staring at the wall, letting the excess moisture drip down his cheeks. He felt lost....alone...defeated. There was no point in continuing if he didn’t have Richie’s support–there was no point in turning himself in. He thought of his backpack–it had all the things law enforcement would need to convict himself and those involved with all previous jobs, including his own account from what had happened that night. A confession of his killing off Ivan. A letter he wrote to Richie a few months back, detailing all his love and yearning and promise for him; he’d planned to give it to him before leaving.

Something that he felt would have reassured Richie of his feelings. He’d wanted to send it, but he was afraid that it would be screened by those keeping Richie from him–he had felt bad for all the things Richie was enduring, but he had decided to tie things up. To let his arm heal so that he had a better chance of defending himself in prison.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t scared; his fear of going to prison, of experiencing all that awaited him there had kept him from turning himself in, as well. He was quite willing to fall back on his cowardly ways and just living on the run–but he couldn’t. No matter how many times he pumped himself up in following through with that action, he just couldn’t run away.

He lifted his head, his arm sore from being in that position that entire time. He’d heard Richie moving around earlier–he hadn’t heard anything else. Looking at the wall that separated them, he exhaled quietly.

Rising shakily from the floor, he rubbed his lame arm as he walked over to his things. Crouching, he opened his backpack, withdrawing the sleek 9mm Sig Saeur that he’d kept on himself–because he’d considered many things, and suicide had been one of them. A stand-off with police. To carry out his promise he’d made to Richie a long time ago–he even had a detailed plan in his notebook where he would have forced his way into the institution to him, to carry out their deaths so that they could rest in peace and togetherness.

But he hadn’t.

Because he’d been so sure that they’d make it.

He just hadn’t expected Richie to be so angry with him–he thought the blond would have understood. Would have forgiven him–he was selfish. He would admit that. But he thought Richie would just...understand...

He pulled the hammer back on the weapon, wincing at the loud setting it made upon the action. He rose from the backpack and walked back to the window. It would be better this way–with him out of the way, Richie would recover.

It was getting dark–he could see Dakota’s night lights light up the valley. The sun was setting just beyond the mountains, and he watched the fiery ball sink with majestic colors, the sky shifting shades as the brightness faded. He felt odd watching it–felt it paint his own picture. His own ending.

He exhaled heavily–his forehead touched the glass as he shifted to touch the pane once more, the gun clinking loudly against it. He closed his eyes–wished things were different. He felt the sun disappear–knew it in the darkness that touched his eyelids, in the cold that followed.

He wished he were able to touch Richie once last time–to have him love him the way he had before.

But it was too late–there was nothing to hold him back.

He opened his eyes, staring out at the darkness–at Dakota’s bright lights.

He pushed away from the window, and without hesitation, put the Sig’s barrel into his mouth, making sure to aim up, the butt of the weapon aligned with the ceiling. Staring up at the darkness of the ceiling, he hoped that Richie would one day forgive him.

He started applying force to the trigger–jerked the gun out of his mouth when he felt arms wrap around his waist.

“Take me with you,” he heard Richie whisper against his back.

Hotstreak lowered the weapon, turning in his arms. Feeling a surge of desperation, he wrapped his arms around Richie, holding him tightly–his fingers curled into his thin frame, and he inhaled deeply of his scent as if it were oxygen. Richie’s arms tightened around him, and Hotstreak heard himself give a low sound of untold emotion, trying to feel as much as he could of the shorter male.

He dropped the gun, the dull thunk sounding out sharply as it made connection with the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” he half wept into Richie’s neck, uncaring of what he sounded like. Of what he seemed. He just wanted him to know. “I’m so sorry...I fucked things up for you–I fucked things up...”

Richie just held him tightly. His fingers curled into the noticeably softer shoulders, noting the abrupt change of Hotstreak’s body compared to the last time he’d held onto him. He felt his own feelings surging to the surface–breaking up the anger, the betrayal–he could feel Hotstreak’s sincerity in his apology, could feel the way Hotstreak really felt for him. He couldn’t breathe–not with the crushing way he was being held–he merely tightened his grip, Hotstreak’s hair tickling his forehead–he was standing on his toes just to ensure his position against him.

For several silent minutes, the pair simply held onto each other–saying nothing, doing nothing more. The threat of suicide still clung to them–for that small period, Richie felt a sort of relieved, excited feeling in just having his life taken away; so that he wouldn’t have to deal with this continued pain, this overwhelming sense of loss and misdirection. He would let Hotstreak take his life, and they would be free.

He felt his eyes water–stinging with needed release. He curled his fingers through unfamiliar dark hair, feeling his chin tremble; he felt all his defenses and walls crumble as Hotstreak held him. All the anger that he’d felt for the male seemed to dissolve with almost painful intensity as he inhaled of his familiar scent; of the familiarity in the way he was being held; in the security that swept over him with being with him all over again. It was almost like oxygen, and he was gulping it in with a frantic intensity.

Hotstreak pulled his own wet face from Richie’s neck, pulling away slightly so that he could lift Richie’s chin with his good hand; he stared into the familiar face; he lowered his head to touch his wet lips, feeling them tremble underneath his. The kiss felt almost new all over again–jolting him with intensity. Richie’s hands moved from his hair, to curl over the back of his head, kissing him even as the tears continued to fall. Their lips melded and fell pliant with familiar rhythm; noses bumped, tongues touched and rediscovered territory. Oxygen became less of a priority as both lost themselves in the action.

Very soon, the need to be closer, to be reconnected, had them moving away from the window. Both assisted each other, between kisses, with the removal of clothing.

Hotstreak moved his hand, curling over Richie’s hips as he forced the blond to walk backward, toward the ‘bed’ on the floor.

Something came to him, then. In all the time they’d been together, he had been the one on top. The one doing the penetrating. He felt his entire face heat, an insecure level of uncertainty flooding through him–the decision came to him suddenly, and he closed his eyes briefly. If he didn’t...he wasn’t going to ever...it wouldn’t mean he was unmanly...who would know? To give himself up to the man he loved, to give him everything–that meant everything.

He gave himself a brief prayer in that Richie wouldn’t last that long. That it wouldn’t hurt. He tried ignoring the way those he’d taken had given expressed actions of discomfort, of complaint–of the first night when Richie had nearly cried that very first time. He almost took the decision back–almost.

He kissed Richie briefly, using his good arm to search underneath the various pillows for the supplies he’d hidden. He found the lube–paused in kissing to pull at his arm.

“Here,” he said gruffly against his lips. “Before I change my mind.”

“...what?” Richie’s voice was breathless as he clumsily followed with Hotstreak’s actions, straightening from the various blankets.

“Hurry up...before I change my mind.”

“You’re going to allow me to–!”

“Hurry up!”

Richie worked his mouth wordlessly, reaching up to swipe his hair out of his damp face. He took the lube, his eyes wide and a whole flood of uncertainty overtaking him as he watched Hotstreak grab an overstuffed pillow, placing it underneath his own hips. And a whole turmoil of emotions hit him, then: he had certainly fantasized and wished for this moment, when Hotstreak would allow him to take him. He contemplated their obvious height and weight differences; had found it exciting to think of himself taking this stubborn, proud man. He’d just never thought it would ever happen.

He was familiar with Hotstreak’s moods to know that if he didn’t hop right on something when the older male allowed it, he would be faced with the sudden change of mind. Hands shaking, he opened the lube, and dumped a heady amount onto his hand, quickly slicking his fingers.

Feeling his face flush with embarrassment and arousal, he set the tube aside, nervously searching out the formerly forbidden pucker. He was too embarrassed to look at what he was doing and into the face of his lover, so he settled on the dark dip of his naval as he found what he was looking for, his finger questing with an excited jab.

Hotstreak gave a muffled grumble, shifting his hips–a glance told Richie that his fingers were balled on the blankets, and he was just as embarrassed as he at the switch in positions. Feeling a little more confident as he realized just how tight this area was, knowing that he was the first to delve here, Richie licked his lips and worked on loosening him for his entry. Hotstreak tilted his head back, grimacing as he felt the blunt pressure of Richie's finger entering him. His first reaction was to kick at him, to get out of the uncomfortable setting---but he forced himself to stay where he was, cursing quietly once more as he felt himself tighten.

It's all right," Richie was whispering to him, giving a little chuckle. Hotstreak scowled, feeling his face redden with embarrassment as he wondered if Richie were thinking about their first time. He was going to kill him if he began referring back to that night. "You need to relax. I’ll do this gently. You’ll be used to it before I come in...."

"You little shit!"

Richie laughed out loud, withdrawing his fingers as Hotstreak shifted to punch him in the arm. "Ow! C'mon...I'm trying to be...nice."

"Get it over with. Stop playing around," Hotstreak huffed before settling back down.

Richie laughed again, leaning over him, his fingers once again working to loosen the ring of muscle that seemed determined to keep him out. He stretched himself out, to find his lover's lips, kissing him with an almost playful air. Not too happy with things at the current moment, Hotstreak was stubborn in responding. Richie started to giggle against his lips. Hotstreak merely pushed him away, his ass cheeks tightening as Richie inserted his middle finger, rimming the muscle with the back of it. It tickled, and it was a little pleasant---but he was still pouty over this, and refused to enjoy it too much. The slickness of the lube made it easy for Richie to pull and push his fingers in and out of the tight channel, growing to enjoy the switch between them. He then frowned, pushing his fingers in all the way to the third knuckle, looking for that one spot---

He found it moments later when he felt the larger body beneath him give a startled jerk, Hotstreak reaching out to push at his shoulders, forcing his fingers out from him. "Did it hurt? I'm sorry," he apologized, feeling a little disappointed in that he couldn't give him that pleasure.

"No...it didn't hurt...just felt...funny," Hotstreak muttered, feeling his face heat again. "Just hurry up, all right? Don't worry about that."

Richie nodded his head, still feeling disappointed---but he finished stretching him, using his other hand to slick lube onto his own cock, feeling a little nervous. More nervous, actually, as it took him some time to concentrate on staying hard enough to enter him. When he determined that he was ready to do this, he held on tightly to himself, guiding his cock into the loosened hole of his lover.

A few minutes later, he was swearing quietly, finding himself overwhelmed by the heated tightness his cock was embedded within. Hotstreak was swearing as well, giving him an angry look that was also embarrassed, making a pleasantly fond expression that Richie wanted to giggle at. But men did not giggle–he ducked his head, fully sheathing himself within the unexplored channel, marveling at the change of position and the feel.

He worked his hips awkwardly, enjoying the slick sensation the lube provided, the tight heat; muscles latched onto his length, squeezing him almost painfully. He gave a pleased exhale, enjoying the way he had to work just to enter again; shifting his hips, applying force in his thrust that made Hotstreak grunt with irritation, the older male shifting uncomfortably. It was entirely wonderful, to have their positions switched. He lowered his head to drop kisses on the tight chest, listening to Hotstreak's irritated grumbles, feeling the way his body struggled to adjust to the new invasion. The grip on his length was almost too painful to bare, and he stilled himself, panting slightly, his fingers caressing over the soft, tender skin on the inside of Hotstreak's thigh. Wanting to coax him into relaxing, he heard himself whisper endearments, shifting again, feeling hot flashes of pleasure race up and throughout his body.

Not really focused on giving pleasure just yet, just enjoying this new sensation, Richie straightened in his position, his free hand shifting from the floor to settle on his hip, fingers curling over bone. Moaning, he pulled out halfway, then thrust back in, Hotstreak cursing again at the discomfort. But he shifted again, reaching out to grip his softened member, to stroke it with his own learned and pleasing rhythm as Richie continued to thrust heatedly into him. There were some tingles of pleasure with the movement, but it was definitely something he was going to have to get used to. He was only playing with himself to feel better about the entire thing.

He watched the face of his lover, taking in the pleased features, the way his body moved above him. He started to relax, then, growing to enjoy the flushed features, the way his hair clung to his face as he began to grow damp with sweat. Richie was really enjoying the position, and even as he worked awkwardly, with a virgin's awkward movements and rushed, almost clumsy actions, his hands moved over Hotstreak's genitals, stroking him with the sort of firm gesture that Hotstreak liked. He removed his hand, reached out to grip Richie's hips, his fingers digging into the shifting joints, encouraging him to move closer to him. Richie shifted to comply, his hands falling over his chest, propping himself there, enabling Hotstreak to reach further back to curl his fingers over the blond's moving buttocks. He encouraged him to move fast, pulling at every thrust he made, his legs shifting outward so that Richie had more room.

Though his body felt certainly sore, full, and uncomfortably stretched in that area, the knowledge that Richie was enjoying this made things a little better. He reached up to pull Richie's face to his, feeling him adjust to the position, and took his lips, his tongue delving into his mouth. He felt Richie still, felt his cock twitch with impending orgasm, and shifted his own hips, rocking against him to encourage that. Richie moaned into his mouth, a delicious, appreciative moan that sent liquid heat throughout Hotstreak's body. He shifted to breathe heavily against his ear, rocking his hips once more, his fingers moving over his back, down to curl over his buttocks once more with encouraging squeezes. As Richie panted and moaned against him, hips shifting to start pumping again, Hotstreak felt relief flood through him as he realized it really wasn't that bad.

Richie kept losing himself in the euphoria and giddiness in that Hotstreak was willing to give up everything for him. All of it surged upon him in that instant; knowing that he was still needed, that he was still loved, that he was the only one for him; that despite it all, they would still be together.

He came suddenly with a choked cry, his entire body feeling as if it were releasing all the pent-up damage and past agony into his lover’s formerly virgin channel. He slumped forward, awkwardly, hearing Hotstreak grumble at the uncomfortable feeling that he was still experiencing underneath him.

Resting over his chest in an awkward position, Richie struggled for calmer breath, his fingers curling weakly into Hotstreak’s shoulders. He felt the older male shift, to reach between them–he gave a garbled exclamation at the forceful removal of his softening member from the older male’s body, roughened fingers giving a fond stroke before shifting to push him off.

Despite the rough treatment, Richie was pretty much content. He hadn’t realized how completely satisfying it would be to take someone–he was feeling quite pleased as he grinned lazily, Hotstreak shifting about with annoyed grumbles about how he had to take a shit.

OooooooooooO

Nearly forty minutes later, Richie awoke from his nap, blinking heavy eyelids open to find Hotstreak staring at him, softly stroking his temple–the one where the scars were. From the car accident on that night. It was extremely dark, and he felt his anxiety rise, his heart leap to his throat. He reached immediately for him, for the security of his warmth and presence. Hotstreak wrapped an arm around his shoulders, keeping him close–Richie exhaled loudly, content for the moment. He closed his eyes again, finding himself surprised that they were still naked.

For awhile, neither knew what to say to each other. They listened to the silence of the building, and to each other’s breathing. Strokes of skin from palms made slight rasping sounds; stomachs gurgled in protest. Richie shifted to trace the underside of Hotstreak’s arm, trying to place the reason in why it was so different from the other.

Memories from that night were limited–he’d been able to remember Shiv yelling as he raced to the Range Rover; remembered speaking to his parents in the marsh. He still didn’t remember much of what happened at the casino. Just had flashes of Ivan screaming at him. Things were still hazy, and there were so many spaces in-between where he just didn’t have any more memories to fill in the rest. Continued therapy proved slightly successful–but not entirely useful.

“What’s going to happen?” he asked quietly. He wondered where the Sig was.

Hotstreak shifted against him, wincing. His hand laid over the flat of his belly, fingers curling briefly with a light pinch. “I...don’t know.”

“...I hate this...”

“...What?”

“Everything.. .”

“Over there?”

“Yeah. And...I...I don’t like it.”

“...It’ll be over. Soon.”

Richie shifted again–hid his face in the crook of his neck. “You...you were goin’ to...”

“Yeah...cuz...you hated me. An’ I know I fucked up, I–but...there’s nothin’–I didn’t want to if you weren’t–”

“I hate what you did, yeah, but–stupid as it sounds–I don’t want you leavin’ me again. If...if you do, don’t...don’t leave me, ‘k?”

“You’d...you’d want to, too?”

“...There’s nothing for me, either.”

“...You have a future! You have everything–you’ve got the Hawkins’, you’ve got–!”

“Even if I finally get out, Francis–everyone knows who I am. That...that I was Gear. Do you know how many people will hate me? Try to–to retaliate...an’...and before I got my stupid powers, I was nothing. Just...just a stupid white boy with nothin’...an’ I don’t even have my parents, and V’s no longer Static...where–I can’t even think...God...this is so stupid...”

“What is?” Hotstreak immediately asked, beginning to feel offended as he shifted, propping himself onto his good arm.

“This. Everything. I–what are you going to do? Francis? Are you...are you going to...going to do it? Get the gun an’–?”

Hotstreak stared down at him silently. Considered his words, his scrunched expression. “What do you want to do, Rich?” he then asked quietly.

“...I don’t know...”

“...Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes. Even if you are a dick.”

“Why am I a dick?” the former redhead asked, nuzzling his neck, leaving a faint mark just below his right ear.

“You just are...”

“What do you want to do...?”

“...I just want to be with you...”

“Richie, before you–that night, I...I promised, that if ya lived? That I would change. That...that I would do what was right.”

Richie shifted, blinking as he reached up to hold onto his shoulder. “You...you did?”

“Yeah...I would...cuz...cuz I hadda do things right...”

For a few moments, Richie wasn’t sure if he could speak. He took in the earnest expression on Hotstreak’s face, the way dark eyes seemed to glow with intensity.

“Do you...do you still want to...?”

“Stupid as it sounds, I just...I can do it, Rich. If I know I...if I know I still have you.”

“This is...this is weird.”

“Why?”

“Just...I just never thought we’d be talking like this, Francis. Just...it’s just so weird. I don’t know what to think. Or–I feel good, but at the same time–kinda scared.”

“Why?”
“I dunno!” Richie shrugged again, propping himself with his two elbows, Hotstreak shifting over him, to lay his head against his lap, arms around his hips. Richie shifted again to touch his hair, running his fingers through the darkened strands. As he contemplated the darkness, feeling the greasy feel and the way he felt with this decision, he exhaled.

“I...I guess I was just preparing myself for...for making a real big decision, an’–and to hear THAT coming from you...it just–throws me off!”

Hotstreak’s arms tightened around him. He blew down at the hairs on Richie’s thigh. Heard his stomach gurgling in protest.

“I can do it, Rich,” he then said quietly. Uncharacteristically, he was nothing that everyone else knew him to be. He was a stranger. Even to himself. “But I can also do the other thing. I...I just wanna make things right. Wit’ you–fuckin’ A, I’m totally fuckin’ whipped.”

Richie had to laugh, bending to curl his arms around his head in an awkward hug. “So am I, Francis. This is weird for me. It’s like...when we’re together, nothing else matters. If...and when we’re together again, d’you think it’ll always be like this? Or will we have changed our minds?”

Hotstreak had to shrug. He lifted his head from his lap, to recapture his lips. Feeling desire race through him, heat racing to his groin. He took over, forcing Richie back down onto the floor, reaching down to stroke himself, coaxing the continuing hardness.

“No more talkin’,” he growled, using his lame arm to find the lube. “It’s your turn to be fucked.”

“No more talkin’,” Richie agreed, broad smile on his face as he shifted, opening his arms to him.

OooooooooooO


Sometime during the early morning hours, Richie woke with a start. For a moment, he felt smothered by the darkness that had him pinned within its power, but as he started to grow aware of the world, he heard Hotstreak’s familiar snores. Realized that he wasn’t pinned by the darkness, but by the thick right arm that was slung over his chest. He blinked, taking up a learned mantra that kept him from completely freaking out; focused intensely on the rise and fall of Hotstreak’s chest against him, his hot breath against his neck. Swallowing hard, Richie reach up cautiously to touch him; to be sure that it was him he was lying with. Familiarity came back to him, then; even if that anger had been dispersed, it still lingered deep within. He felt it flicking at his insides and at his thoughts as his fingertips traced over smooth skin.

Forgiveness wasn’t coming easily; how could it, after a year and a half of being hurt? It still tightened his throat and made his fingers clench tightly onto that pinning arm. Hotstreak shifted with a grunt, his arm leaving him as his face pulled away from Richie’s neck; but settled once more with his hand over the blond’s stomach, fingertips twitching briefly over the scars that lined the pale skin.
Richie stilled as he listened for the telltale rhythm that Hotstreak had in deep sleep, and when it finally came, tilted his head to look over at him once more. The darkness prevented much examination; he could barely see the outline of his shape.

He felt his stomach tighten with anger once more; how many nights had this man slept, peaceful and quiet, while he himself was locked in a room that had cameras monitoring his every move? How many meals had this man eaten while he himself sat at long tables with other patients, picking at food that revealed no taste due to the medication he had to take? This man wandered free for over a year and a half; while he suffered.

Anger was a welcome friend; it warmed him while his skin felt cold. Shifting restlessly, he winced at the soreness in his ass, at the strong leak that dripped with his movement. He stared up into the darkness, blinking when the need arose. Listening to Hotstreak’s breathing, he shifted his hands to curl over the former redhead’s wrist, kneading gently. His own wrists had the scars from the handcuffs and surgeries that had been performed; he hadn’t much control over his fingers as he had before that night.

There were a great many things he’d lost that night; this being one of them. Comfort and security. He felt himself drifting for a moment; once again losing touch with himself and finding himself lost in a blizzard of sounds, of colors and textures. These moments were what his therapist jokingly referred to as moments of ‘snow’; when he lost clear view of his reality and his memories struggled to place themselves back together. He wondered if he’d ever be normal again.

Moments like these lasted for seconds; for minutes; sometimes hours. He’d perform normally, but he’d have no memory of what he’d done. Blackouts, ‘snow’ , blizzards...

When he became aware of himself, he was not too startled to see that he was dressed. Not in his clothes, but a mixture of the garments he'd found on the floor and Hotstreak’s button down shirt. And he had the Sig in one hand, clumsily searching for the safety. The weight of the gun made him think of how Ivan had held his Glock, firing repeatedly over his head as men screamed and knives flew. He was lost in that moment, startled at the clarity as his stiff fingers found the hammer.

He released it, then locked it, getting used to the feel.

He’d lost so many things that night; his parents, his boyfriend, his friend, his identity...everything had been lost to him. Over a year and half later, he had a chance to regain some of it back. He thought of how assured Hotstreak had been when telling him his fantasy death; wouldn’t he be happy to know that things could end for them now? It would be easy; Richie was sure he wouldn’t feel a thing.

He crouched next to the older male, settling uneasily as he pointed the gun against Hotstreak’s head, blinking with that numb sense of detachment as he shifted his hands. Something went wrong, though, because it was at that moment that Hotstreak woke up.
“JESUS!” was his startled bellow, his good hand flicking up to knock the gun off-course. Richie had already applied force to the trigger, but the thing was–instead of disengaging the safety, he’d engaged it. He cursed quietly as Hotstreak shot to his feet, breathing in an agitated manner. “What the FUCK is WRONG WITH YOU?”

“Taking it all away,” Richie said lightly, finding the safety once more. In his currently panicked mind set, Hotstreak found it within him to move, to snatch the Sig from his hands before he could correctly apply the operation.

Hotstreak held the gun tightly, staring through the darkness at the blond. Still filled with terrified panic upon realizing how close to death he’d been, it took a few minutes to compose himself enough to address him. He exhaled tightly; struggled to remember the explanation that he’d been given on ‘disassociative traits’. Knew that Richie had lost his mind in all the chaos, that he wasn’t rightly himself.

He shook his head; ejected the clip, and made sure to eject the one loaded bullet.

“What are you doing?” Richie asked, his voice low and almost menacing. “Why are you doing that?”

“This...this isn’t right,” Hotstreak finally said, shaking his head. He was still naked; he felt awkward standing there, with the clip and bullet in one hand, facing against his somewhat demented lover. A complete stranger that wore the shell of someone he’d loved. What had shifted from a couple of hours ago, when Richie was laughing and talking to him normally, to this? It gave him an inkling of how changed Richie was. “No...we...we agreed.”

“I agreed to nothing. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“No...it’s hard, Rich, it’s hard. But we can–”

“Don’t you tell me what you don’t know! You don’t know what it’s like! Being–trapped in those walls, listening to their patronizing and condescending words–! Seeing them LOOK at you like you’re crazy; having absolutely NO ONE on your side–!” Richie covered his face with both hands, drew his fingers over his skin. “I can see why you don’t want to go to prison. I can see why you wanted suicide by cop. I figured I’d show you how much I forgive you with this.”

“No...no, that ain’t right. That ain’t right!” Hotstreak uttered, hearing his own voice break. He wasn’t sure how to proceed; talking to this male, hearing the words he spat; somehow, he knew he was the Richie that he’d grown to love, but somehow...hearing him speak this way made him an absolute stranger.

In another, he suddenly understood why Richie had been so panicked when he himself revealed his fantasy death.

Richie leaned back on his palms, crossing his ankles. Sullenly stared off into the darkness as he wondered what the difference was in their actions. He could hear Hotstreak shuffling about; heard the rustle of material, and the telltale clatter of the gun as it was hidden somewhere within the darkness.

He felt his arms around him, then; his face was pressed against a soft chest. Smelling all the familiarity of Hotstreak, once again comforted by his security, Richie had no choice but to relax in his arms, leaning up so that the older male could hold him. He felt the difference of his left and right arm–the lax hold he felt from that left hand. He shut his eyes and found himself drifting again; of being held for the first time, the conflicting feelings he’d felt that night so long ago in his room.

Hotstreak merely held him tightly, trying to sort out his confused and conflicted thoughts. They could do it; it’d be so easy. He could still avoid prison, Richie wouldn’t have to go back to the facility. They could be together, and nothing would separate them again. His arms tightened around the thin frame, and he ached for those times past when Richie felt more solid and firm; for those times when all they had to worry about was being discovered.

“Do you...do you want to...what I said, before?”

Richie considered his words, his hands moving into his hair. Hotstreak lifted his head, his dark gaze taking him in with awaiting contemplation. For a moment, neither moved, or said anything–just stared at each other, taking the other in.

Richie then shrugged slightly. He didn’t take his eyes from his–let the decision hang in the air.

“You have to be sure, Rich. You have ta be sure...”

Richie thought of the orderlies, the creme colored walls of the mental health facility. He thought about his mood swings and the moments where he lost identity with himself. He thought about how much of a stranger he felt with himself. But how warm he felt in his arms.

“I...I just want to be with you. I’m sure of that.”

“Me, too, baby. Me, too...” Hotstreak stared off into the darkness; wondered now if he could truly follow through with it. He was tired of all the running, of all the actions he’d done to get this far in life. And the thought was welcome in that he’d finally have peace. Both of them.

He wasn’t sure how long they had spent in this position; with him inhaling of Richie’s familiar scent, somewhat marred by their earlier activities and the drugs that still shifted within his system; the fingers of his right hand tracing over a raised scar at the back of Richie’s head, covered by the blond shag. But when he heard the telltale snores coming from the male, the way his muscles jerked as he let himself go to sleep, Hotstreak had to shift. It would be the coward’s way out; to just reload the Sig, fire once into Richie’s head and once into his own–it would be so easy.

But there was a reluctance in doing so; mostly, because he’d promised. He’d promised that he’d change things around. He could do it. He was so sure he could. But how the idea of easy release tempted him.

For Richie, as well. This Richie was strange and unfamiliar; he saw things more differently than he had before. Hotstreak had to think about prison; about how he’d feel once he’d served his time. Would that give him satisfaction? To pay for his crimes? To finally put it all behind him and go on the straight and narrow for good? Then he had to retract that thought with a snort. ‘Straight’...he didn’t think he’d look at females the same way. Not after this.

In a way, it prepared him for prison; it was shameful to think of what would happen there, of the hierarchy that it was composed of within. He knew he’d be eaten alive by the more hardened inmates; that despite his vulgarity and his own sense of strength, the others would pick and pick at him until there was nothing more to pick.

It scared him; to think about it scared him even more. It was right up there with his fear of hospitals.

He swallowed hard, shifting so that they were back down on the floor. He won’t go to sleep, this time. It had been too freaky to wake up, seeing that gun pointed at him. It was uncomfortable laying in the position that he was, but he interlaced his fingers, locking them behind Richie’s back. Succumbing to the familiarity of Richie’s snores, the way he drooled over his skin, Hotstreak continued to debate over their choices.

“Virgil wrote me a letter,” he whispered to the darkness, over Richie’s ear. Bringing him back to that night in his bedroom. “Told me how much he hated me. ‘S all right, though. I deserved it. I just... at that time, I was kinda...kinda lost, y’know? Didn’t know what to do. Kinda considered gettin’ out, but I...I couldn’t leave. Not wit’...you bein’ there. By yerself. Kinda...I wanna do right, Rich. I wanna correct all of it. An’ I don’t think...I don’t think shootin’ myself is the answer, huh? I mean...it just leaves so many things unanswered. An’...y’know me, Rich. I wanna do things right by you. You just...changed things for me. I wanna just...fix things. Set them right. An’ that ain’t gonna be done if I blow my head off. It wouldn’t be right. It’d be like...nothin’.

“Rich, I don’t wanna die. Not yet. Not until things are fixed.” Hotstreak stared off in the darkness; shifted as he felt his left arm falling asleep. But kept his arms wrapped tightly around the blond’s waist. “An’...an’ I know you hate it, baby, but after all that? I think...I think it’s better for you to be there. To get better. I mean...it sucks, an’ it must hurt an’ all, but...both of us, we need to be fixed. Me an’ you, we got all busted up. We need this to get better. We need it to get better...”

His only reply from the blond was a lengthy snore. He chuckled lightly, maneuvering so that he could kiss his temple. Smoothed his fingers briefly through his hair, sweeping through the slightly greasy strands.

“Please don’t hate me too much, man. Don’t hate me. I wanna do right...I wanna do right...that’s my decision, babe. We ain’t gonna do it. We’re going to get better. We can do a lot of things, Rich. A lot of it. After I get out, we’ll, like...do stuff. Y’know? Hopefully, by that time, you ain’t all fucked up. Please don’t hate me, Richie. Please don’t hate me...just know that I love you enough to want to fix things. Okay? ...Okay? Rich? You hear me?”

“Shaddup, all ready...” the blond murmured grumpily, still lost in the throes of sleep. “Get off me.”

Hotstreak kissed him again with a light chuckle, shifting to touch his lips against his. Felt suddenly depleted as he pulled Richie tightly to him, exhaling heavily as he found himself thinking over his decisions. Found himself growing comforted as one of Richie’s arms moved around his waist, holding him close with the same familiarity he had before that night. He shifted his head, lightly kissing on his neck...suckling enough to leave marks, then proceeded to wake him up to make love.

OooooooooooO

When the morning finally arrived, they were watching the sun rise, both of them covered in blankets. Sitting outside on the porch, in silence, both of them were lost in their own thoughts. Hair mussed, visible marks on their necks, bodies sore and exhausted–both were content and yet torn at the same time.

A decision had been made–both were tentative to see how things would work. Both were anxious, unsure–but things had finally come to an end. Richie hadn’t liked the idea; had displayed his dislike of the idea with vehement pleas and threats until he grew exhausted by his own actions. Reluctantly agreed only because the more Hotstreak quietly told him his reasons, the more they made sense.

In his blanket, Hotstreak shifted, looking over at his partner. Richie looked over at him, reached out to tuck loose strands of hair from his face. Their eyes held each other’s for a few silent moments, until material was shrugged aside so that they could wrap their arms around each other.

Richie closed his eyes, inhaling deeply of his lover’s scent. Hotstreak held onto him tightly, nuzzling his hair, smelling the same things–then stared off into the distance, listening to the early morning music as the sun started to warm up everything it touched.

He felt wetness against his chest; automatically winced as he shifted to kiss his forehead, feeling his own eyes water.

“Fuckin’ girl,” he muttered shakily, feeling a hard pinch on the inside of his thigh.

Richie pulled away, not bothering to wipe his eyes as he frowned at him. But he shifted the frown into a smile, and wiped at Hotstreak’s eyes.

“You butchy bitch,” he said with a teasing chuckle, the pair of them pulling each other close.
Hotstreak laughed softly, holding him tightly. He kissed his forehead again, then his lips, tasting his familiar flavor, the thickened staleness of uncleaned teeth. He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, Richie shifting against him to murmur “I love you” and other words of endearments. The two merely held onto each other, and waited.

Nearly five hours later, the pair stood side by side; dressed and staring anxiously out the window where the dirt road led up to the building. Richie reached out to hold his hand, feeling utterly torn as he swallowed hard. He looked up at Hotstreak, who was very anxious, his face reflecting his discomfort and apprehension. When the older male looked down at him, he tried for a smile, but it turned into a grim line of dread.

Richie couldn’t help but feel his eyes fill with more tears, and Hotstreak gave him a scowl, reaching up to rub roughly at them.

“Stop that. It’s annoying me.”

“...How long do you think...?”

“I...dunno. A long time. Twenty, thirty...I don’t know.”

“Do you think...do you think they’d let me see you? Can we talk?”

“...I...I hope so.”

“We can still...do other things. We can still...get away...I’d rather we just went away, Francis. I don’t want to do this.”

Hotstreak took the suggestion; turned his head to look down at the backpack. All full of damning evidence. He remembered that night; he still woke up feeling Ivan’s skin melting around his hand. But he remembered how lost and scared he was when Richie died in his arms.

“No,” he negated softly, shaking his head. “I promised you...”

“You don’t have to–you don’t have to do things if you don’t feel comfortable–! I don’t feel comfortable–!”

“I promised you. I haven’t done much right in my life...but I can do this.”

Richie wiped his nose with the back of his hand; then used his shirt to wipe his eyes. His fingers tightened on Hotstreak’s hand when they both heard the ominous sound of tires on dirt. Both of them looked up to see a line of Dakota PD vehicles coming up the drive, along with a metahuman containment unit that looked as if it had been hastily thrown together.

“I’ll wait for you...’k?”

“No. Just...I’mina be gone for a long time, Rich,” Hotstreak insisted. He gave a tight shrug as they heard the units pull to cautious stops outside the building. He resisted the urge to draw Richie close to him, the way he had been doing the entire night. He was still anxious displaying himself so openly to those outside the relationship.

At seeing Richie’s confused expression, he dropped his hand. Yearned to hold it tightly, but repressed it upon seeing the wary policemen climbing out of their vehicles. Both could hear weapons being drawn, and Richie saw his therapist emerging from one of the vehicles.

For a moment, he wondered if this was all a ploy–if Hotstreak was simply distracting him, lulling him into security while he pulled off his fantasy death. He couldn’t remember where Hotstreak had put the gun. In a way, at this moment, the thought was exciting. And he hoped for it.

“Move on...do other things. Go to school...” Hotstreak envisioned all the things he could see Richie doing. Succeeding where he could not. And he didn’t resent him for it–merely proud.

“I can’t leave Dakota, knowing you’re here–!”

“Don’t be stupid, Richie!” Hotstreak hissed at him, unable to deny the way he felt at being unable to interact with him for so many years. They had both come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t receive the death penalty for any reason–he just had to serve.

They just had to wait.

“Do things! Go to college! Get out of here, for awhile...do stuff. An’ be with other people. I don’t want–I don’t want to hold you down. Do things...I’ll always be here. I ain’t going anywhere... Just... do things. I won’t be pissed, nor will I resent it. I just want you to live. All right?”

“I...I can’t.” Richie was appalled at the things coming from his lover’s mouth. He was starting to think that Hotstreak should join him at the facility. Opening ordering him to see other people? To do things...without him?

“Don’t give me that bullshit.” Hotstreak slapped his cheek lightly, but couldn’t draw his hand away. Even as Lewis’s familiar bulk became visible just outside the line of vehicles, drawing a megaphone from his unmarked vehicle. Richie clung to his shirt, his face crumbling before he managed to get a hold of himself. “Just do things. Okay? An’–an’ write to me.”

“I’m proud of you, Francis. I know you can do it. I know you can. When you’re done, we can be left alone, and we can do things, without having to hide. An’–I love you.”

“Just be careful out there, baby. Love you, too. Just be careful, an’–just let me know you’re still there.”

Richie rose to hug him fiercely, Hotstreak returning the action.

“I love you...”

“I love you, too. I love you, too...”

Lewis called their names impatiently, everyone waiting for something. Far too soon, Hotstreak let go of Richie, and pushed away from him. Staring quietly at the sight of Richie staring back at him, he gave a crooked smile, and turned to the doorway, raising his hands to indicate that he was unarmed.

Richie watched anxiously as everyone readied themselves for any sort of conflict, and the tense situation rendered him paralyzed as he watched Hotstreak appear to them.

Lewis eyed him with undecided suspicion, then began barking out orders that Hotstreak followed without word or conflict. Once the pair of specially made cuffs were locked over his hands, Hotstreak glanced over his shoulder at Richie. Then he turned, and allowed himself to be taken away.

Richie emerged from the building last, carrying the backpack, hands raised. He didn’t take his eyes away from the containment unit that Hotstreak was being loaded into, even as the officer roughly twisted his arms behind his back and proceeded to handcuff him, monotonously reciting his Miranda Rights.

Even as he felt like he was being torn in half with knowing that he was being separated from Hotstreak once again, he felt the warm pricks of hope and pride well up within him.

For Hotstreak was doing the right thing. For, after all his actions were paid for, they would be together again. And nothing could keep them apart. They were normal, now. Not superhero and villain; they didn’t have vengeful enemies that had enough power to manipulate them. They could just settle down...be together...and just be happy.

All they had to do was wait.