I bring the offering of Static Shock Slash.

Title: Issues
Rating: NC-17 or Hard R
Summary: Hotstreak thinks about his past, and burns off some tension.
Disclaimer: Don't own these people, am making NO money. Don't sue, it's a waste of time, I have nothing to take.
Feedback: WHEEE, please do so.




The stark white walls glared at his eyes that were already sore from crying. Francis Stone sat on the bench outside his father’s hospital room, swinging his feet several inches from the floor to the rhythm of the heart monitor that he just imagined he could hear when he pressed his ear to the wall.

He kept his eyes down to avoid the harsh overhead lights, and instead, stared at his untied shoelace as his feet swung battered tennis shoes in and out of his line of sight. He could hear his mother screaming.

“What do you mean you won’t get paid sick leave? How am I supposed to pay the bills? And that damn kid, he eats like General Lee’s army. And here you are layin’ up on your sorry ass, knowing that we ain’t got no insurance to cover this.”

Francis wished he had a set of headphones so that he didn’t have to hear, and he glanced around the hallway at the other people who had to hear as well. He could see it in their eyes. “Poor kid,” they all seemed to say.

He looked down at his clothes; threadbare jeans that stopped an inch or so short of his ragged shoes. His shirt was fairly new, blue with the Batmobile on the front. His dad had brought it home four days ago as a special gift. That was the day before they got the call.

The police figured that Martin Stone had a mild heart attack and lost control of the semi, before plowing into the concrete base of the overpass. Little more than a burnt out shell was left of his dad’s rig.

The yelling inside his dad’s room rose to a crescendo, before the door swung open, and Sheila Stone stormed out, bright red hair swinging angrily against her back. She stomped down the hall and out the double doors without even looking at him. He checked his pockets and found $1.37 in change; enough for a coke and a bag of chips. At least he would have some supper.

Four hours later, a quick scuffling of feet and harried voices brought him awake. Nurses and doctors whirled about the hallway like choreographed dancers, yelling out orders and numbers that Francis couldn’t follow.
When they wheeled his father’s bed out past him, he jumped up, and tripped over his shoelace in his hurry. A young nurse with dark hair and large brown eyes that pronounced her Latina heritage, helped him up. She kept him from panicking or fighting to get to his dad by asking him questions in a low soothing voice.

“What’s your name?”

“Francis”

“My name is Josefina. How old are you, Francis?”

“Eight. Can I see my dad now?”

“Not yet. How would you like a cheeseburger? I think there are some down in the cafeteria.” She smiled brightly at him, and his stomach growled painfully. He vaguely remembered falling asleep before finishing his chips. She settled him at a table and promised she’d be back soon. Francis piled pickles and mustard on his cheeseburger, and ate it in five bites. The lady behind the counter smiled at him and sat another down in front of him without saying a word.

He had eaten half of it when Josefina came back she asked if he knew his mommy’s phone number. He shook his head.

“We don’t have a phone, it got cut off. Can I see Dad now? I saved him half my burger.” He held it up as if it were an explanation. Josefina’s wide mouth turned up in a sad smile.

“Why don’t you go ahead and eat that.”

“But I want to give it to Dad. He likes pickles just like me.”
Josefina took the burger from him and set it on his plate, then put a warm hand on each of his shoulders. “Francis, I know I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this, but your dad…he didn’t make it.”

He managed to just keep himself from screaming as he came instantly awake. He was sweating, but that was not unusual. Since the bang, Francis’ body always ran a few degrees hotter than most, especially when he was upset.
The transport he was riding in hit a wicked patch of turbulence and he suddenly remembered where he was. He yanked at the shackle on his arm, and was amused when Static merely mumbled, and continued to sleep.

He leaned his back against the cool metal wall of the cell and took several steadying breaths. He wished he could call up a ball of fire to fidget with, but something in the room was muting both his power and Static’s. Focusing on his power always calmed him down.

For a while after the bang, he had not been comfortable with the high that his power gave him. It reminded him of a drug, and that reminded him of Sheila.
After his dad died, she married again. Jeff ran a garage. He was basically a glorified grease monkey, except for the backdoor cocaine business.

Francis watched his mom fall into a horrible cycle of drug addiction. Granted, she had all the maternal instincts of praying mantis, but without the drugs, she could at least stand up for herself. Pretty soon, Jeff ran their sagging little house.

He remembered coming home to a house that reeked of cigarettes, rancid food, and sex. His mom would be lying, strung out, on the couch or the floor; wherever she landed. If Jeff’s custom painted Chevy was out front, he ran to his room as quietly as possible, to avoid annoying him.

Just the thought of slinking around his old house had Hotstreak wanting to burn something to a crisp. He crossed his arms in front of him, and Static’s arm fell into his lap. After a moment of breathlessness at the surprise contact, he smiled. Even though he was currently a prisoner of some mystery person, locked in a room that bound his power, with his archenemy, there were worse places he could be.

“Like the hospital,” he frowned at the thought. People at hospitals always seemed to have that same look. Poor kid. Sympathy, just wasn’t something could deal with anymore.

In his experience, hospitals equaled losing someone, or something, cold, antiseptic stares trying to read him, and whispered conversations behind thin curtains that he wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Poor kid, looks like someone beat the hell out of him.”

“Parents said he had a bike accident.”

“At least they didn’t try the old ‘He fell down the stairs’ line.”

“You know how it is with these families. No insurance, no class. Just watch the kid, make sure he doesn’t lift any medicine, and lets get him patched up and out of here.”

“But Dr. Corley, what about the cigarette burns on his arms? Shouldn’t we call someone about this? Just in case.”

“Alice, have you seen our waiting room today. The kid’s twelve, he probably did it to himself while he was high or something. If you want to work on the rough side of town, you gotta be ready to deal with the rough side of life. Now stitch him up and send him home. His dad is waiting outside.”

A pretty blonde nurse with tiny hands and feet brushed the curtain aside and started swabbing some foul smelling liquid on his busted lip and eyebrow. He tried to hide his wince behind a tough look.

“Y’know red, if you keep scowling like that, your handsome little face is gonna stay that way,” she smiled at him but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“He’s not my dad,” Francis whispered. She left after tending to his other injuries silently.

Three days later, Jeff blacked his barely healed eye, before falling into a drug-induced stupor. Francis left that afternoon. He dumped his school books out of his worn backpack, stuffed it with three suits of clothes, as much cash as he could find in the house, Jeff’s switchblade, and the batman shirt that long ago became too small for him.

Two hours later, he was curled up in the back seat of the first Greyhound that stopped at the station, headed for Dakota.
Seventeen trips to the emergency room in two years left the scent of disinfected air deeply implanted in Francis’ lungs. Sometimes all he felt he could do was burn it out. Living on the street gave him plenty of opportunities for that. He established himself as one of the most vicious hoodlums in the city, and quickly climbed the rungs until he had his own gang.

When the big bang happened, he found that nothing had really changed. Trapped in a hospital with doctors and nurses whispering around him, Poor kid.
He was used to pain, but when the heat built up inside him the first time, he screamed. But when he pushed, it left him, lessened. Pretty soon, he realized that the fire running around in him, helped consume all the anger and bitterness. And when it didn’t, he could toss some of that anger at someone else.

He wondered if that was how Static’s power worked for him, if it was as addictive as his own. He would have asked, but Static was still asleep.

“Hmph,” he snorted at the sleeping form, “I don’t know who you are, but you definitely ain’t a street kid. You sleep that sound out there, you get your ass shot off.”

Suddenly Hotstreak realized that he had a chance to find out who Static was. He reached out lightly toward the mask, but just as he touched it Static stirred. He didn’t wake up, but simply turned and curled his body into Francis’, resting his head on the redhead’s chest.

The solid weight of Static’s hand on his crotch was nice, and Francis couldn’t help but notice what nice full lips the other boy had. He felt a tightening of the material in his cargo pants. Static’s hand pressed more firmly down on his hardening erection. His back arched away from the wall, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning.

He’s asleep, he reminded himself, he can’t know what he’s doing. But he was doing it so well. Unconsciously, Francis ran his arm around Static’s shoulders and hoisted him up so that his head lay higher up, so that their faces were closer.

Static continued to rub rhythmic circles over Hotstreak’s cock through his pants. When the friction made him moan, he heard the other boy chuckle softly.

“I didn’t know you had such a wicked side, flyboy,” Francis hissed out through gritted teeth, as Static pressed down on him again.

“I’m angry, so I figure you must be too. When I get angry I gotta have some release, and usually I get that by using my power. Since neither of us can do that, I figure all that energy gotta go someplace,” he responded.

Hotstreak grabbed Static’s hand when he ran it upwards toward his zipper.

“This doesn’t change anything. No strings, and don’t expect me to go soft on you.”

Static laughed, “Well, I would certainly hope not.”

Francis jerked back, realizing his mistake, and felt the heat inside him grow. Where did this fly-zapper get off laughing at him? Fine, he thought, he wants release; I’ll give it to him.

While Static was still laughing, Francis rolled, pressing the smaller boy down onto the cold floor and covered those full lips with a smoldering kiss that instantly silenced him. Static’s eyes went wide beneath his mask, and he found himself instantly and almost painfully erect. What had made him think seducing Hotstreak was a smart or even safe idea?

Hotstreak fumbled at Static’s buckle for a moment before roughly pulling his belt through the loops. His pants were unfastened before he got past the feel of leather whipping around his midsection.

Static drew a sharp breath in through his teeth as a warm palm surrounded him, and talented fingers ran lines of heat from the base of his shaft to the head. Meanwhile, Hotstreak ran a line of fiery kisses down the smooth skin of his neck.

When Static reached, trying to pull the other boy’s shirt up to reveal his chest, Hotstreak laughed lightly. He wrapped the extra chain between the cuffs that held them together around both of Static’s hands, and pressed down on them, pinning his arms to the floor above his head.

“Hey, what do you think you’re…” Static tried to ask, before an involuntary shudder forced him into silence when Francis began a slow, hot pumping motion from the base of his cock upward. He could feel a ball of liquid heat forming in his stomach, and he began arching up to meet the strokes.

Static was impressed and amused by just how fast Hotstreak could remove a fairly snug pair of pants, because before he realized what was happening, his lower half was bare and Hotstreak was sliding, hot and hard, into him.

Someone moaned, though later, neither of them could place who it was. Hotstreak thrusts hot and fast, as if he were driving a nice stolen sports car. Static strained at the chain and vice-like grip that kept his hands from exploring the nearly completely clothed body on top of him.

He felt the redhead tensing and began arching up to meet his every thrust harder until he couldn’t stand the heat anymore. With a halting cry, he finished seconds before Hotstreak started shaking above him. He watched as the older boy shuddered and bit his own lip to keep from yelling, before he collapsed.

They lay side by side for a few seconds, both breathing deeply.

“Is your skin always that hot?” asked Static, reaching out to touch the hand that remained shackled to him.

“I don’t know, is yours always that dark? Of course it’s always that hot, flyboy,” Francis replied, yanking his hand away, which only brought Static’s hand with it.

“Ouch,” Static hissed, and pulled his hand back to rub his wrist, “That little stunt you pulled with the chain hurt.”

“Tough, you had better be glad I can’t use my powers. Normally I brand what I claim.” Hotstreak flashed a roguish grin Static’s way and slumped against the wall. “Now leave me alone. Now that I got that outta my system, I think I’ll get some sleep.”

“We need to figure out our escape route for when we land,” Static reminded him snappishly.

“You figure it out, flyboy. My plan is to get out of here, get loose from you, and blow shit up. That usually works for me.”

“Man, what is your problem?”
Hotstreak raised one eyebrow at him, propped his folded hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and said, “I got issues.”