Riding Out the Storm

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Promptly Postulated by The Manwell

...

He’d called beforehand but that hadn’t prepared me for the shock of seeing him standing on my doorstep. How long had it been since I’d last seen him? I think back to that blaze of battle on X18999, remember asking him to hit me, recall knocking him out and leaving him in Trowa’s custody. I’d told him it was for his own good. I almost frown at the memory, something about the justification for my actions making me restless.

“Well, hell, Heero,” Duo says, “it’s only been two and a half years. Did you forget what I look like?”

He’s grinning at me and I can see it’s one of his real smiles. Those are rare, I know. And unmistakable. When Duo smiles for show his eyes crinkle at the corners, turning into narrow semicircles glittering with mirth. Every muscle in his face takes part in the gesture until you’re sure every cell of his being is riotous with laughter. Those smiles are beautiful, yes, but they aren’t genuine.

When Duo really smiles his eyes remain open and his gaze is searching... as if he’s attempting to engrave this moment of happiness into his memory. His lips curve upward but the rest of his face is relaxed. It’s a quieter Duo. I’d like to think this is the real him. This Duo I can relate to; when he’s truly happy, he’s also sad. With pasts like ours it’s impossible to ignore the impermanence of joy.

I stare back at him, feeling my mouth form an answering grin. I find it’s not possible to resist one of Duo’s true smiles. Out of habit, I reach for my stoic mask but it quickly slips away. I must be out of practice.

“Hold on while I get the retina scanner,” I tell him, finally replying to his gentle jest.

His grin widens. “Why does it not surprise me you’ve got one of those things just lying around?”

I push the door open wider and take a step back, wordlessly inviting him into my lair. It’s not much, but it’s mine. Somewhat nervously, I sweep my gaze around the room. It looks clean, yes, but not terribly impressive. I’ve never intended to impress anyone with my home. I find it distinctly odd that I now wish I’d added a few photographs to the bare walls or a rug to the hardwood floor. Looking at the room critically, I feel a twinge of... regret? that I hadn’t bothered with the accumulation of material things in the past thirty odd months.

I turn away from my living space, suddenly tired with my contemplation of it. I open my mouth to ask Duo if he’s thirsty but pause when my gaze reaches him again. He’s not looking at my humble abode.

He’s looking at me.

Something in his expression—some quiet intensity—makes my breath knot in my throat. I have to close my mouth and swallow it down before I can speak. I direct my steps toward the kitchen as I ask, “Something to drink?”

“Sure,” he answers amicably. “Whatcha got?”

“Whatcha want?” I return in a wry voice.

I can hear his smile. “Water’s fine.”

Looking over my shoulder at him, I arc a brow in speculative inquiry.

He just continues grinning and shrugs.

I pour him a glass of water from the filtering system in the refrigerator. As I hand him the tumbler, I feel his gaze probing my expression. Our fingers brush but he doesn’t seem to notice it.

“You’re taller,” he says observantly.

“Not as tall as you,” I reply plucking a second glass from the shelf.

“Looks like you’re still cutting your own hair, too.”

I glance at him, noting the playful expression. He knows just as well as I that I’ll never let just anyone get that close to me with a pair of scissors. “Looks like you still haven’t cut yours,” I toss back.

His gaze never seems to wander from me. He slowly shakes his head, a pleasantly surprised expression on his face. I imagine I’ve shocked him with my ready responses. I hadn’t been much of a conversationalist during the wars.

“You noticed,” he says instead, still amused.

“What don’t I?” is my counterattack.

He blinks and his smile falters. The disruption is brief, very brief. If I hadn’t been staring back at him I might have missed it. I probably still would have sensed it, but I wouldn’t have been as sure about it.

“Yeah...” he drawls, lifting the glass to his lips. “What don’t you notice?” He takes a sip and then, smile returning, continues, “But I seem to recall surprising you enough to get you to drop your gun a few years ago...”

I smile, too, knowing he’s remembering how we met. I find it rather hilarious that I’m smiling over a memory of being shot. “I didn’t make that mistake a second time, did I?”

“Yes, well,” Duo tells me, “I was rather reluctant to shoot you again.”

“It’s nice you tell me this now,” I say with a pointed look at him.

He chuckles. “Better late than never.”

“Right.” I don’t sound convinced.

A moment of silence settles between us. We watch each other sip at our respective glasses of water and I begin to feel restless again. I tell myself I’m just not used to people being in my home, drinking my filtered water, looking at me like they can read me like an open book.

“Where are you staying?” I ask. It’s the first thing my brain generates to break the silence.

He has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “Not sure yet,” he admits. “I just grabbed a cab from the spaceport.”

I’d noticed his overnight bag. He’d left it with his shoes by the door. I try to imagine him picking it back up and walking out of my home; I try to picture seeing him off into the night... I can do it, but I don’t like it.

I tell him, “The couch is a futon...”

He hesitates. “You sure?”

“I’m offering aren’t I?”

“Sounds like it to me,” Duo affirms, eyes sparkling.

I smile, too, happy that I’ve asked him to stay over. Very happy.

...

We order pizza.

Duo doesn’t comment on my blatant lack of anything remotely entertaining on the premises. He doesn’t bemoan the absent television or non-existent stereo. But he does ask:

“Why’d you come back to L1?”

I don’t even consider ignoring the question. Once, I wouldn’t have responded at all. It’s a difficult inquiry to answer without revealing too much of myself. Now, however, I only hesitate for a minute or so trying to find the most accurate wording.

Duo continues eating his pizza, acting like he hadn’t asked, respecting my decision to ignore the question should I choose to do so.

I don’t.

“Connections,” I say.

In the middle of trying to disentangle his bite of pizza from the strings of gooey cheese still linking him to the rest of the slice, he looks up at me, pausing. He hadn’t expected me to actually answer him.

“Living here helps me remember who I used to be before J took me in.”

Having resumed chewing, bite safely amputated from the remaining portion on his plate, Duo nods. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“Why’d you take a job working for Quatre?”

With a wry grin, he says, “It’s not like he offered it to me. I applied like everyone else.”

“Something tells me he didn’t bother to interview any other candidates.”

Duo shrugs. “I had a hunch I’d get the job if Q was checking over the applicants himself. And after storming X18999 with you I realized how much I missed piloting. But I didn’t figure a commercial shuttle company would bother with me since I’m not certified and I’m kinda underage. So yeah, that’s why I’m flying one of Quatre’s personal shuttles for him.”

“Doesn’t sound as exciting as crashing into a colony,” I comment.

He laughs softly. “There’s not much that is,” he concedes. “Not many occasions for an adrenaline rush in this day and age.”

“I guess neither of us were thinking that far ahead when we were busting our asses for peace.”

Duo’s brows arc upward. “Heero Yuy? An adrenaline junkie? Pull my other leg.”

I reach under the glass coffee table between us, hands poised over his ankles. “Which would that be?” I ask. “Right or left?”

Abandoning his pizza, Duo leans back and laughs. I listen to the sound of his amusement echoing off of the blank walls in the room. I really have to do something about those unforgiving, empty surfaces.

With a deep breath, Duo sits up again, props his elbows on the coffee table, and regards me with that somberly content smile of his. “I have missed you, Heero Yuy,” he tells me.

I blink, suddenly realizing that I’d missed him, too.

“You gonna eat that breadstick?” he asks, gesturing toward the lonely appetizer between us.

I shake my head. “You have it.”

He does. And as he takes a bite, I wonder if I should try to respond to his unexpected admission. But every phrase that comes to mind sounds hackneyed and awkward. I feel my molars clench together in frustration.

“Whatcha doing tomorrow?” he asks me.

I finally realize he isn’t expecting a reply to his comment about having missed me. Perhaps he already knows what I want to say. He’s always seemed to read me so easily.

“Nothing,” I say. I’d purposefully left the day open just in case I’d decided I wanted to spend more time with him.

“Cool,” he says. “You can give me a tour or something.”

“I suppose I could do that.”

He smiles and jokes, “You’re blowing me away with that overwhelming display of enthusiasm, Yuy.”

“Ah,” I reply, almost smiling. “I please to aim.”

...

I still can’t quite get used to the sight of him.

“Whatcha looking at, Heero?” he queries me with a glance in my direction out of the corner of his eye. He’s leaning back against the jungle gym in the park, watching the colony lights slowly fade out into late evening.

I tell him, “You.”

I think I’ve surprised him again. He stops tilting his face into the slight breeze and blinks his large, dark eyes at me.

I look away. “You’ve changed a lot,” I say. Somewhat lamely, I think.

A slow smile curves his lips. “Not so much,” he gently differs. He continues to study me, the grin gradually widening. “You on the other hand...” he muses, gesturing toward my jaw then sliding a slender finger along his own smooth chin.

I wince. Apparently, even in the dimming light, my 5 o’clock shadow is completely obvious. And it’s well past 5 o’clock. I lift my hand to rub my calloused fingers against the sandpaper my skin’s suddenly become. I’ve occasionally wondered about my origins in the past and still find myself, every once in a while, dwelling on that unknown. On most days, I haven’t a clue. But at this moment I feel positively Slavic. I share this observation with Duo. He laughs so hard he slumps against the metal bars until they’re the only things holding him up off the sand.

When, at last, he catches his breath, Duo looks up at me from his quasi-seated position. His eyes are shining in the waning light. “Well, it’s only fair, I guess,” he informs me. “If I get to be taller, then you get to be hairier.”

I arc my brows in quiet, sincere disbelief. “I think you got the better end of that deal.”

“Aw, being hairy’s not such a bad consolation prize,” he says, straightening.

I mutter, “Should have picked what was behind door number three...”

Duo chuckles. “Tro’s got the best deal out of all of us, I think.” At my mildly inquisitive look, he elaborates: “Very tall... and he’s growing a goatee.”

I shake my head, almost unable to picture that. Companionable silence follows and we both turn our gazes back to the colony. The park provides a nice view. It’s on an incline and from the base of the jungle gym, it seems like the city is sprawling at our feet.

“Well,” Duo says lightly, “you’ve shown me the modern art museum, the chamber of commerce, the engineering college, the L1 historical society, and the library with the largest collection of electronic data files in all the colonies.” Duo pauses and swings his gaze back in my direction. “I hate to ask,” he continues hesitantly, “but what do you do for fun around here?”

“What?” I ask flatly, “A FTP file upload session not enough for you anymore?”

“Don’t tell me you still find it oddly fulfilling?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

He leans his head back against the webbing of metal pipes and grins widely. “You are such a geek.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing if you know more about the latest Linux update than where to take a guy out on a Sunday night.”

That last half of his sentence causes me to give him my undivided attention. Interestingly enough, his face is slightly flushed. I can barely see the dusting of pink across his nose and cheekbones in the twilight. He fidgets with his jean jacket. I watch his fingers pluck nervously at the worn, metal buttons. I take in the signs and know this much: Duo Maxwell thinks he’s just said too much.

Interesting.

I check my watch and take a step back toward the city. “Come on,” I call back over my shoulder. “You don’t want us to be late, do you?”

I can hear his long strides eating up the distance between us as I continue down the path. He doesn’t ask where we’re going. Duo Maxwell has never been a big fan of surprises, but in this case he seems to be making an exception.

...

“The Math and Science Center?” he reads, sounding very doubtful.

A small smirk tugs at my mouth and I reply simply, “Trust me.”

With a great show of reluctance, he follows me up the steps and into the building. Once we’re inside the lobby, I tell him to wait beside the staircase for me. This being a Sunday night, the center isn’t as busy as it normally is and I manage to purchase two tickets in less than five minutes.

I can see the questions in Duo’s eyes as I return to him. With a slight shake of my head I brush past him and start ascending the steps to the second floor. I watch him, waiting for the moment when we round the corner and the evening’s entertainment is revealed.

I am not disappointed.

There’s a slight pause in his steps and his eyes widen.

He’s just spotted the entrance to the Omni Theater.

I take a few more steps and he follows.

At the landing, he freezes again. I follow his absorbed gaze to the poster advertising tonight’s show. He’s so still and so quiet for so long that I consider calling his name. But then he’s turning toward me with one of those beautiful 100% pure Duo smiles. I infer that my choice of entertainment meets with his approval. It’s not until I feel myself relax that I suddenly realize I’d been nervous.

I tilt my head in the direction of the entrance and Duo accompanies me to the double doors. After the tickets are handed over and we step into the dim theater, Duo asks, “Where shall we sit?”

“Wherever you want.”

He takes a moment to absorb the vast, domed ceiling above him and the reclining chairs around him before pointing to a row about two-thirds the way up. I nod. And then the strangest thing happens. I feel Duo’s slender fingers wrap around my wrist and I’m so startled by the warmth of his skin against mine that I nearly stumble when he starts up the path to our seats.

His grip is gentle. I could easily remove myself from his grasp. But I don’t. He leads me to the row of dark, plush seats he’s found acceptable and I trail behind him until we’re perfectly centered before the enormous, concave screen. We sink down into our seats. The theater is very sparsely populated tonight and it feels like we’re the only people here. I stare up at the projection of the stars and I can almost imagine lying back in some grassy field on Earth with Duo, looking up at the sky...

The film starts with an ear-splitting crack that reverberates through the room, causing everyone to jump in their seats. A flash of lightning divides the screen. I feel a strong breeze against my face as we begin to dive into the storm.

Against my wrist, Duo’s hand moves. Caught up in the film’s visual downward spiral as we race the rain drops to the ground, I turn my hand over, exposing my palm. I don’t really think about what I’m doing. It’s an instinct, I think. One that’s older than those J and Odin had instilled in me. And as Duo’s palm settles against mine, as our fingers loosely interlace, I’m very glad I haven’t forgotten it.

For the next hour, through rain and wind and snow and dust, I’m holding Duo’s hand. Riding out the storm.

...

I decide I want caffeine more than I want a shave so I shuffle out into the kitchen, risking the chance of Duo catching me in all my unkempt glory at 5:48 a.m. It’s not as if Duo hasn’t seen me all bleary-eyed and sleep-crusted before. We had been roommates on a few occasions during the war. But after last night things seem... different.

He hadn’t said anything to me after the journey through the Earth’s most powerful storms had subsided. And I hadn’t offered up any conversation. We’d walked home in perfect silence. Holding hands. And he hadn’t let go when I’d unlocked the door and disengaged the security system. I hadn’t wanted him to, either. Not a word had passed between us as we’d slipped off our shoes and waded further into the living room.

The illumination from the street lamps had tumbled in between the blinds, casting stripes of silver and shadow over us and the empty walls. He’d turned to me and he’d smiled. His hand had tightened briefly around mine when I’d smiled back. And then he’d slowly released me. As his fingers had slid away from mine, Duo and I had nodded goodnight and parted ways.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that image of him standing there in stripes of pallor and darkness, his eyes searching my face, his hair slightly windblown, smiling.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way I’d felt in that moment. Even now the ache is heavy in my chest. It feels like the muscles over my heart are contracting. It hurts but it makes me smile, too.

Odd.

I shake my head and reach for a mug but my movements stall when an arm settles over my shoulders. I can smell him as his warm skin slides over my neck. His half-embrace is brief but sincere. I turn my head, meeting his gaze.

He’s grinning at me again.

I can only watch as he lifts his other hand to my face. He hesitates right before he would have touched me, his gaze searching mine. And then his fingertips lightly dust over my morning beard. I can hear the rasp of the short, sharp hair against his skin. It’s the only sound either of us have made in nearly ten hours. And we’re making it together.

His expression turns rueful as he abandons my jaw to smooth his hand over his own. I can barely make out the short, fine hairs on his chin. With a dejected sigh and a shake of his head, he gently maneuvers me toward one of the kitchen stools. I sit down and watch him heat water for tea.

My gaze follows him while he putters around my kitchen in his boxer shorts and white T-shirt. And I remember a time when I’d felt unsettled around him, when I’d been afraid of that piercing gaze, when I’d been sure that he’d see too much.

He pauses in what he’s doing and looks back at me. His expression clearly tells me he knows I’m watching him. I don’t try to hide it.

I’ve suddenly decided I don’t mind the fact that he reads me like an open book.

I don’t mind at all.

...

“I have to head back soon,” Duo tells me over lunch.

I set down my fork and realize I’d never asked him what brought him to my particular corner of the L1 cluster. I’d never asked him how long he would be staying. But then, asking would have implied I wouldn’t mind seeing him leave.

“I checked on the shuttle this morning,” he continues, finally confessing the nature of the errand he’d had to run. “It’s all loaded and fueled up. My flight plan’s gone through, too.”

“When?” I manage to choke out.

His gaze lifts to mine briefly before returning to his plate. “This evening. 19:40.”

I watch him poke at the remains of his lunch. For a heartbeat that uncomfortable, awkward silence revisits us.

“Will you visit again?” I blurt softly. The words are out before I’ve made the conscious effort to assemble them.

Duo looks at me and smiles. “Maybe,” he teases. “If you ask real nice.”

The corner of my mouth lifts in reply. “I’ll send you a postcard,” I intone.

“You do that,” he replies with soft laughter.

I watch him scoop up another tangle of pasta. I shake my head at him. For someone so graceful he’s an unbelievably messy eater. With every mouthful, at least one wayward string of spaghetti slaps him in the chin, leaving a small but very noticeable exclamation point of red sauce in its wake. He mutters on a sigh and reaches for his napkin again.

I decide to make a suggestion. As he refolds the much-used napkin, I tell him, “You wouldn’t have that problem if you’d eat spaghetti like a civilized person.” I twirl a forkful of pasta into a neat buddle with the help of a large spoon beneath the tines.

He arcs a brow at me, looking highly amused at my little demonstration. “What makes you think I want to be civilized, oh great pasta guru?”

I meet his gaze, chew and swallow. The arced brow rises further in a clear inquiry of “Well?” I suppose I should have known better than to say anything. With an expression of half-hearted exasperation, I lean away from my plate and catch the eye of our server. I ask for another napkin.

For some reason, Duo finds this highly entertaining.

The second napkin arrives. Duo manages to get the majority of the sauce in him rather than on him. We partake of the complimentary after-lunch mints that come with the check, pay, and depart.

Duo follows my lead as we meander down the street. The news of his imminent departure has caused me to reevaluate our plans for the afternoon. I had initially considered swinging past the theater to see if he’d care to take in a matinee, but now I head in the opposite direction. I don’t offer to tell him where we’re going and he doesn’t attempt to wrestle the destination out of me. Perhaps he’s starting to enjoy my surprises. I know I like delivering them.

Suddenly, Duo pauses, his gaze fixed on a display window. A strange, speculative smile curves his mouth as he studies the mannequins.

“What is it?” I ask, both curious and apprehensive at the calculating gleam in his eyes.

Grinning mysteriously, he abandons the display and turns back to me. “Oh, nothing,” he says innocently. Too innocently.

I glance over his shoulder at the shop. It’s a men’s clothing store. No more, no less. For the life of me, I have no idea what’s grabbed his attention. I decide to ignore it and hope nothing comes of it.

He has the audacity to chuckle at my short glare of warning. I retaliate by firmly steering him down the sidewalk. Now very eager to distract him from whatever scheme he’s plotting, I pick up the pace, practically dragging him into the square.

“Sit,” I command.

His eyes glitter merrily at me as I pull out his chair for him. Miraculously, with neither jest nor protest, he sits. I let him out of my sight only long enough to see a man about something with which to distract Duo. When I return, he’s still there and behaving himself no less. But I still don’t trust that look in his eyes.

All that changes when I set the small wood box on the table in front of him. I take the seat opposite and watch him disengage the latch. His eyes widen slightly and the gleeful twinkle changes to feral delight as he lifts out a worn pawn. He glances from the chess pieces in the box to the worn tiles checkering the table’s surface.

“You really are a masochist,” he says happily.

I return, “How long has it been since you’ve played?”

His grin widens. “Peace Million.”

“Hm.”

“White or black?”

I shrug. He hands me the dark pieces. We assemble the battlefield and launch our assaults. After thirty minutes, I begin to agree with Duo; I must be a masochist. He’s beating me soundly but I don’t mind. I watch him consider his strategy, watch Duo Maxwell unveil the vastly underestimated genius I have long sensed resides inside him.

I, for one, am thoroughly entertained.

And Duo doesn’t complain, either.

...

He’s gone.

I slide my gaze around my apartment and think it doesn’t so much feel empty as it feels... abandoned. At the thought, that strange ache takes up residence in my chest again.

I reach out and scoop up Duo’s sheets and blanket off of the sofa. I think to myself that I ought to straighten up the place but the truth of the matter is that Duo has left very little in his wake for me to straighten. For a moment, I wonder if the past two days have been nothing more than a dream. But then, as I tuck the linens into the crook of my arm, his scent wafts up to me.

Not a dream.

So why does it seem like I’m in the process of waking up?

I swallow back a sigh and meander to my room. I don’t bother to turn on the light. I just head for the clothes hamper. Linens grasped in both hands, I hold them over the basket but hesitate to drop them in. Not quite sure of what I’m doing, I back away from the collection of laundry until the backs of my legs bump against my mattress. I sink down onto the bed, Duo’s linens in my lap. For several minutes, I sit there and remember his brief visit: that first, sincere smile... his soft admission to having missed me... the small gasp of surprise when he’d seen the Omni Theatre’s Great Storms poster... the small bit of sauce that had persistently clung to his upper lip during lunch... the intelligence and calculation in his expression as he’d poured over the chess game just a short while ago...

I remember wanting to tell him that I’ve missed him as well. But what had I been missing? The last forty-eight hours have only shown me how very little I actually know about him. And how very much I want to know more.

I glance at the clock.

5:57

He’ll be in the middle of his pre-flight routine. Checking and double-checking the cargo and computer systems...

A sound intrudes on my reverie. I blink as the person on the other side of my door continues knocking. Abandoning the sheets and blanket, I head for the front door and pull it open without checking the peep hole first. Expecting to find Duo on my threshold, I am surprised to see a young boy with a cyclist’s helmet covering his pale hair.

“Hero Yuy?” he asks, mispronouncing my first name.

I nod anyway. “Yes.”

He holds a plain, sweater gift box out to me. “This is from Duo.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that, so I accept the parcel. The boy doesn’t wait around for me to give him a tip for the delivery. With a grin and a wave, he scampers off. Still frowning, I retreat back into my home. I stare at the box in my hands for a long moment before seating myself on the couch and placing the parcel on the coffee table.

I hesitate to open it. And I’m not entirely sure why.

Eventually, I tell myself to look and see what weirdness Duo has decided I need in my life so I peel the tape off of the lid and pry the thin cardstock apart. I sift through the white tissue paper until a soft field of sky- and dusty-blue plaid is exposed.

I frown. I hadn’t been expecting this. I pull the soft, flannel shirt out from among the paper and hold it up for inspection. I almost can’t believe Duo would pick this out. Once again, I think of all of the things I don’t know about him. And I’m intrigued.

I begin to carefully fold the shirt but pause when I notice a note stuck in the left breast pocket. Draping the garment over my knee, I pull the scrap of paper out, open it, and read:

Hey there my “Slavic” friend. Here’s an accessory of sorts to go with that beard you’re trying not to grow. Now all that’s left is for you to change your name to “Vlad.” Don’t forget to send me that postcard. See you again soon. Duo.

I reread the note before setting it aside and turning my gaze back to the shirt resting on my leg. Without really thinking about it, I remove my jean shirt and pull Duo’s flannel on over my white undershirt. As the warm fabric slides over my skin, I remember the moment he left. I remember the way he’d paused in the act of stepping out the door, remember the hesitant look on his face. I don’t recall hearing the sound of his duffle bag hitting the floor but he must have dropped it because suddenly he’d wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a tight embrace. I remember the feel of his breath against my neck as he’d bent toward my ear and whispered, “Thank you.”

Again, he’d caught me speechless. I’d stood there as he’d collected his bag and, with a gentle smile, walked away.

And I finally realize that I hadn’t said anything because I hadn’t wanted him to go.

I blink.

I don’t want him to go.

I glance at the clock.

6:21

I have time... if I hurry.

...

“Heero?”

I turn toward the sound of his voice. He’s staring at me with those wide eyes, disbelieving. In fact, he looks as uncertain as I feel. I marvel at how incredibly easy it had been to walk out of my home, to just leave it behind. I marvel at how quickly I’ve made the decision to follow him. And I have absolutely no regrets about any of it.

But I am confused. I know I don’t want to go back to that place alone. I know I can’t stand the solitude any longer. But I’m not entirely sure what it is I do want except... well, Duo.

I feel the muscles along my jaw flex as determination overtakes me. I turn back to the shuttle door and swing it into place, locking it soundly behind me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I level a glare on him and state, quite matter-of-factly, “I’m coming with you.”

He doesn’t—immediately—say anything. He blinks once. Twice. And then he smiles and responds amicably, “Okay.”

I had expected some resistance. I find myself momentarily off-balance in the wake of his ready agreement.

“Nice shirt,” he says. He’s teasing me now.

“Isn’t it?” I reply. “If you ask nicely, I might let you borrow it.”

The look in his eyes causes my breath to slam to a halt in my throat. I recognize that odd intensity from much earlier, from when I’d caught him studying me rather than my living room. But this time the fire I’d glimpsed is burning much... hotter. And I feel my body attempt to gravitate toward him.

He takes a step back and draws a breath. The distance cools the gleam in his eyes but doesn’t extinguish it entirely. “I’ll show you around, then,” he invites.

I follow him down the short hall watching his braid slide against the dark fabric of his flight uniform. He points out the kitchenette and the head. “And here’s the bunk room,” he says, gesturing to the portal on his right. He opens the door and turns on the light. “Go ahead and secure your stuff,” he continues under my steady gaze, “and then I’ll show you the cockpit.”

I can sense his agitation. He’s trying desperately to keep things friendly and light but I can feel the tension radiating from him. He glances at me when I make no move to enter the room and stow my bag. Our gazes lock and the intensity is back in his eyes and I think I’m glad to see it there.

Abruptly, the carefree façade falls away. A long breath hisses out between his teeth. “Why?” he asks me, softly.

Because I’d already started to miss him. Because he’d shown me what an empty life I’d been living. Because he’s intrigued me. Because I need to know more. But I can’t say any of that. So I reply with “Why not?”

It’s the wrong response. I see the flatness flood back into his gaze. He nods once and leans away. Damn it. This is not how I want this to go. I cut him off before he can steer the conversation away. “Because I need to,” I tell him.

He’s looking at me again. Wary. Speculative. He seems to accept my revised statement but holds back. I’m not sure what to do. I’m not sure of how to get the Duo I’d spent the last two days with back.

But then an idea occurs to me. Maybe...

My bag slides from my shoulder and I reach out. My hand brushes his and I deliberately thread my fingers between his. Part of me wonders what in the hell it is I think I’m doing. Part of me doesn’t think at all, just remembers that evening in the Omni Theater, aches to have a moment like that again. The rest of me isn’t capable of much more than drowning in the sudden, dark heat of his gaze.

His breath catches in his throat and I smooth the pad of my thumb over the back of his hand. He leans closer. So close. Breathes my name.

I want him closer.

Against my mouth, he softly pleads, “Stop me.”

I stare back at him and slowly shake my head: no.

A small, brief sound escapes from between his parted lips as he traverses those last few microns of space between our mouths. And he’s kissing me. It’s a brush of skin against skin, a caress, a careful and tender touch. My other hand, the one not entwined with his, reaches up and my fingers tangle tightly in his shirt. Against my mouth, his lips part. I can feel his breath against my tingling skin. My entire body flushes in response. I stare back into his heavy-lidded eyes and shiver at the first, tentative touch of his tongue. I open my mouth to inhale his scent, his breath, and then he’s...

My eyes slide closed completely.

...inside me.

Oh, God.

The feel of him stroking my mouth, sharing my breath, sliding between my lips. I shiver. I want more. I pull him closer. He slants his mouth over mine fully and accepts my invitation. A soft growl escapes the back of my throat and I feel the warm, solidity of his thigh sliding between mine.

Yes.

Against my neck, his fingers trace delicate patterns, trembling against my shuddering pulse. And I wonder how he knows just where to touch me.

He pulls back, reluctantly. My fist in his shirt doesn’t loosen. I watch his gaze travel down our bodies. He studies my grasp wrinkling his shirt, our interlaced fingers, his thigh pressing between mine. And just as slowly, he looks up into my eyes. I don’t attempt to break away. In fact, my fingers curl even tighter in the already abused fabric of his uniform. His gaze asks me a question, asks if I’m sure.

I glare back at him.

Sometimes, Duo Maxwell really is an idiot.

In answer, I rock my hips forward, sliding my crotch along his thigh. A very quiet, very low groan vibrates in his throat. Without further preamble, he lowers his mouth to my neck and briefly licks the skin over my throbbing jugular vein. I lean back against the wall behind me and let him taste me. I feel his hand disengage from mine and a moment later detect minute tugs on my flannel shirt as he unbuttons it. His lips nuzzle under my jaw and my recently liberated fingers burrow into the silky hair at his nape.

My back arches toward him as he pushes my white T-shirt up over my chest in one long, warm caress of splayed fingers and warm palms. My mouth falls open as the fabric rustles against my nipples. His tongue very lightly samples the outer rim of my ear and he’s...

My teeth snap closed, biting back a helpless sound of pleasure.

...on me.

His fingers brush so softly over my nipples. My hips begin a steady rocking motion against the hard muscles of his thigh. I can think no further than the sensation. I’d had no idea he and I would be... that it would feel so... I drop my chin enough to dislodge his exploration of my jaw and meet his gaze. Again, we stare at each other, his palms warm against my chest, my crotch pressed against him, and while I am rendered speechless by this experience Duo doesn’t seem so surprised.

Very deliberately, he moves his leg, generating a lazy friction through the fabric of my jeans. My breath pants out of me and he smiles. No, Duo’s not surprised at all. I want to ask him why he isn’t but the feel of his knuckles brushing down my abdomen to gently massage the first button on my jeans erases the thought. Two fingers dip past the waistband and rub small semicircles against my skin.

More.

He leans close enough to kiss me but refrains. He watches me, takes in my hot, shallow breaths as he slowly slides each button free. My jeans droop on my hips and I become very aware of the fact that I’m leaning back against this wall with my chest exposed and pants sagging open. He pauses, savoring me with his gaze. I shift my grasp from his neck and shirt to his shoulders, sensing the need for a firmer hold on him.

A grateful smile pulls at his lips. He closes the distance between our mouths again and kisses me slowly and deeply. I can feel the soft cotton of his uniform against my heated skin. And just when I don’t think the feel of it can possibly get any better, he’s...

A long, breathless moan tumbles from my mouth and into his.

...around me.

I want.

The heat of his hand surrounds me. Against me, his hips move in slow, shallow thrusts and we’re rocking against each other while he takes his time stroking me. I pull away from his mouth, my swollen lips soundlessly forming his name as I try to warn him I’m right on the edge...

And then I’m shuddering in his arms, basking in the feel of him tasting my lips with tiny licks, struggling to get the breath back into my lungs. I keep my eyes open and watch him watching me in my freefall.

When I have partial control of my limbs, my hands release their bruising grip on his shoulders and, trembling, frame his face. And then I smile for him, very aware that I’d almost missed this and very, very glad I haven’t.

...

“This is your copilot?” I inquire, not sure what to think.

Duo pauses in his rush to complete the pre-flight sequence and offers me a sheepish grin. “Um, yeah,” he says, his gaze roving to the small rag doll with short, messy, brown hair made from yarn wearing a dark green tank top and tight, black shorts. “One of Quatre’s nieces made it for me in her crafts class.”

I eye the miniature me with a critical air. “Where are my shoes?”

“Those puke-yellow monstrosities?” Duo replies easily. “I got rid of those, first thing.” With a promising leer, he threatens, “The tank top’s next.”

My eyebrows arc as I move the doll to the navigator’s seat and belt him down. “You’ve been demoted,” I inform him dispassionately. Duo snickers as I slide into the copilot’s seat.

“Shuttle 839, you have been cleared for launch.”

Duo’s fingers flutter over the comm. switch. “Roger that. Commencing launch sequence.”

I sit back and watch him work. There’s not much I could do to help. I know that Duo’s used to flying solo. My efforts to assist would only cause confusion and cost time.

The launch is flawless. He’s easily the best pilot I’ve ever met. That had been why I’d asked him to fly the shuttle we’d used to storm the gates of X18999.

Face and hair illuminated by the various monitors and their scrolling green bits of data, fingers flying over the controls, Duo tells me, “Why don’t you kick back and catch some sleep, Heero? I’ve got everything under control here...”

I hesitate and he senses this.

“What?” he asks mildly. “You don’t trust me?”

I snort but feel my eyelids droop at the same time. Damn it.

“Just put an astrosuit on first, will you?” he asks.

“You expecting trouble?” I ask, somewhat surprised.

“Nah,” he replies readily. “Procedure, you know? I’ll get mine on after I’ve finished these calculations.”

With a nod, I unbuckle myself from the chair and open the tiny locker in the cockpit containing suits, helmets, and spare oxygen filter systems. It takes me about ten minutes to shimmy myself into a suit during which Duo is still hard at work with the ship’s main computer.

“Shall I take over?” I offer, sliding back into my seat.

“Naw, I’m good. I’ll be finished here in just a few more minutes.”

“Hm,” I say, listening to the mesmerizing sound of his fingers tapping out algorithms and supplying variables. I cross my arms, lean back in my chair, and close my eyes.

...

“Heero!”

I come awake with a start, my entire body tensing at the urgency in his voice.

“Get your mask on! Now!”

Turning toward him, my eyes widen as I watch him struggle to dodge the sparks flying from the controls. I don’t have time to ask what’s happened. I forget about the helmet and oxygen filter as I reach of the terminal, intent on stopping the overload before it can progress into an electrical fire.

“Mask! Now! Yuy!”

With a growl, I struggle out of my chair and throw open the locker. I snap on the helmet and lock the filtering system into my suit. I’m turning back to help him when I notice the second suit is still hanging in the locker. Quickly, my gaze snaps to Duo. He’s still wearing his flight uniform.

Only his flight uniform.

“Get your suit on!” I bark at him, attempting to shove his hands away from the sizzling terminal.

“I’ve almost got the access panel off!” he protests.

“God damn it, Duo, I’ll do it! Get your suit on!” My blood feels like ice in my veins even as every muscle is shaking with horror.

“There! I’ve got— Shit!”

The panel slides away just as the shower of sparks intensifies and smoke begins to curl into the air.

“Duo!” I yell, trying to get his attention and not panic. “Get your suit on! I’ll deal with this.” But with a sinking feeling I know there isn’t time. If we don’t put out the fire now it’s going to spread to the rest of the shuttle and blow it apart. The only course of action we can take is to close off the oxygen tanks and decompress the ship.

“Heero.”

I turn away from the terminal and meet his very somber gaze. He knows, just as well as I do, what has to be done. I can feel my expression closing. I won’t let him risk his life like this.

As I reach for him, intent on wrestling him into a suit as fast as is humanly possible, he steps toward me, arm drawn back. I double over as his fist slams into my stomach, forcing the air out of me.

My mouth forms the word “Why?” even though I have no voice with which to utter it.

And as I fall backward into unconsciousness, I hear Duo tell me, “It’s for your own good.”

The vision of him lowering me to the copilot’s chair with sad eyes follows me into the darkness.

...

Ages old instincts prevent me from making a noise as I come to. Gradually, awareness returns to me until I realize I’m strapped to a somewhat comfortable chair wearing an astrosuit and helmet. And that’s when I remember the rest of it.

My eyes fly open and, briefly, the cockpit seems to radiate light. I shake my head and struggle to unbuckle my restraints. Stumbling free of the copilot’s seat, I pounce on the no-longer smoking terminal. The status shows full decompression accomplished. Vents now closed. Oxygen levels... minimal.

I slam my fist down against the lever that will commence a recycling of the air system. Only when I’ve done everything I can do I turn my head and look at Duo.

He’s unconscious, still strapped into his chair. I note the way he slumps forward within the restraints and glance at the oxygen level gage again. It’s almost there. I hurry to unlock the belts holding him down and maneuver him onto the floor. As I kneel over him, the computer beeps at me, alerting me to the fact that it’s now safe to remove my helmet. I toss the helmet aside and hurriedly peel my arms out of the suit’s sleeves. My bare fingers press into his neck, checking for a pulse as I lean over his face, hoping to feel the puff of his breath against my cheek.

I feel nothing.

I tilt his head back and force my breath into him. Crossing my hands over his chest I begin the controlled rhythm required for resuscitation.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I lean over him, press my mouth to his again, and exhale.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

My mouth to his. Exhale.

“Breathe, damn it!” I shout. I continue the chest compressions, unwilling to pause to rest. I feel pain—sharp and hot—sting the backs of my eyes as I watch his limp body jerk in rhythm with my weight pressing down on him. I breathe into his mouth again and my vision blurs as I pull away to continue simulating a heartbeat.

Don’t do this. I silently beg. Not when I’ve just figured it out. Not when I think... maybe... you and I could be... Someday, we could be...

Breathe.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I continue because I cannot stop. The tears begin to stream out of my eyes. My muscles begin to shake with fatigue. My breath begins to hitch in my throat. My voice begins to grow hoarse from screaming at him to wake the hell up.

But he doesn’t.

...

I gasp awake, my body shaking beneath the sweat-dampened sheet clinging to me. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. My pulse thunders in my ears and my breaths are shallow and ragged. Slowly, as my awareness returns to me, I begin to exert some control over my involuntary reactions. After a moment, I close my eyes and sigh. Calm has settled over me again, but the terror is still there. The pain still rips through my chest.

Duo.

I sit up in bed, cradling my head in my hands for a moment, trying to get my bearings. A minute passes. And then another. Slowly, afraid of what I’ll see, I lower my hands and take in the shadowed room. My room. In my empty shell of a home. A deep shudder originates from my soul and rattles its way out. I can only think his name over and over again in my mind as I shake from the pain of losing him.

“Heero?”

A strong arm slides across my shoulders and I fall toward that warm, solid body. I grasp him to me, inhale his scent. If it were possible, I would crack open my chest, pull him inside me, wrap him around my heart and keep him there—safe—forever.

“That dream again?” he whispers against my temple, wrapping me up painfully tight in his arms.

I nod. “I couldn’t bring you back,” I tell him in a voice that almost isn’t audible. He doesn’t ask me to elaborate. He doesn’t need to. In the two months since the shuttle’s near-explosion, the dream and my role in it have been painfully predictable.

His hands rub up and down my back, pressing against my damp shirt. He knows that a gentle caress is not what I need right now. I need him. Real and warm and alive.

“But you did, Heero,” he protests gently but firmly. “You did bring me back.”

I nod and curl against him. I wonder if he has any idea of how much I need him. Does he know that I simply cannot lose him? I let him strip me out of my soaked clothes and slowly, slowly his body heat begins to settle into me. And slowly, slowly I convince myself that he’s all right. And Duo remains: holding onto me as I ride out the storm.

The End