A/N: These are too much fun to write.

In other news...

Don't ask where this came from.

Seriously, DON'T.

Really, I'm serious. In your reviews, DON'T ask where this idea came from. I won't tell you. because it's weird, and unexplainable, and too closely related to other things.

So don't ask. Just read. REAAAAAD.
And review, please. Because those are super nice, and I'm a feedback whore. ;D

Richie has the tendency to talk in his sleep.

He doesn't even know he does it, and I'm not about to tell him, because I like being the only person who knows this about him. It's my own little secret glimpse into the inner workings of the young genius Foley's mind.

Now, I didn't know about this tendency until a couple years ago, when he slept over and, for once, he was the first person to fall asleep. Since then, I've made sure to try and outdo him in the, 'who-can-stay-awake-the-longest?' department.

So far, I've only been up late enough to catch him talking about a dozen times. And each time it's more and more interesting, because his words (maybe due to his increasingly intelligent super-brain?) are becoming clearer and clearer. Before the Bang and his power development, the words were only scattered murmurs and mumbles, more like groans and grunts than actual phrases. But, over time, they slowly became clippits of dialogue, pieces of actual sentences.

And now, on our most recent sleepover, I'm pulling out of a dream and into awareness to hear more of Richie's sleep talk.

He's lying beside me on my bed, like he usually does. We share a bed, his house or mine, doesn't matter. It's easier at his house, since he has a full-sized mattress whereas I only have a twin-sized, but neither of us mind the closeness. We're best friends, so what's the big deal? Plenty of girls do the same thing at their slumber parties, I'm sure. Dunno about other guys, but then again, I don't know many other guys (from Dakota Union High, at least) who are as close to someone as Richie and I are. But whatever.

Point is, as I peek open my eyes, stirred from my dream, and glance over at Richie, I can hear his sleepy chatter a foot away from my ear. I blink, and roll onto my side, my elbow on my pillow with my hand propping up my head. I stare down at him a moment, listening.

It's so bizarre, the things he says sometimes. Once, he muttered something about a pink hippo trying to eat the coconuts he bought from Jack Sparrow. It had been, of 'course, on the night we stayed up to watch all three of the Pirates of the Caribbean films. And another time, he'd laughed softly to himself and slurred something about how the birds around him would stop flying so close because their feathers tickled.

Weird stuff like that, ya know? Things Richie dreams about, whether it's from a flying dream or one that's on crack. And I like hearing it, because somehow, it amuses me to no end.

But tonight it's different. There's a thin sheen on sweat on his forehead, lit up from the streetlamp light leaking in through the window above my bed. And Richie's normally lax brows are furrowed, and his lips are parted with his breath coming out in harsh little gasps. It must be a nightmare, I think.

But then I catch my name in the midst of the tiny grunts being made in his sleep talk. "Virgil…" he says, and there's surprise in his tone, clear even in the haze of dream-mode.

I blink, not sure what to make of that. It could be a nightmare about one of our fights; heaven knows we get into enough battles against hideous Bang Babies and other mutants to cause some pretty fierce imagery. I know I've had my fair share of nightmares in which Richie's hurt, or rather, his alter ego Gear is hurt, and I have to rush in as my alter ego to save him. Maybe Richie's dreaming of that sort of thing.

"Neh…" Richie sighs, and I lean back a bit. It doesn't sound like pain. It sounds like – but I cut the thought off as more murmurs escape his lips: "Why…? Please, don't want to ruin… Ah…"

He squirms a bit in his sleep, his fingers clenching the cover sheet over the mattress, and his brows lifting for a moment. I hear his feet shuffle under the blankets. He's lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me on the pillow, and it's a wonder that he isn't half falling off the bed.

I tense as more words spill from his mouth, words that bring the fuzzy thought to the front of my mind that maybe what Richie's dreaming of is the opposite of a nightmare. A pink tongue flicks out to lick his lips, and then he says, "Wha' 'bout Day-zee? Nh… I thought you… liked her…" He shifts again, his head nuzzling down into the pillow. I barely catch the next set of words, but what he says is unmistakable, even if they're muffled by the fabric and fluff of my extra pillow. Richie moans, "Love you too, V. But… nuh… stop… touching me there."

At this point, I know precisely what Richie's dreaming about. I quickly roll close to the wall on my other side, my shin falling out of the blankets to brace against the cool surface and brush a poster tacked there. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to sort out what to do.

Should I wake him? I mean, if I shake him awake and he sits up, his front facing me, I'm afraid to find out whether or not that dream is making the same physical changes to his body that it's doing to his tone of voice. Because I don't doubt it, now, that he's having a wet dream. What bothers me is, it's a wet dream about me. And what bothers me even more is if this is the first, and merely a one-time thing, or if it's happened before. And I shudder to think about how often it could've happened before.

Deciding not to risk soiled sheets (since Richie only ever sleeps in his boxers and a loose-fitting tee), I decide to risk it and wake up the blond.

Leaning over with my lip between my teeth, I hiss, "Rich. Hey, man, get up. Richie!"

With a few solid jerks to his shoulder, his head pops up and his eyes wrench open. "Huh? Wha'? Izzit trouble?"

I almost feel like laughing. Almost. "Yes, there's trouble at two a.m. in the morning, so get your Gear gear on." I tease sarcastically with a lame pun. I shake my head at him as he stares at me a second, his eyes going wider. "No, of 'course there isn't any trouble! But there might be if I didn't wake you up."

"Eh? Why?" the blond puzzles out around a yawn.

Does he honestly not remember what he was just dreaming about? I should be relieved, but at the same time, I'm still shaken up by the fact that my also male best friend was just fantasizing about me touching him inappropriately.

I smack my palm to my forehead. "Because… because, you looked like you were having a, er, disturbing dream, bro. I wanted to spare you the, uh, climax of it." Okay, so I was lying a little. But I was also dropping hints about the truth, in a subtle way. You had to give me props for that.

Richie seems to suddenly grasp the concept. His face turns beet red, even in the dim lighting. "Oh… oh. Look, Virg, I swear it wasn't what it looked like," he whispers.

"Mhm," I hum mildly, as if I don't know the details about who his dream featured. Even though I do, and I'm still trying to dizzily wrap my mind around the fact.

Richie must be more awake, now, because he starts talking a bit louder, less of a whisper and more of a mumble. "It totally wasn't anything… arousing. Really. It was a nightmare. A painful one, so if I groaned or anything, it was because of that, got it? And, um, I know I'm sweating, but in the dream I was running, see, so there's no reason to think –"

"Richie," I sigh, looking at him again, "You don't need to be so defensive. And you also don't need to lie. I don't think you're aware of it, but you, uh, talk in your sleep."

I can see him nervously swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I… talk?" he squeaks.

"Yes," I grind out, holding back my urge to laugh at the ludicrous situation. "And so I know, all too well, what you were dreaming of."

Richie pulls the most horrified and mortified expression I have ever seen on someone. Instead of blushing, the color drains from his face to make him paler than normal, and his eyes seem to bulge before he looks away, his attention on my clock or whatever else is on my end table. "'M sorry," he murmurs, a load of guilt piled on top of the two softly spoken words.

I sigh, running a hand through my dreads. "'S okay, Rich," I reply automatically. It's always okay, because no matter what he does, Richie is Richie but also Gear, and I'm me but also Static, so I can't stand to be without him. I have to reassure him after he apologizes for something, no matter what it is.

"No, it's not," he says hastily. He returns his blue gaze to me, and in the depths I sense something, but I'm not sure what it is. "Because I don't know how much filtered between what happened in the dream and what you heard."

"I heard enough," I say slowly, choosing my words to come out as gently as possible, "And although I'm too drowsy to form an opinion, I'm not mad or freaked out."

He gulps nervously again. "So… you know it was a gonna-be wet dream."

"Yeah."

"And you know it was about… er, you."

It's my turn to swallow uncomfortably. "Yup."

Richie keeps going. "And you know that means that… I'm gay?"

"Uh-huh."

He inhales sharply. "And you also know that I… kinda love you?"

I can only nod my head.

Richie falls face first into the pillow below him. "Great, that's just fucking great." He whines into the cotton, and I can't say I blame him for swearing, even though it's unusual for me to hear him utter that particular swear word. "'M sorry," he says again, lifting his head slightly and sliding out from under the blankets. "I'll sleep on the floor for the rest of the night."

Somehow, I don't like how empty it feels as he does this, nor how cold the absence of added body heat is. "You don't have to, Richie," I say calmly, my tone unrecognizable even to me. I pat the space beside me. "You can come back up here, if ya want."

He stares up at me questioningly. "What? Really?"

"Fer sure," I yawn. Something in my head insists that this is the right thing to do: be unfazed, welcoming, supportive. "I'm not wigged out, Rich, honest. A little confused, maybe, but not scarred for life. 'Sides, I know that you won't try anything; you're not the type to take advantage of people, least of all me," I say, and upon hearing it, I know it's true. "So get your ass back up here, and let's go back to sleep."

Richie beams up at me, and for some reason, the smile feels like a reward for a good deed. "'Kay," he mumbles as he climbs back into my bed and settles down next to me, both of us lying on our backs and staring up at the ceiling, the lengths of our biceps touching as we rest our folded hands on our torsos. Funny how we both slip into the same pose, almost as if we have the same brainwave pattern. Half the time, I think we do, mainly because we have the habit of saying what the other is thinking. But as it turns out, maybe Richie's been thinking a whole lot more that I could ever have the guts to say, or notice enough to comment on.

"If you heard part of what I was dreaming," Richie slurs suddenly, and I glance his way. His eyes are closed. "Then you'd know, too, that I don't want to ruin our friendship."

I solely heard the 'don't want to ruin' part, but now it makes sense. I nod. "Yeah, I heard that. And I'm glad you feel that way, Rich, 'cause I dunno if I could handle anything more than that right now."

His eyes pop open and he sends me a look. "V, you're not sayin' that you'd eventually want to…" He drifts off for a second, unsure of himself. "Be with me, are you?" he finishes.

I sigh, one of my hands coming up to rub the bridge of my nose wearily. "I dunno, Richie," I groan in confusion, "Maybe someday! I mean, thinking 'bout it, you're there for me and understand me better than anyone else ever could, but, like…" I fall short, not sure what it is I'm saying. I'm too tired; it's about three o' clock, now. "Look, do we have to talk about this now? I just want to sleep."

"No, we don't have to talk about this now," Richie says quietly, and I can feel the sheets bunching up as he clenches his hands into fists on top of his chest. "Later's fine. Just… don't forget."

"I won't," I relay curtly, my mind slipping back into the oblivion of sleep. "G'night, Rich."

He sounds satisfied. "G'night, V-man."

The last thing on my mind before I'm gone is the vague feeling of feathers dusting my jaw and skimming my arm, but it could be my imagination. Or it could be Richie's fingers gliding along my skin. Either way, I don't fight it, or the dream rising up to meet me.