Mixed

Disclaimers: Static Shock belongs to the WB and Dwayne McDuffie and Co.

Summary: Richie has a plan… but maybe he's overthinking it a bit too much? Featuring Pretentious!BusinessSavvy!Richie and Oblivious!Earnest!Virgil. VR.

A/N: Part 1 of 2 (+epilogue). Originally titled "Gatorade," this is about what happens when Richie gets serious about the competition. I wanted to take a break from writing Disambiguation, and write something a little fluffier and less serious. Characters might be really, stereotypically IC (lovestruck!Richie x oblivious!Virgil, etc.) but this was definitely fun to write (especially Richie's spastic, tangential thought processes). I have some illustrations for this that will go up at some point on my Deviantart (.com). *shameless self-plug* Leave a note if you like it or if you hate it; any comments and feedback are (reallyreallyreally) appreciated! 3s

Radishface

*

It was a warm spring afternoon when Richie was hanging around the snack machine after school on Friday. He was chatting with Virgil and Frieda when Daisy came up to them and started rambling on about some new science/food/home economics project she was working on. Virgil and Frieda listened with interest, and Richie didn't want to be rude (even though the subject matter was pretty banal), and so they sat there and listened as Daisy explained some organic chemistry concepts to them that were, oh, Richie supposed, college junior level stuff. Not bad, Daisy, he mentally patted her on the back. Not bad at all.

And then Virgil said something—"Daisy, that's really cool," or something equally stupid and contrived, because how the hell would Virgil know anything about what Daisy was talking about? Obviously he was just trying to impress/placate her and that twanged a nerve. Richie could feel his face start to pull itself into an unpleasant expression, and quickly slammed down on the urge to grimace before his lip could sink any lower.

"Thanks, Virgil!" Daisy chirped. "It was just an idea that I had, really. I mean, I make tea all the time at home, all home-brewed and stuff. My mom thinks I should open shop, but I tell her I'm still working on the perfect formula and when I get it right, I'm going to patent it and make loads of money."

To hell with your tea parties, Richie's lip curled up now, just shy of being sucked into his right nostril. He found himself speaking, his voice hovering dangerously on the tightrope between sarcasm and outright disdain,

"I dunno, Daisy. It's a really hard market to break into. I mean, you think that with new "organic" drinks coming out almost every day, corporate drink manufacturers have already gotten the upper hand in the sustainable beverages trend— it'll be especially difficult for independent labels to break through, especially when all the niche markets are already cornered by competitive firms, each vying for scarce consumer bases."

Virgil blinked, Frieda gave him a disappointed look that said, oh, now you've done it, and all the color went out of Daisy's face as she murmured, in a soft voice and puppy dog's eyes, "oh well, it was just an idea."

Richie started to feel a tiny bit of remorse, Frieda trying to laugh it off, and then Virgil understood what Richie had just said, brain finally caught up when he gave Richie a baleful look. "Come on, man."

And so Richie did. Instantaneously. Regrettably. "But Daisy," he said, his tone ten times brighter and a hundred times more smiley, "if you don't mind telling me more about it, I think this is a project that I'd really like to help you with! I've been developing a new line of drinks myself, for various purposes, and I've been looking for the right person with business saavy—" it took all of Richie's restraint not to wink and point like some sleazy used car salesman, "to help me market the drink."

"But—" Daisy protested.

"I think it'll be a really great venture," Richie continued, his tone twenty times brighter and three hundred times more smiley, "if we partner up together. Your natural flavors and organic cane sugar extracts and handpicked tea leaves fused with the raw masculine power of citric acid, sodium citrate, monopotassium phosphate, and food coloring! I hear that blue food coloring actually helps to heal spinal cord injuries, so we should definitely have a big line of blue drinks!"

"But—" Daisy protested.

"All right, so maybe no food coloring. I get it, it's supposed to be all-natural, right? But I'm sure we can add some vitamin A, B, C, D, and E extract to make it even more, well, nutritious. So then it'll be nutritious as well as all-natural. Of course, since we have no food coloring, everything will be brown—which just means that we'll have to wrap the whole bottle in packaging! No big deal. I mean, the success is in a lot more than the mix."

"Uh," Daisy burbled.

"Sold!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Virgil shaking his head, covering his mouth with one hand.

The other boy was smiling—secretively, covertly. And then they locked eyes, and Virgil smiled at Richie, laughing at him and with him, and Richie could hear it even though it was unsaid—you're so ridiculous.

And that, of course, sold everything to Richie.

"All right," Richie enthused. "I'm going to prepare a formula by tomorrow that should combine well with anything tea-oriented you throw at me. Meet me at the Burger Fool and we'll concoct the next Vitamin Water, the next Powerade, the next Coca-Cola. But healthier. Sustainable! Organic!"

Daisy had no choice but to accept, when confronted with Richie's awesome powers of persuasion. "All right," she said, a tone of reluctance in her voice, a tone of what the fuck is wrong with you, I was just trying to impress Virgil with my sciencey sort of woman power and you totally just cockblocked me in her voice. "I'll, um, bring a thermos tomorrow."

But Richie could hardly care about Daisy's reluctance or her what the fuck was wrong with him, she was just trying to impress Virgil with her sciencey sort of woman power and he just totally cockblocked her attitude, because Virgil was hunched over, laughing now, barely even trying to conceal it, and even Frieda was cracking a smile, too. And Richie and Virgil looked at each other again, and both of them burst out laughing at the same time.

*

That weekend, Richie locked himself up in the gas station, only coming out for food and patrol. The rest of the time he was "spending the night at Virgil's." Or afternoon. Or morning. (Really, all the time.) In truth, Richie was enduring two very sleepless nights of perfecting the Ultimate Organic Sustainable Rehydrating Replenishing Electrolyzing Super Delicious Drink Formula. It would only take a drop of Daisy's tea to complete… which was just Richie's nice way of saying that Daisy's fluffy homemade warm and fuzzy feeling tea didn't even begin to factor into the hard, right angled edges of his complex and complicated biochemical equations that were currently sprawled across ten blackboards in precise, measured white chalk.

"Dude," Virgil said, wiping the sweat off his brow after his workout on Saturday afternoon, dressed in his gym clothes with the shorts hanging off his hips just so and his T-shirt soaked to the brim right around the neck and armpits and his neck all shiny with sweat and the hint of a clavicle exposed as he sat down next to Richie (and you know, thought Richie, it was really amazing how much sensory input his brain could handle without exploding) "you don't need to do this."

Richie sniffled, partly due to the insult to his dignity, partly to smell what Virgil smelled like when he was sweaty. "Virg," he said, and because he couldn't think of anything else to say, his mind a little overwhelmed from all the organic chemistry and regular chemistry and everything in between, and because Virgil was gleaming with sweat and his chest was still heaving up and down as he was catching his breath, his pectorals clearly outlined through his soaked T-shirt, his biceps straining under the wrap of the T-shirt sleeves, dark and firm, veins running from the bicep through the crease of the elbow and down the forearm in just the right way, betraying a subtle strength—

And then Virgil raised the hem of his T-shirt and wiped his forehead with it, and Richie's eyes widened and his throat constricted a little bit more when he saw the—six? No, eight? He couldn't tell from this angle, he needed a closer look—no, that would be a bad idea—he pulled himself back from a nearly inexcusable social faux pas, and settled for admiring—no! that was too biased of a word—observing, because observing was so casually scientific—observing Virgil's abs and his pecs and his clavicles and his biceps and his muscles and all that glorious sweat, and all Richie could say was,

"Virg, you reek. Go take a shower."

"You're such a workaholic, dude." Virgil grinned, and lifted one arm to smell at his armpit. "Eugh," he made a face. "But you're right."

"Of course," Richie sniffed, partly because he knew he'd be right, and partly, well, because.

"Well, I'm gonna head home, take a shower, and I'll—" Virgil gave him a worried glance. "You want me to bring you some dinner, or something?"

Richie waved his hand dismissively even as he chanted with glee inside, Virgil wants to bring me dinner! That's so… domestic? Observant! How very observant of him!

"Don't worry about it, Virgil. Just get your butt out of here." And, Richie craned his neck a little to admire the view as Virgil stood up, what a nice, firm…

"Rich?"

Richie's head shot up, and then he assumed his best nonchalant expression. "Yeah?"

"You know, I'm glad you're working on this project with Daisy and all, but…" Virgil scratched his head. "But what prompted you to do it? I'd never heard you talk about this …drink formula… before Friday."

Richie gave Virgil the most irritated look he could muster. "It's been a formula that I've actually been working on for Static."

Virgil raised an eyebrow, but looked pleased. "Really?"

"Yeah. It should be able to give you something of an energy boost during battle, and there are enough electrolytes in this thing to give you enough to charge for a couple of 250 volt shots or one big 450 volt shock. It's not much, but it'll buy you time and energy, if you're running low on either."

"Not to burst your bubble, but it's not like I can carry around a water bottle with me to battle."

"Gee, Virgil," Richie's voice dripped with sarcasm, "that's why I've been trying ever so hard to reduce it to a capsule form. Plus, if this thing actually has commercial viability, it'll just mean more capital for me to begin some other projects."

"They won't taste like vitamins, will they?" The other boy made a face. "The last thing I need is the aftertaste of vitamin C in my mouth. You know that lasts with you for the whole day. I don't need that kind of distraction interfering with my game—"

Richie threw a microscope at Virgil's head.

*

Operation Goodwater, as Richie had termed it in his head, was progressing well. He'd made a breakthrough in his formula the other day and had just filed his discovery with the patent office. One well-placed phone call later and Wayne Industries was providing enough funding to take care of all logistics and supply chain operations. Bruce had offered to help with the marketing, but Richie was already three steps ahead of him.

And it started here, at the Burger Fool, where Richie was apologizing for his boorish behavior over milkshakes and fries.

"I'm sorry about chucking the microscope at you the other day," Richie apologized for the upteenth time even as Virgil did his best to guilt trip him into oblivion with those chocolate brown puppy dog eyes, lower lip quiver, and the very obvious bruising and swelling on his forehead that he hadn't bothered to patch up. "But you realize it was all done in the spirit of progress."

"Progress my ass," Virgil mumbled and winced, for dramatic effect. "If you wanted to keep working, you could have just told me to leave!"

"I would have missed you too much," Richie said mildly. "It was better to have you passed out on the floor."

"You know the only reason you hit me was because I let you," Virgil sat up a little straighter. "I would have been on my guard if I hadn't trusted you."

Richie sat back in the plastic booth, exuding confidence out of every pore. "Which is why I've brought you here today." He leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I need you to trust me, Virgil."

The other boy looked thoroughly confused. "What… what do you mean?"

"Operation Goodwater is making headway and the product will be ready to launch within the next two weeks." Richie was so close to rubbing his hands together in abject glee, but he thought that it might have looked a little too mad-scientisty, and he didn't want to appear campy.

Virgil brightened immediately, head injury forgotten. "That's great, Rich! Does Daisy know?"

Richie scowled. "It really doesn't matter if Daisy knows or not. I've already sent in the patent and there's nothing she can do at this point."

"But wasn't it her idea?"

"I put her name down in the contributors and "special thanks" section of the proposal," Richie said, inspecting his fingernails. Yes, they looked fine. "Look, Virg, I didn't bring you here to talk about Daisy."

Virgil looked slightly nonplussed, as if he'd be fine talking about Daisy all day if he needed to. Richie fumed silently, and then counted to ten, storing those emotions for later, when he'd need them. That's right—he was going to test his new explosives in the junkyard later in the afternoon. Perfect time to let loose a little bit of... jealous? Deserved. Deserved rage.

But for now, it was all business. "This drink is going to make you a superstar. Now—" he put a finger on Virgil's lips, effectively shushing him, "the drink is—"

"What's it even called? And what do I have to do with it?" Virgil was mumbling through Richie's fingers on his lips, and Richie tried not to let it affect him too much. He continued,

"It's aimed toward the urban demographic, males aged 14-24. Right now the big firms have that market cornered and there's been no competition for years. Bruce agreed that now's the time—"

"Wait a minute. Bruce is in on this too?"

Richie rolled his eyes. "Bruce has been buying out drink labels for the past decade now. Have you not been paying any attention to Wayne Industries' acquisition history?"

Virgil's long, blank stare indicated that that was the last possible thing on his mind. Richie sighed dramatically.

"'Stat2O is going to be the latest in the line of beverages that Wayne Industries is sponsoring. Bruce offered to take control of the finances and the logistics, but I wanted to lead our marketing campaign. And you are going to be the face of Stat2O."

"You mean," Virgil looked apprehensive. "It's even named after me?"

"Yes, so obviously we need Static to endorse the drink. I've already got the photographers, makeup people, and location lined up for the weekend. We'll have to fly down to the coast as soon as school lets out on Friday."

"Actually, Rich—" Virgil looked out the window and bit his lip. "I already promised Daisy I'd help her with something Friday afternoon…"

That bitch. Bitchbitchbitchbitchbitch! Richie counted to ten again, nostrils flaring, but he didn't care if Virgil saw. Let the other boy see that he was pissed. Royally fuming. That his hatred for Daisy went as deep as the Mariana Trench, and so on with the hyperboles.

"So," his voice was dangerously icy. Dangerously icy. That was a good idea, actually. He'd have to design a glacial output system that would be linked to levels of vocal chord oscillation. In other words, a machine that would spew ice and freeze anything once the user's voice became sufficiently pissed off. He wasn't sure what market would require such a device, but surely Batman could use it… no! Think about Daisy. Think about how much you loathe her. Bitchbitchbitch! "So," Richie tried again, injecting as much venom into his voice as he possibly could. "She has something planned?"

"Yeah, I'm—" Virgil twiddled his thumbs. "She's going to be setting up a smoothie stand after school. I volunteered to help her out. You know, making smoothies and stuff. She'll be selling that new tea of hers," Virgil's eyes brightened. "Hey, I'm sure I could convince her to let you—"

"Oh, that's so wholesome," Richie spat out, voice dripping with disdain. "Mother Daisy earnestly peddling her wholesome organic panacea of a tea. I'm sure it'll cure cancer with all the love that it's made out of."

"Actually, Daisy said that the antioxidants—"

"I don't give a frik about the antioxidants!" Richie stood up abruptly, then changed his mind and sat down. "Virgil. My friend."

"…Yeah?" Virgil was looking awfully bewildered by Richie's outburst, and Richie made a note to tone down the crazy super genius bit in the future. He didn't know what was getting into him, but honestly! The nerve of that girl! Scheduling her product launch and marketing campaign on the same day. It was sabotage, Richie was sure of it. Well, he took a deep breath. Step two it is. He hadn't wanted to play this trump card so early in the game, but if Virgil was going to be difficult…

"The producer of Zombie Deathmatch 4 is probably going to be at the photo shoot, since his girlfriend is one of the photographer's assistants." Richie forced his voice into casual nonchalance. "Actually, I'm pretty sure that he's going to be carrying a few demo copies with him since there's a—" interactive entertainment, his mind supplied, "—gaming convention that weekend in town. But…!" Richie gave Virgil a look that bordered on seductive. "If Daisy really needs you, I guess..."

The other boy looked appropriately flustered, staring bashfully into his lap, thumbs no longer twiddling, obviously struggling with this moral dilemma. Richie smirked and continued, "I mean, you've been waiting so long for it to come out, and it's officially in post-production for another three months…"

This was one of the times that Richie enjoyed being the Sidekick Behind the Scenes. Sometimes, morality wasn't an issue. Seeing Virgil struggle with the weight of his decision almost made him feel bad. Almost. But he was filled with too much… glee, was it? Yes, that was what he was feeling. One hundred percent hand-rubbing, mad scientist glee at the fact that he'd be seeing Static Shock so unapologetically objectified in the photoshoot. Oh, the things that he had planned… Richie was looking forward to it.

"Batman," Richie paused for dramatic effect, "has already sunk a few thousand dollars into the location and personnel." He frowned, as if troubled. "It'd be a huge inconvenience to him if we had to hire another model at the last minute…"

At the mention of Bruce's personal investment in the project, Virgil's blanched. The kid was still afraid of the Batman brand, and Richie couldn't blame him; Bruce had a way of instilling the fear of God into people he met. But in reality, he was really the most harmless superhero if you were on his good side… really just a suave teddy bear. A suave teddy bear with lots of money. Richie sighed, almost dreamily.

"I can probably tell Daisy to set up on Thursday," Virgil grinned. "It won't be a problem." Richie huffed. Daisy Daisy Daisy. But petty jealousy was so beneath him. He knew he had Virgil in his grip now.

With the help of Zombie Deathmatch 4, an annoying voice in the back of his head reminded him. He scowled.

"Do whatever you need to do," Richie stood up and made a show of brushing the lint off his jeans. "I'm off to the junkyard to test some explosives. You're welcome to come if you'd like." He turned on his heel, letting a smug smile onto his face when he heard Virgil scrambling to get his things together and follow him, calling wait up, Rich!

*

True to his word, Virgil was waiting at their spot after school on Friday to jet set off to New York City. Richie pretended not to be excited about it all and excellently feigned nonchalance as he texted Bruce, notifying him that everything was running according to schedule and there should be no delays as far as the model was concerned.

They landed in the city a few hours later and a limo arrived to pick them up, much to Virgil's delight. He seemed entertained enough by the onboard PS2 and spent the next twenty minutes furiously bashing in zombie heads with a steel pipe as Richie chatted on the phone with his product manager and tried not to let a saccharine smile slip onto his face as he watched Virgil exuberantly increase his zombie death count. The other boy was just so adorable sometimes that Richie could hardly contain himself. Not that the world of Zombie Deathmatch 3 wasn't interesting, it's just that Richie would rather take his time exploring the planes and contours of Virgil's body as opposed to the dark and dank virtual alleyways of a post-apocalyptic metropolis, no matter how exciting the melee weapons were…

Down, boy, down, he reminded himself. There will be a time and a place for that later, if everything goes according to plan. Which it will, of course. Richie took a deep breath. You don't have a super-genius brain for nothing.

They arrived on location and Richie wasted no time getting Virgil into hair and makeup before the photographer, Daniel, made his way over.

"Darling, it's so good to finally meet you!" Daniel made air-kissing motions and Richie looked blank for a moment before hurriedly reciprocating, much to his chagrin. "This is Jack, our art director for today—" a tall, stern-looking older man with short salt-and-pepper hair gave a nod in their direction. "Is that our model?" The photographer cast a glance over at Virgil, who was now fidgeting anxiously in the makeup chair as somebody pulled at his uncooperative dreadlocks. "He looks exactly like Static!"

Richie grinned smugly. "What can I say? I have an eye for talent."

"Talent indeed," Daniel's tortoise shell frames slipped down his nose as he looked Virgil up and down, and Richie's brain screamed, no touching! No looking!, and then remembered that this was a photographer and that this was all a part of his job, although—the glint in Daniel's eye was definitely unprofessional. Richie thought about fuming, but then decided that Daniel did have a point, after all.

Virgil came out of hair and makeup looking much like his usual self, but much more… shiny. Luminous, some would say. The outfit they had him put on wasn't bad, either—some sort of sleek, black wetsuit material, Static logo emblazoned smartly down the side in a patent leather yellow; a pair of yellow-tinted visors was perched jauntily on his head, the overall effect very subtle and much sleeker than Virgil's usual superhero getup. Richie made notes to modify Virgil's real Static costume when they got back to Dakota.

As good as he looked in the suit, on the other hand, Virgil did look mildly uncomfortable with all the powder and whatnot on his face. Perhaps "mildly uncomfortable" was a mild way of putting it.

"I think I'm wearing mascara, Richie," the Static "look-alike" hyperventilated. "Those people got really close to my eyeballs—and all I cold do was keep them open—because if I didn't, they'd probably rip all my eyelashes out with that Shimumuru—"

"Shu Uemura," Richie corrected.

"—eyelash curler." Virgil suddenly looked appalled. "I mean, how the hell do I even know what that is?"

"Because you're a quick learner, of course." Richie took his friend by the arm, resisting the urge to squeeze on Virgil's bicep. Just a little.

"And when am I going to get my demo copy of Zombie— Ow!"

Okay, maybe not such a little squeeze.

"Daniel," Richie said, standing up to his full height. Which wasn't all that impressive, at least not yet—his physician said he still had a few more growing years left in him, which was great news, since Virgil was gaining inches upon inches every year. Virgil and inches, though Richie, and cleared his throat hastily. "As you can see, Virgil is a quick study. Just put him in front of a camera and I'm sure he'll be hamming it up in no time."

Daniel winked at the still-mumbling Virgil. "I'll take very good care of him."

Virgil was shuffled away to work his magic at the edge of the pier, and Richie found a chair. The sun was beginning to set, just in time for a few photos by sunset. The rest of the photoshoot was supposed to take place at night; Richie felt a cold wind blow over him as he settled in more comfortably into his chair. One of the photoshoot assistants brought him over a cup of coffee, which he gladly accepted, warming his hands against the Styrofoam exterior.

"That's great!" Daniel was busy yelling. "A little to the left—give me more energy—just in your eyes, okay, action pose! Okay, Virgil, there's a Bang Baby coming in from your left, so what do you do? Right! Now, pull it back a little, that's a bit too much—just show the tension in your neck, relax your jaw—"

Richie got up to peek at the computer in front of the Jack, who was studying the shots with a quiet intensity. "What's the verdict, doc?"

Jack regarded him with something close to impatience, but sat back to explain. "First timer? You can always tell."

Richie stiffened. "I thought that the point of the campaign was to capture the ingénue side of Static. You know, have that hyperrealistic feel to it, a la Dov Charney."

"Well, there's a difference between hyperrealism and inexperience," Jack pursed his lips. "But Daniel is very good at what he does, so your boy isn't doing a terrible job."

"Good to hear," Richie's voice was cold, and a strong wave of cool ocean air blew over the two of them, as if to emphasize his emotions. But he warmed unexpectedly at the words—your boy—before he could catch himself.

"He must be pretty strong to hold those positions that Daniel's putting him in," Jack said, a tone of admiration in his voice, gesturing at the last few shots which showed Virgil crouching in a runner's starting position, quadriceps flexing and straining under his weight, the tension absent from his face; another series had Virgil doing one-armed pushups, face a picture of calm—even amusement—as his muscles strained under the costume.

Now Daniel was making Virgil peel off the top half of his outfit, just a bit, and Richie could tell that Virgil was slightly embarrassed, but kept a straight face all throughout the next barrage of shots.

"We're selling juice, Daniel, not sex," Jack called, voice deadpan. "Try to tone it down a little, wouldja?"

"Plenty of both in the model," Daniel called back. "And it's a sports drink, not juice."

Jack shrugged, and Richie stifled a chuckle.

Daniel continued, obviously enjoying himself. "Virgil, obviously you're much more acrobatic than I'd pegged you. For this next series of shots, I want you to do some flips—remember to relax your face—and no cartwheels, that's for five year old girls, okay? And we're not selling juice boxes here." Daniel turned back and made a face at Jack, who remained impasse. "All right! Show me what you've got—"

Backflips, front flips, Virgil's body gleaming with sweat from the exertion, we're going to color all that in Photoshop to match the color of the drink, Jack said absently, and Richie was getting a little uncomfortable in, ah, certain places by all this shameless objectification of his best friend, but he couldn't deny that it wasn't enjoyable, just being able to watch Virgil's every movement without having to justify anything to himself; after all, this was what models were for, right? To be looked at—

Virgil's next flip had him landing dangerously close to the edge—heels nearly slipping off the edge of the pier, and Richie's breath caught in his throat. Even Daniel looked a little shaken. But Virgil's face was still as composed and serene as ever, a hint of a smile in his eyes and no fear whatsoever.

Richie exhaled sharply. He had nothing to be worried about, of course. This was Virgil Hawkins they were talking about, and even though he was masquerading as Static now, it wasn't as if he and Richie hadn't been training equally hard, Virgil's muscles and body control weren't the result of just mindless sessions at the gym.

"All right, just walk this way. We're going to do a few shots of you just walking toward us—"

The next thing Richie knew, a strong gust of wind had tipped Virgil back—the other boy teetered precariously on the edge of the pier, arms twisted at a painful angle as he struggled to regain his balance, cameras going off wildly, like lightning, Daniel screaming for them to stop, Jack nearly knocking over his computer as he stood up, and Richie had broken out into a run and vaulted off the pier before he'd even known it—"shit, Virgil!"

They were both plummeting in mid-air into the darkness of the ocean below them when Richie realized belatedly that he wasn't wearing Backpack, and of course, Virgil didn't have his gear with him—in either sense—

Virgil reached for his own outstretched hand and pulled Richie close to him, knocking the breath out him. Their descent slowed and they stopped, inches above the water.

The water lapped quietly below, little splashes getting on their shoes. Richie struggled to regain his breath as Virgil hugged him even closer.

"How—"

Virgil smiled wryly. "Come on, Rich—you didn't think I wouldn't come at least a little prepared, did you?" He pointed down at the hoverdisc, spinning quietly beneath their feet. "After all, you never know when evil calls."

Voices calling from above, are you guys okay, camera lights being swung around over the edge of the pier, searching. Virgil moved them under the pier so they wouldn't be seen. I didn't hear a splash—

Richie laughed weakly. "I left Backpack up where I was sitting…"

"Seriously," Virgil's voice was gentle, but his grip was strong around Richie. "What were you thinking, coming after me like that? Without your gear?"

"Well, I was supposed to be yours." Richie's voice was muffled in Virgil's shoulder.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Another moment passed, the voices above them growing louder and louder. Virgil tensed. "We should probably let them know that we're okay."

"Mm," Richie nodded noncommittally, trying not to feel inappropriately content about being wrapped in Virgil's arms. "But—oh."

"What?"

"We can't just go back completely dry."

Virgil made a face like he'd just been sucker-punched. "So we actually do have to get wet."

"Well," Richie half-said, half-sighed, as he leaned in closer, "you're pretty soaked already, considering your workout."

Virgil almost dropped him into the water. "Oh! I didn't mean to— I must be really gross—I'm all sweaty—I'm really sorry, Rich—"

"Don't worry about it!" Richie scrambled to keep his feet out of the water. "Just don't let go until you absolutely have to!"

Virgil chauffeured them over to a place where they could beach themselves and get appropriately soaked, calling out to the crew and letting them know they were okay. Richie, predictably, really hadn't been able to see a damn thing through his glasses, which were misting up due to his—proximity to Virgil, whose body heat was unaffected by the cold marine air.

And now he was bitterly cold after running into the water, getting his clothes wet, and then coming back out to dry. Virgil draped his arm around them and wrapped them close together, the two of them shivering in a rather wet, pathetic puddle, waiting for the camera crew to get to them. This actually would have been rather ideal, Richie thought, through the chattering of his teeth—sitting by the beach, Virgil pressed up against his side, starlight and moonlight illuminating the sand and the crest of the waves, just the two of them. Maybe some bossa nova music in the background. Yeah, that'd be nice. A little bit cheesy, but nice.

Virgil's teeth were clicking, too, and Richie was almost sorry that he had arranged for all of this and gotten Virgil in this mess in the first place. He shuffled closer. Almost.

He wrapped an arm around Virgil's waist, leaning his head on the other boy's shoulder, telling himself that yes, this was all very ideal, and that they should try this sometime in some regular clothes and when they weren't in danger of hypothermia. He looked up at Virgil—wanting to make some witty comment about the weather, the irony of their situation, the excruciating slowness that their "rescue crew" was taking to find them—

And Virgil looked down, and their noses touched—a cold, vestigial point of contact that suddenly seemed very significant and noteworthy. Richie completely lost track of what he was going to say.

They held themselves like that for what seemed like a long time, very still, and then Virgil said, "hey," his breath ghosting in little white puffs over both their lips, "I—"

A pattering of footsteps and the sound of mixed voices, lights flashing in their eyes, and they looked away from each other.

"Well!" Daniel was red in the face when he ran up to them. "I think that's enough heroics for one day, don't you?"

*