Hey everyone,
Yeah...so...gosh, look at the time. whistles Ahem. I'd just like to take a moment to assure the readers who have started sending me vaguely demanding and frantic reviews that I am going to finish Dakota Noir and Through a Glass, Darkly. The stories have not been put on hiatus...er...well, actually they have, but not permanent hiatus. It may be summer before I can get any serious writing in on them, but I've not forgotten them, and I will not be discontinuing them. Unfortunately, I just have a lot of stuff going on right now that precludes writing.
That said, Cypher is an impatient and nagging liege and he demanded St. Patrick's Day fluff. I felt badly for denying him Glass and Noir pretties for so long, so I dashed this out. Not plot whatsoever, just fluff, and I thought I would share here as well as an apology for my long absence from my other stories.
I hope you find it enjoyable.
Disclaimer: I make no claim, insinuated or otherwise, that I am in any way associated with the rightful owners of Static Shock or have their permission to do this. I humbly ask that they not sue me.
Richie is the brains of their outfit.
Virgil is quite aware that saying that is rather like saying "the sky is blue" or "Batman is scary." It's one of those simple, immutable facts. Still, it means so much more than just the fact that Richie is smarter than him. It means Virgil can always count on Richie to have a backup plan, to know what's going on, to be there to rein Virgil in when he starts getting too caught up in what they do. It means Richie is the cool-headed, dependable one, the stabilizing influence that Virgil will readily admit he needs. Richie is the one to think things through, to be aware of all the possible consequences of his actions…Richie is the mature one.
Except when he's, you know, not.
"Dude, I thought were going to stay away from the green beer!" Virgil shakes his head in exasperation, arms crossed over his chest as he stares up at his partner and best friend.
Said partner and best friend merely grins unrepentantly down at him from the park bench he is currently dancing a little jig on. Or attempting to dance a little jig on. Virgil's pretty sure the Riverdance crew would run away screaming if they saw what Richie is doing to their craft. With a final flourish that looks more as though Richie is having a seizure in his lower body, the other youth leaps down from the bench, slinging a friendly arm around Virgil's shoulders.
Virgil rolls his eyes, but can't help the smile that curls his lips. The night is still fairly young, but they're heading home after a night of watching the street parade and doing the obligatory bar crawl with a few of their friends from Dakota U. Virgil tired of that, quickly, though…after all, he never does anything more than get a little buzzed and a St. Paddy's Day bar crawl really isn't all that much fun unless you get blind, stumbling drunk.
"I did," Richie breezes. "Do you have any idea what that dye is made of?" Without waiting for an answer, he spins off again, this time running up to a group of girls in various states of inebriation heading in the opposite direction of them, and doffing his plastic, neon-green fedora. The girls giggle drunkenly and Richie grabs the hands of the most-stable looking one to dance another jaunty little jig. The jig isn't much improved by the addition of a drunken partner. Still, the girl laughs brightly and when Richie points to a pin on his chest, she leans in and pecks him affectionately on the cheek.
Still grinning like a fool, Richie leaves the girls to their stumbling trek and rejoins Virgil. He should look ridiculous in the getup he had showed up to the parade in…green plastic hat, eye-searing green jeans (and Virgil doesn't want to know where he got those), and a green t-shirt decorated like a leprechaun's coat, complete with bowtie, coattails, and a pocketful of gold coins. The 'lapels' are adored with a plethora of Irish, beer, and good-luck-related pins and Richie is enjoying the spectacle he's making of himself far too much for someone who hasn't imbibed in a drop of alcohol all night. Virgil's eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Just how late have you been staying up lately?" he asks lightly. Richie's grin widens.
"Closing in on three days without sleep," he announces. "I'm going for a new personal best!" He laughs, just a smidge maniacally, and Virgil shakes his head.
"You're going for a nervous breakdown is what you're going for. I told you not to double up on labs this semester."
Richie shrugs and tilts his green plastic fedora at an even jauntier angle. "Caffeine is my friend. I'll sleep this weekend."
"So what are you going to do for the rest of the night, then?" Virgil's a bit disappointed…damn it, he'd had plans for this weekend. Richie was no fun when he was laid out in a sleep-deprived stupor.
Again, Richie shrugs. "I could get the rest of those upgrades done on Backpack…there's a couple of experiments I wanted to get started…oh! I know!"
And with that, Richie swings around in front of Virgil, lightly taps the "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" pin adorning his leprechaun t-shirt. Then he grabs two fistfuls of the front of Virgil's shirt, and jerks him forward into one of those hot, wet, soul-searing kisses that Virgil has been only too happy to get used to in the past year and a half. Somewhere behind them, there's a sudden burst of applause, and a few wild, drunken whoops that sound distinctly feminine. Apparently the group of girls hasn't gotten too much closer to whatever destination they have in mind.
Then, Virgil doesn't really give a damn that they have an audience because Richie's shoving him back against a convenient lamppost, hands buried in his dreads, and is doing things with his tongue that are making Virgil's toes curl. They continue that way for several minutes, and the whoops and hollers only get louder when Virgil lets his hands snake up under Richie's shirt. But as much fun as making out in the park in front of a bunch of intoxicated St. Patrick's Day revelers might be, Virgil can think of better things Richie could be doing with his tongue, and unfortunately none of them are really appropriate for a public venue.
Richie's apparently had the same thought, for he abruptly leans back, smacking his lips and smiling wickedly. "I figure I've got another eight hours and fourteen and a half minutes before I totally crash," he says. "Home?"
"Home," Virgil agrees. Richie bends down to pick up the now slightly dirty plastic hat, having lost it on their little detour to the lamppost. He plops it back down on his head and Virgil can't help but laugh again at the picture he makes in the ridiculous attire, face flushed and lips spit-slick and kiss swollen. His very own debauched leprechaun. "So do I get three wishes tonight?"
Richie arches one eyebrow, and the smile deepens. "Only if you catch me." The look in his eyes suggests he's not going to try too hard to get away. "Now…home! Bed!"
Richie is definitely the brains of their outfit.