Chapter 6: Eye of the Tiger

Author's notes: I just realized that I haven't given credit where credit was due. I need to personally thank all my reviewers for being so supportive of this fic. Believe me, "Courage Under Fire" wouldn't have gotten as far as it did without your continuing support. I need to thank Saturn's Hikari, Sailor Vegeta, Dimitri Aidan, SnakeMistress, Lotus-chan, leev, YaoiCyberCat, Ginger Alli, Blagnessxchan, Nikana, Raving-Lunatic, CD, dadsnavygirl and anyone else I may have forgotten. You guys are the greatest, and are excellent writers yourselves. Keep up the great work, and I can't wait to read more from all of you!

Disclaimer: don't own Static Shock. I wish I did though—cuz then the boys would be mine…ALL MINE! Muahahahaha! Ahem, yes…quite.

Warnings: Major angst in this chapter, character torture (coughRichiecough), SLASH, some violence, sexuality, and more from our favorite serial killer. Hey, this is PG-13 for a reason…


Dakota, 3:16 am

Static and Ivan were at a stalemate. The hero's blatant look of astonishment was nothing compared to the expression on the older man's face. Ivan struggled against the bonds of static cling, to no avail. They stayed that way, staring at each other for a long, breathless moment.

"Hey Hero," Ivan spoke up after a time, "Think you can let me go?"

"Y-you're supposed to be…" he stammered.

"Dead?" he finished for him. "Yeah, I know. Hell, it was my idea."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look, can we go somewhere else and talk about this?" he asked, his eyes glancing to and fro, searching the shadows for something.

"You think someone's following you?"

"No, I know someone's following me. We can't talk here—I'll go peacefully, I swear on my father's grave." His tone and expression were so earnest that for the first time, Static had a hard time denying him this simple request. For once, he felt like he could actually trust Ebon…Ivan, Ivan—he was Ivan now. Not Ebon—Ebon no longer existed.

"What did you have in mind?" Static asked, the static cling dissipating. Ivan roughly pulled himself away from the wall, brushing off the sleeves of his old olive green army coat. "You remember how to get to the old subway station?"

"Vaguely."

"Don't worry, there's a shortcut I know, not too far from here. C'mon, we'll be there in about thirty minutes," Ivan waved at him to follow him on foot. Static rolled his eyes and whipped out his disk.

"We could get there a lot faster if we flew."

Ivan turned back around and arched an eyebrow. "You telling me you trust me enough…?"

Static shrugged. "Circumstances being what they have been for me for the past few days, right now, I don't care if you're the Destroyer or Charles Manson. Hop on."

Ivan regarded him suspiciously for a moment or so before joining him on the disk. They sped away into the early morning twilight, and Ivan said to the hero, "Listen Static, I know you don't trust me—honestly, I don't trust you either. But there are a couple things you need to understand, a few things you need to know. You and only you."

"Can you be any more cryptic?"

Ivan laughed. "You think I'm bad? You should meet Serendipity and The Kids."

"The Kids?"


Abandoned Subway Station, Dakota, 3:34 am

"The Kids", Static later found out, were the newest generation of Bang Babies, all of whom lived in the old station. They were a healthy mix of teenagers, some young children and a couple adults. Most of the teenagers were the unofficial leaders, but apparently Ivan was the Supreme Leader, if their reaction to his appearance was any indication.

Many of them stumbled out of outcroppings and makeshift beds, still dressed in pajamas except for a few of the older kids who were on guard duty. Two of them, a lanky Asian boy in an ice-blue t-shirt and dark jeans with his longish hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, and a short white girl with bobbed blonde hair wearing a pink tank top and jeans, watched Ivan arrive with the hero. There were fairy wings growing out of the girl's back, and she flitted up to them gracefully, her doll-like features contorted with concern.

"Ivan! We were so worried! Akira and I, we heard…"

"You heard right, Pixie," he said, walking past her, noting the worry on her fey features. "He got too close tonight. If it happens again, I'm not taking any chances—we'd have to leave."

"We can't leave!" a young boy of Middle Eastern descent said determinedly from behind Akira, the teen in the light blue shirt. Akira held the boy by the shoulders protectively, and the smaller one said, "This is our home!"

"If the killer gets too close, Ibrahim," Ivan told him, ruffling the boy's hair lovingly as if he were a little brother, "we won't have much of a choice."

More teenage bang babies came forward, asking so many questions it made Static's head spin. Ivan turned them all away, telling them they had their duties, and asked Ibrahim where he could find Natasha.

"Who's Natasha?" Static asked.

"You'll see," Ivan answered, a foreign smile on his face. Static had seen smiles like that before—it was the same smile he usually sported when thinking about Richie. But on Ebon—Ivan—it looks so…weird.

He led him towards the remnants of the subway coach, allowing him entry into the small furnished room. It had been furnished with cloth of deep reds and purples, cushions various pieces of furniture scattered about, and hand-made tapestries hanging from the ceiling. It reminded Static of a fortuneteller's home, and sure enough, a curtain was pulled away, revealing a tall black woman dressed in bohemian garb. Her bare feet moved soundlessly over the floor, and the golden anklets clinked along with the various necklaces and arm bangles she wore. Her long black hair was kept back with a colorful scarf tied about her head.

"This," Ivan introduced, "is Natasha, though everyone here calls her Serendipity."

"Good Fortune," Static nodded in understanding. Serendipity stepped forward, and Static noticed that, though she was African-American, her skin was light, and her eyes a pale shade of blue. It suddenly occurred to him, She's blind. She lifted her hands to cup his face and smiled.

"Static Shock," she said with all fondness, her voice soft and deep, soothing like a gentle brook. "What goodness heaven has bequeathed to us this day!" her voice was accented only slightly. Ivan took one of her hands and held it firmly.

"He's come to help us with the Destroyer," he told her, in a tone that was as foreign to Static's ear as Sharon's cooking actually being fit for human consumption. Serendipity nodded knowingly, then said in a faraway voice, "For each man kills the thing he loves…"

"That poem!" Static recognized it immediately. "Do you know something—anything—that can help us?"

"You sir," she pointed a single finger at his chest, "are the coward who kills with a kiss." She turned away and disappeared behind the curtain, then started chanting in an unfamiliar language. Static and Ivan both sent blank looks towards that curtain. Ivan nudged him with his elbow and cocked his head in the seer's direction. "See what I mean? Sometimes I think I'd rather have Miss Cleo than 'Tasha here."

"What did that mean?"

Ivan shrugged. "Beats me—she often comes up with weird shit that don't make sense until it actually happens. C'mon, you hungry?"

Static was getting more and more perplexed by the minute. Just who the hell was this guy and what did he do with Ebon? "You're feeding me now?"

Ivan shrugged again. "If I don't, I'll hear hell from Pixie—she's a real sweetheart—the only good cook here, too."

"Yeah?" he was starting to become much more interested in the present situation. "How did they all become…?"

"Remember the last big bang? Yeah, I guess there was some freak wind that night, and all of them got a whiff of it. That, and Alva's been up to his usual tricks again."

"Figures," Static said with a dejected sigh. "Like I don't have enough to worry about."

Ivan stepped out of the subway car and took a deep whiff of the air. "Smells like she's making pancakes. Can you spare a few minutes so I can explain?"

"Might as well."

They entered a part of the subway terminal that Static had never seen before. It was fashioned into a mess hall of sorts, and the kitchens stood off to the side. The "kitchens" held no fancy stoves or ovens—mostly toasters, toaster ovens, microwaves, hotplates and the occasional George Foreman Grill.

Pixie fluttered around from stovetop to stovetop flipping pancakes and pouring drinks for the predicted outpouring of hungry children and adults. She spotted the duo and waved energetically…well energetically for 3:30 in the morning.

"You can sit in here, guys. I need to check on the young'ins." With that, she took off the soiled apron she had been wearing and flew off over their heads in the opposite direction, leaving the two men to themselves.

Ivan sat at the rickety poker table in the center of the room and bade the hero sit across from him. "Now, I've got some explaining to do."


Watchtower, 7:45 am

"Hey, Gear? Got a minute?"

"Depends," he said flatly, watching his tone. Gear still felt the shock of the discovery of Hotstreak's original powers, as well as jealousy, mistrust, and overall dislike for the meta-human. And yet, as much as he wished he could hate him, he couldn't do it. Out of the goodness in his heart, he couldn't bring himself to come right out and say it.

And to make this situation all the more unsettling, Static was nowhere to be found. J'onn had said something about a lead in the Destroyer case, and Gear assumed that Static didn't want to bother him. Or maybe he couldn't bring himself to look at me…

Whatever the reason, the electric hero hadn't been seen for hours, and not a word had come in about his whereabouts either. Gear really wanted nothing to do with anyone right now, given the sour mood he was in. In many ways, he had a hard time putting a finger on his exact mood—he was hurt, felt betrayed, lost and alone, but he was also angry, at himself and at Hotstreak. To say he was also confused would also be an understatement.

"You don't feel like talking?" Francis asked, sincerity etched onto his still slightly-pale face. Most of his color had come back, but the mere fact that he was still hospital-bound still kept him on-edge.

Gear took a seat beside the hospital bed and slouched in the chair, arms crossed, staring evenly at the flame-haired meta-human. "Yes, you're right—I don't feel like talking…"

"To me," he finished the thought. He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "Look, I don't know what happened yesterday while I was out of it—all I remember…"

"Was the kiss," Gear finished for him.

He felt a little guilty. "Well, um…yeah. Then I sorta, you know, blacked out."

Gear nodded in understanding. "Feel better now?"

Francis cast a nervous glance around the room. "I'll be better once I'm outta here. I swear to God I hate hospitals. Listen," he said quickly, changing the subject. "I know I'm not the easiest guy to get along with…"

"No kidding?" he said sarcastically. Francis continued, ignoring the gibe.

"And I was thinking that maybe we got off on the wrong foot…"

"We got off on the wrong foot alright," he glared, leaning forward suddenly. "Back in high school, we…" he stopped himself in just enough time, but he knew he had already said too much.

"High school?" Francis' expression, still wan, took on the appearance of confusion, and, to Gear's consternation, a brief period of recognition. "We went to high school…the same high school? Dakota Union High?" his jade eyes narrowed as he studied him, and Gear squirmed under the meticulous examination of his face. Thank God the visor did something to hide the truth of his identity.

And thank God he also knew how to hide it for so long. Robert Hawkins was still the only person, other than Virgil, who knew his true identity—Richie still, after all these years, had never told his parents the truth. He had told them he was joining the military and was staying overseas for long periods of time, and he cautioned that he might not call very often. For the large part, they believed him. Okay, his father seemed a little suspicious, but after seeing his son a year later, he fell hook, line and sinker. Richie would be forever grateful for Green Lantern's boot-camp-like training courses for new superheroes—it helped with the charade. John Foley had seen how much muscle his son had gained, and the strength and honor with which he carried himself like a soldier that made all the difference.

But they still didn't know the truth.

Telling his father that his best friend was African American was bad enough—to also explain to his father that he was in a relationship with said friend nearly drove the man up the wall. To come right out and say that he was also a superhero—Gear in fact—that little piece of news just might kill him.

If I'm lucky, he thought darkly. Yes, even after all those years, he still disliked his father for his bigotry, if nothing else.

Francis had given up on trying to put two and two together. The redhead leaned back into the pillows that propped him up and leaned his head back, feeling the heat of the overhead lamp on his skin. He chuckled lightly, and Gear found himself drawn in with that small laugh, and mesmerized by that peaceful smile.

"'A riddle wrapped in a mystery in an enigma'," he muttered. "I've heard that somewhere, I can't remember where—but it suits you two."

"How's that?" he asked. He must mean me and Virgil.

"There's something about the two of you that's so familiar to me, like I've known you longer than I thought—like I've known you since before the Big Bang. And no matter how long I think about it, I just get more confused. You," he looked straight at him, his eyes locking in place with those of the other man. "Are a mystery to me. Static is the enigma. Somehow, I feel like…like I know you…from somewhere."

"Keep guessing—I'm sure you won't figure it out."

"What makes you think I haven't figured it out already?"

That question felt like a slap to the face and a kick in the gut. Gear suddenly felt like he was going to be violently ill. He knows!


Abandoned Subway Station, "Mess Hall", 4:00 am

After they had finished eating, Ivan began his story. The taller, older man pushed the soiled plates and glasses out of the way and leaned against his elbows on the tabletop. Static sat opposite him, watching him, studying him.

Ivan had changed—more so than in appearances. His skin was light rather than overly dark, his eyes and face stuck forever in that permanent scowl. Those eyes, however, were sharp, deep, like a tiger's—nothing escaped their gaze, and they pierced you down to your core. Those dark eyes, inky black like the distant shadows of the room, looked up at him, fixing him to his seat.

Ivan looked much older than his actual age. Static surmised that Ivan was somewhere in his thirties by now, if you estimated that he was closer to twenty by the Big Bang, and almost ten years had passed… He's got to be older than the rest of us…and damn but it shows.

Lines of worry were etched onto his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes, possibly the result of many a sleepless night. And given the way he had put away all that food, one would guess that he had eaten even less than usual. Thinner, taller, and yet those once strong shoulders sagged as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But he was far from broken.

"I was slated to get out of prison by next week. I knew that as soon as I was on the outside, I was a prime target. Look at me, Static," Ivan held his arms out, showing him the strain that prison had taken on him. Francis definitely looks much better, he decided. How he managed, I'll never know.

The man continued, "I'm no longer in the prime of life—I was as good as dead if I went out there. So I cut a deal with the warden…I told him it would be better in the end."

"What was the deal?"

"Make it look like I had died while in prison," he said it like it was an obvious answer.

"You faked your own death? Why? Trying to escape a major throw-down can't be your only reason."

"That, and less of a fuss when I got out—the less mess, the better. That's what the warden and I agreed on."

"But the funeral…"

"Staged. Not like anyone went anyway," he stated dismally. "The coffin was full of bricks and rumpled clothes. If and when I ever actually die, that grave'll be waitin' for me."

"And the fire?"

"We let one of the serial arsonists loose for an hour, gave him some matches an' gasoline, an' just gave him free reign," he shrugged. "Pretty simple. Now I'm out of the clink, out of the warden's hair, an' I'm trying to make do with a sucky job as a bartender. And thanks to the Dakota Destroyer, I don't have a bar anymore."

"You saw the Destroyer?" Static nearly jumped out of his seat. Ivan crossed his arms and nodded tiredly. "I was witness to one of his murders—Rick Carmichael…"

"Miranda's husband. Did he say why he did it?"

"He killed Rick because he was 'a witness'. I'm not sure why he killed Miranda—she was a real sweetheart. I didn't know much about her, other than she liked to come in on Thursday nights and order a couple Cosmo's. She'd meet some guy there…"

"Wait, wait," Static held up a hand to halt the narrative. "She was seeing someone else?"

Ivan shrugged again. "I thought they were good friends—they seemed pretty close at first. After a while, I noticed things…"

"She was having an affair," Static said, nodding in understanding, his voice betraying that his mind was elsewhere. Ivan could swear he saw the gears turning inside the hero's head. What is he thinking? he wondered briefly.

Static was deep in thought, mulling over this news, the evidence that had been collected, and the poem…

That was when it hit him.

Static shot up out of his seat and started reciting hurriedly, "Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword. Oh my God, that's IT!" he rounded on Ivan like a caged animal, slamming his hands palms down on the tabletop. "He's dealing out retribution! This guy thinks he's a vigilante against cheaters!"

Ivan's shock was minimal until he put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Wait a sec—I think you've got something." He also stood and paced the kitchen, saying as he walked, "Now that you mention it, I think I've met all of the other victims."

"How?" the hero asked suspiciously.

Ivan sent him a glare. "You know, some crack addicts are also alcoholics…" he trailed off, his eyes growing wide, then he cursed vehemently. Static knew exactly what he was about to say. "When someone knows their lover is cheating on them…"

Ivan finished the thought, "The first thing they do is drown their sorrows in a bar! That's where the Destroyer gets his victims' information! Holy shit…" he fell back into his chair and said despairingly, "In my bar—I was aiding him."

"You didn't know—it's not your fault. No court would convict you…"

"That's what you don't get, Hero," he grabbed Static by the collar and pulled him close in desperation. "Listen, Static—I'd rather die than go back to prison! If I found out I was goin' back, I swear to God…I have a revolver armed and ready just in case. Those mother fuckers ain't takin' me alive!"

Static felt a wave of emotions take over him. This was the first time he had ever seen Ivan Evans so desperate for anything. The look in his eyes resembled those of the tiger kept in a dingy old cage, chained to the floor. Try as he might, that tiger kept pacing, waiting, waiting for his chance to run…to be free. Only once he got his chance to flee, he was shot down in cruel twist of fate. Waiting for freedom for so long, only to be given the ultimate form of freedom, freedom from all earthly problems and fears: death. Death was the true essence of freedom.

And right now, that very same tiger was fixing him with the most pathetic, yet most determined stare he had ever seen. Oh yes, this tiger had been shot down more than once, but he was still going…he was still living, holding on to life and that long-sought-after freedom finally afforded to him by a thin thread. God help him if that was taken from him—because it was all he had left.

Static placed his hands on Ivan's shoulders and said with all earnestness, "I won't let that happen. You paid your dept to society. I'm giving Hotstreak a second chance, and now I'm giving one to you too—help us bring this bastard down, and I'll get you the freedom you've always wanted."

"You can promise that?"

"I can come close to your ideal—I just need to know."

"If I do this, you need to swear that you never tell anyone about what's down here. Swear it!"

"I promise!" he said quickly, soberly. Ivan studied his face for a long moment before relinquishing his hold on the hero's shirt. He stepped back a few paces and leaned heavily against the table, one hand reaching up to press against his temple. Static asked worriedly, "You alright, man?"

Ivan nodded mutely, wincing slightly, then straightening, the headache dissipating slightly. "Sorry—after me an' Red separated…I dunno. I just started gettin' lots of headaches, real bad ones. Serendipity does a lot to help wit them—she's a healer I think."

"She seems to be the type. How's your head?"

"It'll be fine—I normally get them when I'm under a lot of stress."

Before Static could ask, he answered his own question. Of course he can't go see a doctor—how well would that go over? 'oh hey, doc, I know I'm supposed to be dead, but as it turns out, I need you to take a look at my head.' They'd put him in a padded room faster than you can say 'penitentiary'.

"So what's the plan, Hero?"

What was his plan?

"You get a positive ID on the guy?"

It was the first time Ivan had smiled like that in years: that cat-like grin that disturbingly resembled that of a cat with a mouse caught between its paws. He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, an' I can take you right to his address…"


Watchtower, Hospital Wing, 7:50 am

Gear was still in shock, the visor in no way hiding the panic on his face. Francis saw this, and could swear he saw the myriad emotions fleeting across the other man's eyes. He knew him from somewhere, but where?

Please don't let him guess…please, God, Gear silently prayed, letting his eyes close, brows furrowed in concentration, as if his prayer would be answered faster if he concentrated on the words, emphasizing every last one of them.

To his surprise and overwhelming relief, Francis dropped the subject. He snorted and smirked, looking at the other man sitting by his bedside. "I won't guess—I know you'll never tell me. I can guess, but I'll probably be wrong."

"Good, lets go with that," he said quickly, covering it up. For a moment, a thought occurred to the bed-ridden meta-human. Was it possible? He studied his face a little closer. The jaw had squared off a bit, he was certainly more buff, the voice deeper, and those eyes…the eyes, he envisioned hidden behind a pair of glasses…

His brain suddenly ground to a halt.

He knew.


Dakota, 6:23 am

"If we hurry, we'll miss the crowds," Ivan said over his shoulder as he led Static through the crumbling subway tunnels. Rodent skeletons littered the tracks, cobwebs fell from the vaulted ceiling like veils, and the crunch of the afore-mentioned rodent bones beneath his boots did nothing to settle Static's nerves.

"How can you just walk around down here? I know half of this stuff wasn't here when you first moved in."

Ivan sent him an apologetic look that went unseen in the semi-darkness. "I haven't been down here in a while. After the second Big Bang, this was closed off—all the Meta Breed were cured, and there were no others."

"Until the Kids came along."

"Yeah."

They carried on in silence until Ivan led them through a narrow crevice in the wall, and in no time at all, Static found himself blinded by the sun's first morning light. They stood in the backyard of a rickety old house. This house had seen better days—the white paint on the outside was peeling and soiled, shutters barely hanging on by their rusty hinges. The windows of the dilapidated townhouse were like eye-less sockets, some one the dusty glass panes broken from incoming rocks thrown by neighborhood boys. The wood of the back porch they were facing was warped and threatened to crack under any weight. Ivan carefully climbed the wooden steps, the weather-beaten boards sagging dangerously under his weight.

Holding a finger to his lips, he pried open the back door and both stepped into the house.

"Aren't you aware that this is breaking and entering?" Static hissed. Ivan shrugged and muttered back, "House don't belong to him, anyway."

The kitchen was, if there was any other way to describe it, disgusting. Anything that was made of metal had rusted, electrical wiring was sticking out of the walls covered with an ugly yellow wallpaper, weathered and stained from years of misuse. The kitchen floor, covered in equally nauseating dusty yellow linoleum tile. This place had obviously not seen an inhabitant since the 70's at least. Dust kicked up under their feet as both men stepped carefully through the room. They walked into the main living room, with another ugly olive-green 70's wallpaper, and brown shag carpet. The furniture looked positively sordid.

Ivan curled his lip in disgust. "I wish I could strangle the interior designer."

Static couldn't help but smile at this. He has a point…

They climbed the creaky stairs to the second story, where the first thing they found was the bedroom. They both drew in a sharp breath simultaneously when Ivan slowly cracked the door open.

The bedroom was—other than being decorated in the ugliest colors ever created by mankind—disturbing. The queen-sized bed held rumpled sheets, feather pillows slashed open by a possible knife and at the head of the bed, the mattress and sheets were stained a dark crimson. Feathers from the pillows had stuck to the now-dry red puddle on the hardwood floor, and footprints in red walked about the bed, the occasional droplet of dried blood found marching in line with the footprints. That, and there was a strange sickly-sweet smell permeating the air

Static swore softly and stepped forward. What disturbed them even more was what was on the wall. Written in blood was the same poem found over Miranda's body…was it really only two days ago? God, it feels like weeks. And along with the poem were various quotes from the Bible, all of which included smiting the enemies and plunging sinners into Hell.

"Jesus Christ," Ivan gasped. He was bent over a pile of papers and picked up one sheet. "Look at this: it's a marriage certificate. To a 'Lorelei Anne Baker and Miles Albert Fisher'. 'Albert'…shit, that was the name of a serial killer, wasn't it?"

Static only nodded then saw the photos on the floor. He recognized the form—they were more than likely taken by a spy camera. They included pictures of a lovely young woman with an equally handsome man, only over the images of the man, his face was scratched out with a red pen. In a couple, his face had been completely burned by what looked like a cigarette. Disturbing…yes, very disturbing.

"Hey, I think that's Lorelei," Ivan said. "She was real sweet—I only knew her a few days though. She said something about moving away, and after a few days, I never saw her again."

"Was she ever seen with this guy?" Static pulled out a completely different picture, and upon seeing it, Ivan's eyes widened and he shook his head and shuddered. "I sure as hell hope not! That guy in that photo is the killer!"

Static looked at the photo—it was a wedding picture of Lorelei and Miles, whom Ivan had properly ID'd as the killer. Question was…

"If the guy in this photo is her husband, then who's the guy in the other photos…" he didn't need to finish the statement before he groaned and crouched on the floor. "I'm such an idiot! How couldn't I have seen that coming?"

"Seen what?" Ivan asked.

Static fixed him with a pale stare. "Lorelei was cheating on him. He obviously got mad," he said, indicating the walls with the bloody messages, "and…" he trailed off. His vantage point on the ground caught something they had both missed upon entering. There was a faint smudge on the floor, like something heavy had been dragged there. Ivan caught his gaze, then he too, crouched down, peering under the bed. Cautiously, and not without a shaky hand, he pulled away the bed skirt. The result was instantaneous.

Ivan propelled himself backwards with a horror-filled yell and he instantly turned an unhealthy shade of green; Static fell back, leaning back on his hands and felt like he was going to be sick. Gulping down a big breath of air, he finished his earlier statement, "He got mad…and he killed his wife."

Underneath the bed was the slowly decomposing carcass of Lorelei Fisher.


Watchtower, 8:30 am

Sill no sign of Static; Gear was getting worried. He paced around their apartment, going insane for lack of information. Hell, he was Gear for God's sake—he lived off of information.

Francis had been allowed to finish recuperating in his own room, and the redhead was sleeping now. Gear had the door closed and had taken off his helmet. He ran a nervous hand through his blonde hair and took a few deep breaths in order to calm himself.

It was no use. After pacing a little while longer, he gave up. There was nothing for him to do—he was off-duty until Sleeping Beauty was well enough again. He decided now that he had no other alternative other than seeing how the patient was doing.

He entered Francis' room, and tiptoed over to the bed. Richie wasn't wearing his glasses now. He preferred to wear contacts, like he was now, as sometimes the glasses would get in the way. His eyes rested on Francis, fast asleep.

The covers were pulled up to the redhead's chest, one arm draped over his stomach, the other stretched out. His head had rolled to the side facing Richie, the rosy lips parted slightly. His breathing was slow and steady, his handsome tanned face relaxed in a peaceful expression. If Richie hadn't known him better, he would have sworn he was looking at an angel.

He stepped closer to the bed and checked his pulse. Normal, thank God. He allowed himself a small smile as he watched the taller man sleep. This was nice, actually. He had heard somewhere that you can learn a lot about a person by watching them sleep. In this case, he saw…vulnerability. Good god, he thought.

Vulnerability, weakness, fear, pain—he saw all of that. Francis was having nightmares, but of what?

Richie leaned forward closer, brushing aside a lock of red hair that had fallen into the man's face. He twitched in response to the odd contact, but drew in breath when Richie's lips touched his cheek. For as long as he lived, Richie would never understand what possessed him to do that, but it felt good to do it—like a mother soothing a scared child. Well, okay, not really…

He kissed Francis' forehead, his hand reaching up to rest against his shoulder. He pulled away, watching the redhead's face for any hint of awakening. There was none. He decided a split second later what his next action would be. His hand still on the other man's shoulder, he leaned forward and lightly pressed his lips against those of the sleeping man.

Francis moaned in his sleep appreciatively, turning his head to greet the foreign, though certainly welcome, lips. Richie pressed forward, savoring the moment. His brain started sending him dangerous signals. As his arm moved to wrap around Francis' waist, he came to the most startling conclusion.

He loved this man.

He pulled away quickly and fled the room, shutting the door behind him in a flurry. He set the helmet on his head again and leaned heavily against the wall. Shit, he thought, double shit. When the hell did this happen?


A/N: I know, it's cruel of me to leave it there…hey cut me a break, I just finished writing two major term papers. Think of this as a reward for all of us. Remember to read and review!