Window of Opportunity

A Gundam Wing Fanfiction by The Manwell

Do you ever feel that your life must be the forgotten byproduct of some omniscient, extraterrestrial being’s overdeveloped mind? That everything you experience is nothing more than the dream-playground of a creature with a far sicker sense of humor than you?

I think you know what I’m talking about.

Hell, I think everyone knows what I’m talking about.

Because we’ve all been there before, at some time or another, stuck in a moment that can only be crudely classified under the same category as your average Twilight Zone episode. Not that I’ve ever watched one of those things... but it gets the point across.

“Er... could you... say that again?” I barely hear myself mutter.

“Wow,” my conversant replies, blinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stunned almost speechless before. Shit. She hasn’t told you yet, has she?”

I don’t say anything in reply. I’m a little preoccupied with the unique sensation of my brain imploding.

“And I just totally ruined the surprise,” I dimly hear. “She’s gonna kill me.”

“She’s a pacifist,” I hear myself absently counter.

“She’s still a woman. Hell hath no fury and all that...” He sighs. “So... how’d it happen, man?”

I look up sharply and glare at him through narrowed eyes. “Why are you asking me?”

“Well... because you and she... this sort of thing, it...” He stumbles to a halt and gives me an assessing look. “You know... you’re right. Why am I asking you? You never tell me shit unless it’s got the word ‘mission’ in there somewhere.” But then he looks rather startled as something occurs to him. “Um... this... this isn’t one of those mission things, is it?”

What the fuck is he talking about?

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You and... er, you wouldn’t... um, would you?”

“Wouldn’t what, exactly?” I demand snarkily.

Again, he gives me that assessing stare. “Nah,” he decides, answering his own sloppily asked question. “Nah, you wouldn’t. So, briefing at fourteen-hundred today, right? Noin’s office?”

Not entirely sure of what’s just happened here, I watch him nod to himself, twirl a cheap office-pool-supplied pen between his fingers, and collect a small stack of files from the corner of my desk.

“Right,” he continues. “Until fourteen-hundred, then.”

And with a short salute over his shoulder, he pivots out into the hallway beyond my office.

I’m still staring at the open doorway when the mail clerk comes in to deliver my incoming correspondence. Five minutes or five hours could have passed. There’s no way I could have known the difference. But the interruption of my monotonous view startles me into scooping up my phone and punching the speed dial.

On the second ring, a frazzled-sounding secretary answers.

I tell her, “Heero Yuy. Put me through to Vice Foreign Minister Dorlain. Now.”

*****

I will never understand women. I have come to terms with this fact. Now if only they would leave me the hell alone and let me get on with my miserable little life.

I aim a long, hard stare at the young woman standing in front of me. “Relena,” I begin, my strained voice reflecting my dangerous lack of patience. “That’s not remotely possible.”

She doesn’t seem too concerned by my observation. “I know that. And, you know that. But I’ve got to wonder why he doesn’t know that by now.”

I don’t ask her what she means. I don’t have to. She’s known about my affections longer than I have myself. Not that she’d been moved to clue me in or anything...

Have I mentioned how annoying women can be? Oh, wait. I just did.

Softly, she asks, “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Why bother?” I challenge back. “You seem perfectly capable of saying more than enough.”

She doesn’t bat an eyelash at my harsh accusation. That, in and of itself, confirms that she is the sole source of the rumors that have reached HQ.

“Yes,” she tells me, “and at least I’m doing something.”

Unlike me.

I glare.

She glares back. “Face it, Heero. You’re never going to tell him. And I’m getting sick of being crammed into this pigeon-hole political office. I want out. And if I have to vilify myself, I’ll damn well do it.”

And she means it, too. I can see it in her eyes. For the tiniest instant, I feel like I ought to say or do something to stop her from committing professional suicide. But how can I? Relena is a grown woman now. One of my closest friends. Still...

“You had no right to drag me into this,” I growl.

She shakes her head. “Maybe not. But you’re the only one I can trust to go through with it.” Her lips twist into a self-depreciating grin. “And besides, you’re forgetting something.”

I’m not sure I can take any more surprises today. “And what might that be?”

“When the truth comes out, you’ll have your opening, Heero. Your window of opportunity. He’ll know the truth and–”

I can’t believe this. “And what? Do you even know what you’ve done?” I’m shouting, but I don’t care. “He thinks that we... we’re... Fuck!”

She has the suicidal nerve to laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure he thinks that last bit, at the very least.”

I’m so aggravated, I could strangle her. Right here, right now. I sort of wish life were that simple. Actually, now that I think of it... Why hadn’t I killed her Pinkness during the war when I’d had a better motive, countless opportunities, and a guaranteed ass-kicking mobile suit made of Gundanium, for the love of God?

“I don’t quite understand how this is supposed to solve both of our problems.”

She tilts her head to one side and smiles at me. And in her face I see the promise and enthusiasm of a caged bird who has just learned the secret to picking locks. “Just play it my way and it will.”

“Give me one good reason to trust you, Relena.”

The smile melts from her face and she meets my grave stare with one of her own. “Because I want a real life. And because you deserve one of your own.” She pauses briefly before taking a deep breath and concluding, “And because he’s already claimed your soul and deserves the chance to offer you his.”

And she knows all the right things to say. All the right buttons to push. I must be insane to agree to this.

“You’ll owe me,” I predict darkly.

She shakes her head. “You get what you want; I get what I want.” Her eyes sparkle with mirth. “You’re just being pissy because I thought of it first.”

And what is there that I can say to that? Just because the damn woman is right doesn’t mean I’m going to tell her so.

*****

“Yuy!”

I pause just outside of Noin’s office. It’s five minutes until the meeting is scheduled to start and I close my eyes and pray that I’d actually just heard Wufei’s voice calling my name. Why? Because, God knows, I need an excuse to rip into someone. Right. Now.

“Yuy!”

I open my eyes and smirk at Wufei’s disgruntled expression. I resist the temptation to glance heavenward but think nonetheless, Thank you, God.

“Good afternoon, Wufei. Another bout with bowel distress today?”

“What a handy euphemism for your neurotic partner,” he grits out.

I find this highly entertaining. Somehow, even though none of the agents at Preventers are officially assigned partners, whenever Duo Maxwell is being a particularly talented pain in the ass, he suddenly becomes my partner. I idly wonder if this little factoid will make it into the After Colony modern history books. Probably not. The future generations of bored school children won’t know what they’re missing.

The irritated, colony-born Chinese man in front of me thoughtfully elaborates: “Maxwell has spent the entire day thus far in my office speculating about those absurd rumors.” Wufei pauses. For dramatic effect. “The entire day! Speculating, Yuy!”

Ouch.

I suppose I ought to force a sympathy wince, but I reaffirm my smirk instead.

“I would appreciate it,” he continues darkly, “if you would put his mind at ease regarding this ridiculous story before I shoot the man myself!”

Ah, well... we can’t have that. The very thought of Wufei committing an alpha class felony on Preventer property chills the blood.

“If you toss him out a window, you can claim it was an accident.”

Wufei’s expression has barely registered his shock when a third voice intones a few paces away, “Claim what was an accident? Is this about that Tribecker case?”

And I have the unmitigated pleasure of watching Chang Wufei, senior Preventer agent-on-duty, face-palm in full view of witnesses.

“No, Duo,” I reply drolly, turning to the new arrival. “It isn’t.”

“Well, good,” he states, squeezing between Wufei and myself to reach for the door knob. “Because I’m all over that like dogs on polecat road kill, you know what I’m saying?”

Wufei groans. “Unfortunately, yes. We do.”

“Lovely visual,” I reply. “As always.”

Duo grins. “Shall we move this party inside or what?”

“First one in buys the beer,” I quip as Duo twists the handle.

“Ha. Ha,” he replies over his shoulder. “As if I wouldn’t catch that.”

I arc a brow. “There’s no harm in trying.”

“Until I get tired of your lame-ass, attempted scheming and drop you like first period home ec, that is.”

Now isn’t that an interesting analogy?

“Yet another simile. Aren’t we literal today,” Wufei comments dryly.

And before the conversation ball deflates, I manage to get in: “You know, I’ve got this cross-stitch pattern I’ve been having a little trouble with...”

“Oh? Finally taking up therapeutic embroidery?”

“Why? Were you going to ask for your thimble back?”

“Oh, shut up.”

I grin as we finally file into Noin’s office.

There had once been a time when Duo could have smacked me down without half-trying in a battle of wits. But I’ve never underestimated the power of the human will. And yes, through sheer will power, I’ve been able to end our little chats with the last word about half the time. For a former mono-syllabic troglodyte (Duo’s words), there’s not much more I could ask for.

Or, rather, as Relena had pointed out during my miss-spent lunch hour, there is something more I could ask for. But, obviously, I haven’t managed it yet.

And just that quickly, my morbid good humor vanishes in a puff of mental smoke and latent irritation assumes its place.

I am so not looking forward to following through with this plan. I mean, I can’t see how this could possibly end well for me let alone Relena, but I’d already agreed to it so ninmu ryoukai and all that.

“Agent Yuy, I haven’t even started in on the subject of this briefing and you’re already scowling,” Noin observes with an arced brow. “Care to get something off your chest before we begin?”

Well, a more obvious opening I couldn’t have asked for. Unfortunately, both the timing and company aren’t quite what I would have preferred. I say, “Not at the moment, thank you, ma’am.”

“Then get your mind on track, agent. I should hope you’d think this is more important than yet another random rumor floating around concerning your fascinating personal life.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wow. Even though Preventers policy doesn’t allow the administration to smack around the grunts, she still manages a rather effective – if only strictly verbal – bitch-slapping. Talented woman, Lucrezia Noin.

Clearing my expression requires no small effort on my part, but I must manage it because she turns to the issue at hand and we get on with those “more important” things she’d referred to: international terrorism and weapons smuggling. You know, the usual.

*****

I’d known he’d call. It had only been a question of when.

Thus, when my phone had rung, I’d half-known who I’d be talking to if I answered it. And I’d had a suspicion as to how the consequent conversation would go. But I’d scooped up the receiver nonetheless... an action that obviously originates from either a recently-developed bureaucratic reflex or masochistic tendencies. Neither option really seems all that appealing, honestly.

“Heero Yuy,” I drone.

And I hear: “So when were you going to tell me that you’d given up on our mutual acquaintance and started screwing Relena instead?”

I lean back in my chair and smile grimly up at the ceiling of my office. “Hello to you, too, Barton. You’re late.”

“That,” he tells me in his usual dry tone, “is obvious.”

I ignore that nicely placed dig and blithely continue, “I’ve been expecting your call since I heard the news just after ten hundred hours this morning.”

“What I wouldn’t have given to be a fly on the wall for that.”

I cough out a short, almost-laugh. “Yeah, you would have enjoyed my utter incomprehension at being congratulated by Duo Maxwell on having become an expectant father.” I wait through the anticipated moment of complete silence while Trowa presumably utilizes his formidable imagination to reconstruct the aforementioned scene for his own entertainment. And then I thoughtfully add, “With a woman I’ve never slept with for that matter.”

Another long moment drags by before Trowa, having absorbed all of this successfully and catalogued the relevant data into the organic supercomputer that is his brain, tells me matter-of-factly, “Hm.”

“Hm,” I agree.

Another slight pause extends over the line. “Are you free around sixteen hundred today?”

“Pretty much.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

So that’s it.

I replace the receiver and contemplate the imminent arrival of the man who has been my best friend since he’d patched me back together and watched over my comatose form during the war. Even through his amnesia we never really lost that connection. Odd, that.

But I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised. I mean, I’ve maintained a strong connection with Relena who had given her best shot at stalking me during the war. And then there’s Wufei and Duo, of course, with whom I work nearly every day. Even Quatre and I have swapped hastily-worded emails over the years. Yet, despite the fact that I have many good friends, I’m not currently seeing anyone, which – as far as I’m concerned – is nobody’s business and beside the point.

Unfortunately, it is the entire point of Barton’s promised visit.

Sooo not looking forward to that, by the way.

He’s going to want details. Specifics. Progress reports and a current goal analysis.

Not for the first time, I wonder why the hell Barton hadn’t just signed up with the Preventers like the three of us.

But enough about Trowa Barton, the unofficial fourth Gundam pilot-turned-Preventer... You’re wondering about this mystery man to whom Relena, Barton, and myself have referred, right?

Well, tough shit. I have enough people on my case about it without giving you more ammunition, too. So just shut the hell up and let me narrate the God damn story already.

But while we’re on the topic, there’s absolutely no point in me even trying to deny the fact that I’d give almost anything to meet up with Mr. Mystery in a dark, forgotten alley somewhere. And if an alley isn’t available, an office supply closet will do in a pinch. Not that I’ve fantasized about that or anything...

And somehow my brain makes the unlikely jump from trying not to envision one of those clichéd oh-no-we’re-locked-in-the-supply-closet-and-everyone-else-has-gone-home-for-the-night scenarios to complete, unequivocal guilt. I have no idea how the hell it happened. One minute I’m trying not to follow the thread of a low-budget porno flick in my mind and the next I’m berating myself for not screwing up my courage and just telling the star of those aforementioned fantasies exactly why those rumors about Relena and I (and our mythical unborn child – can’t forget that) are total shit.

I mean, I can’t imagine what this could end up costing Relena if I give her that reason to vilify herself, as she’d put it. As it is, she’s planning to throw a royal – no pun intended – fit to ensure that she pisses off all the right people. Unless she thinks I’m dragging my feet, that is, and if that happens, she’ll mercilessly unveil (cue the creepy music, please) the Extended Plan. And the time I spend dragging my feet rather than clearing this up with my intended only increases the chances of her lighting that pyre and getting burned very badly. Never mind that it had been her moronic idea to begin with...

Right. I should try to talk to him. You know, get something accomplished. Have something to report to Trowa by the time he gets here and starts making demands and giving me The Look.

Ooookay.

I settle my hands on the surface of my desk on either side of my keyboard, but my somewhat stiff office chair just feels so comfortable at the moment. I mean, what’s the point of meandering around the office looking for someone who won’t be found if he doesn’t want to? Especially if my ass hasn’t gone numb yet?

Oh, my God. I am pathetic.

Okay, okay. I’m going. Really. Right now.

I stand up and stare at my computer screen for a long moment as if I’m waiting for it to disgorge the details of exactly how I’m going to go about this. Unfortunately, my mind is doing a rather convincing portrayal of a black hole. The only thought which seems capable of escaping the void is: I hate you, Relena...

“Yo, man. You all right?”

I snap out of the hypnotic trance I’d fallen under while contemplating the cursor blinking on my screen. Looking up, I discover Duo hovering in my open doorway.

“I’m fine,” I rasp/cough, feeling like I’ve just been drenched with the winning team’s Gatorade cooler at the conclusion of the Super Bowl. “What do you want?” I demand flatly.

“Ask not what you fellow Preventer wants, but what you want from your fellow Preventer,” he advises with a playful grin.

I sigh. “Fine. Then hand over the plan ticket to Tahiti and back away slowly.”

“Dude... you know I’m your friend and everything, right? But you’re crazy if you think I’d just give you the only free pass outta here I’d ever managed to lay my hands on.”

I’ve got to give him that. “So what have you brought me?”

He arcs a single eyebrow and lifts the items he’d had tucked under his arm for my perusal. “Your files? I finished looking through them. Thanks, by the way.”

“Sure,” I reply. “Next time, bring me a plane ticket.”

He snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I reassume my seat behind my pc and resign myself to looking busy... at least until he leaves. Then I can panic about accomplishing something before Trowa’s arrival and try to ignore the consequences of Relena’s Extended Plan.

I peck at the keyboard while Duo shuffles through my filing cabinet – I will never understand why we’re required to have every single form handwritten in triplicate when we have the most ass-kicking, bitch-slapping database known to humankind at our fingertips. And a generator that could launch the entire city of Albuquerque into orbit. But, whatever.

“Er, Heero?”

I notice that Duo has stopped stuffing manila files into alphabetical order and is gazing at me over his shoulder. His expression is quizzical. “You all right, man? You’re looking a little strung out.”

“I’m fine,” I hear myself say automatically. But then I pause and add with a bit more snark, “Or rather, I was fine until this bullshit rumor started going around.”

I glare at my pc screen and try to look busy again.

“You’re... um... you mean you and Relena aren’t... ah, expecting...?” Thankfully, he trails off without finishing that unthinkable sentence.

“God, no,” I choke out. “The very idea is...” I almost say “laughable,” but that’s not entirely accurate. “Horrifying” is closer to what I really mean... Is there a single word in the English language that means hysterical and terrifying all at the same time? There isn’t? Well, there fucking should be.

I mutter in his general direction, “You can’t have a kid with someone you’ve a) – never slept with, and b) – have no intention whatsoever of sleeping with.”

“Well, technically, you can.”

I transfer my startled glare to him and grouch, “What?”

“Two words, pal: in vitro.”

My eyes narrow. “No,” I deny solidly. “No way in everlasting hell.”

“Famous last words, Yuy.”

With a stubborn grunt, I glance at my computer again. I absentmindedly fiddle with a few random keys... and somehow manage to inadvertently delete half of my report. Oh well. I’ll worry about that later.

“Whatever,” I tell him. “The rumor is bullshit. End of story. Now you can stop bothering Wufei about it.”

“But I like bothering Wufei.”

The playful tone of his voice pulls my gaze up and I find myself on the receiving end of a full-power Maxwell grin. Complete with suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

I roll my eyes. “It’s not much of a challenge,” I tell him.

“That’s true, but it does great things for my ego.”

“If your ego needs stroking, you should do it at home with a moist towel.”

Judging by the shocked expression on Duo’s face, I guess he hadn’t expected me to say that. And, honestly, I hadn’t really expected me to say that, either. And it’s not as if I’ve done myself any favors. Now I’ve just chucked another potential sex toy into the same room in my mind that is currently playing a steamy locked-in-the-office-supply-closet scenario on the big screen.

Congrats, Yuy. You ‘da man.

“Woah...” Duo breathes, blinking. “Good comeback. I walked right into that.”

I quirk a brow, agreeing in silence as I attempt to close, lock, and bar the doors to the porn theater that is my post-war imagination.

“But then,” he continues, edging toward the doorway, “if you’re not getting it on with Relena then I suppose you’d know all about those moist towels, eh?”

He has no idea. I audibly choke back a laugh which seems to entertain Duo greatly. “Two words,” I reply as drolly as possible considering the fact that I’m discussing masturbation techniques with a man I consider throwing out a nearby window on a daily basis, “Fabric. Softener.”

And I get the full-belly laugh I suspect Duo has been waiting to deliver for the last five minutes. Far be it from me to deny him the opening.

With a wide grin, Duo shakes his head and waves as he ducks out into the hall.

It’s only after the dust has settled that I realize two things. One, I never did get around to accomplishing that assignment for Trowa. And two... if I don’t recover the remains of this report and deliver it in the next fifteen minutes, Noin really is going to slap me. Hands-off policy or no.

*****

“You know, this is just a shot in the dark, Yuy,” Trowa drawls lazily, “but have you ever considered just telling the man?”

Yes... you guessed it: sixteen hundred hours. Actually, it’s fifteen fifty-seven according to my pc’s clock. The bastard managed to be early. Oh, well. It’s best to just get this over with, I suppose. A wise man once said: what you can’t avoid, get through as quickly as possible.

“You braved this city’s downtown traffic to tell me that?” I reply flatly, arcing a brow in sardonic disbelief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the amazing Gundam pilot 03...”

Trowa regards me with – presumably – both of his green eyes although I can only see the one around all that damn hair. With a decidedly anticlimactic tone, he states, “Asshole.”

Actually, people call me “Heero” these days but I’m sure it translates to an equivalent obscenity in at least one of the hundreds of languages still in use today. I conclude my flashy rendition of Tro’s intro: “... and master of understating the obvious.”

He stares at me – again – before finally murmuring, “Are you going to cut out the bullshit and tell me what’s been happening?”

“What makes you think anything’s ‘been happening?’” I quip.

“You’re twitchier than normal.”

I ought to be down-right disturbed at the very thought of having a recognized Twitch Threshold. But: “And I suppose you wouldn’t be bothered in the slightest by the persistent and suggestive speculations regarding you impregnating the Vice Foreign Minister?”

Trowa shrugs. “Not particularly, no,” he admits. “I consider her rather attractive even if she and I are ill-suited to each other.”

Okay, time to change the subject before I can think too much about how many man-hours of contemplation that particular comment implies. See... this is me not asking. I give myself a slight shake and decide to get this interview rolling. Things to see... people to do and all that...

“So, aside from enlightening me as to the women in our acquaintance that aren’t your type... why are you ruining my best office chair?”

Trowa smiles faintly and tilts dangerously far back in the only quasi-comfortable chair I possess. “Because you’re overdue for some solid advice.”

“Advice?” I parrot skeptically. “Dare I ask, on what?”

He lowers his chin and gazes at me, his expression so stern it effortlessly cuts through my disbelief. A soft drum roll of dread purrs to life in the back of my skull. That look can only mean one thing:

“No,” I tell him. “If you came all this way to demonstrate a classic romantic revelation then you can just piss off before I end up getting so irritated I fuck up another report today.” I turn back to my computer and start stabbing at keys.

“Hm,” Trowa replies thoughtfully, “you fucked up a report today? How did that happen?”

“Duo was also pestering me,” I reply with a dark look in my visitor’s direction. The words “Just as you are pestering me right now” are left unsaid but scream loudly enough in the silence.

For a long moment, Trowa says nothing. Just stares. And keeps staring. And I’m back to wondering about that mythical second green eye he keeps shaded under all that damn hair. Finally – just as I start to wonder how he can manage to eat hygienically around that mass – he interrupts his deep musings to comment: “Twitchy. Irritated. Fucking up important paperwork... Does any of that tell you anything?”

“That I’ve acquired a shocking inability to multi-task?” I demand waspishly.

Trowa continues patiently – I swear to God the man has miles of fucking patience. “Still waiting for an update, Yuy.”

“Or what?” I grouch, doggedly pecking at keys.

“Advice,” he promises – threatens? – darkly.

I sigh heavily. With a show of great reluctance, I turn from my computer screen and drawl, “Advice or ultimatums?” I twirl my pen between my fingers impatiently.

“Hm.” I notice that he doesn’t deny it. Another moment of patented Barton silence follows. He watches the mostly-white blur of my pen with mild interest. “Finally picking up nervous habits from Maxwell?”

“Are you wondering what took me so long?”

Trowa almost glares at me. “You’re trying to avoid the subject.”

“I’m not avoiding anything. Spit out your damn advice and stop abusing my chair.”

He almost grins. “Now you’re rushing.”

God damn it. I force myself to take a deep, centering breath. “Whatever.”

“I repeat: tell the man how you feel,” he advises in a slow, mellow voice.

I don’t dignify that with a reply. But I do glare. A little.

He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side in an understated inquiry. He wants an explanation. Well, I’m not sure there’s one to be given. I’m, well, me. And the man of my somewhat disenchanted dreams is exactly that: the man of my somewhat disenchanted dreams. It would never work. It just... wouldn’t. Too bad I’m so morbidly fascinated with the possibilities.

“Don’t you have some tigers to jump through hoops of fire or something?” I not-so-subtly suggest.

Looking mildly amused, he says, “I took care of that this morning. The elephants, too.”

“You’re jumping elephants through hoops of fire now?” I mock. “Wow, I really should go see the circus more often.”

Trowa sighs. “Why are you always such an ass?”

“Because I’m good at it.”

“No arguments here.”

“Hm.”

“So you’re just going to waste this chance Relena’s giving you to come clean?”

Ah, Guilt. Welcome back. Sorry we had to start the meeting without you, but I’m so glad you could make it. “If everyone keeps hounding me about it,” I grit out, “I very well might.”

“And you would be doing a profound disservice to yourself, Relena, and...” Leaving that familiar third party’s name unvoiced, Trowa thankfully rises from his seat. The interrogation is almost over. “I should think that if Relena has the balls to go through with this, then you’d be man enough not to waste the opportunity.”

I want to tell him to shut up and fuck off but the words stumble over each other and get tangled up around my Adam’s apple before tumbling ass over teakettle into my stomach to stew.

Trowa sighs and turns toward the door, musing aloud, “I suppose I could lock the two of you in an office supply closet for the night...”

Oh, Christ. I almost choke on my own breath. “How very generous of you, but I’ll have to decline.”

“Yes, well, if I don’t see some progress by the end of the day, I may have to take steps, Yuy.”

My eyes narrow as my expression closes down. “You wouldn’t...” I growl.

He smirks and opens the door. “Watch me. By the end of the day,” he reminds me and then closes the door behind him on his way out.

*****

“Hey, Heero.”

Jesus ever-lovin’ Christ. What the hell is this? A Christmas Carol? Complete with Dickens’ three ghosts? “Hello, Quatre,” I return flatly, cursing my ill-timed journey to the copy room. “Slumming with Une today?”

He chuckles. “Better not let her hear you say that.”

“Yeah,” I agree in a monotone. “Rumors are evil.”

He sparkles/grins at me. “Speaking of... I heard a rather interesting one floating around about you and Relena...”

Fucking hell! I roll my eyes, “Has anyone not heard that rumor yet?”

“I’m sure there are a few people in Siberia who are blissfully ignorant,” Quatre thoughtfully assures me.

My smirk is wry and not a little sarcastic.

“Yo, Quat-man! Wuzzup?”

Both Quatre and I look up as Duo and Wufei, loaded down with stacks of files in their arms, cross our path at a hallway intersection.

“Duo!” Quatre returns happily. “How are you?”

“Groovin’ man.” As if to emphasize this point, Duo throws a little rhythm into his saunter, bumping his hip against Wufei’s and earning a growl from the moody Preventer.

“We’ll catch up with ya later,” Duo calls over his shoulder as he follows Wufei around a corner. “Gotta boogie!”

Quatre manages to grin and wave just before the pair disappears from sight. For a moment, I wonder if Duo had managed to perform the minor miracle of distracting Quatre away from the topic of those thrice-damned recent rumors. But...

“So... about you and Relena,” Quatre says turning to me once more. “I take it they are less than accurate considering...?”

I arc a brow. “Considering...?”

He smiles softly, sympathetically. “Considering you’ve been interested in someone else for quite a while now?”

I snort. I know lying won’t work – damn the blond fucker’s Space Heart – but perhaps a bit of down-playing is called for: “It was just a stupid crush, Winner,” I tell him. “I forgot about it before Trowa had the chance to blab it to you all those months ago.”

“Oh...” he replies too innocently. “That would be why you had your eyes peeled and glued to a certain someone’s ass just now?”

I hate observant people.

“Did I just hear Quatre R. Winner, super-CEO, using crude language in a government building?”

“Since when have our conversations been ‘on the record?’” he quizzes back, good-naturedly.

“Don’t tempt me,” I growl.

“Ah, but I know someone who does,” he twinkles.

I also hate perky people.

I don’t dignify that comment with a verbal reply; I glare.

“So, when are you going to tell him? This is the perfect opportunity, you know.”

I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time today. It’s either that or pivot and smack my forehead soundly against the nearest wall no less than twenty-seven times. “I’m waiting for that oh-no-we’re-locked-in-the-supply-closet-and-the-oxygen’s-running-out scenario.”

“Hm. Those tend to be rather rare.”

“My point exactly,” I mutter with a meaningful – if somewhat dark – glare in his direction.

“You know, Heero,” Quatre tells me in a suddenly too-serious and suspiciously speculative tone, “you’re quite good at denial.” And then one corner of his mouth kicks up. “Too bad your PR skills suck. Otherwise I’d offer you a job.”

I snort. “Go frolic with the other pencil-pushers. This is my stop,” I say, gesturing to the copy room.

Quatre shakes his head. “You know, I used to know this Gundam pilot who never let a golden opportunity to accomplish his mission pass him by.” He glances at me. “For everyone’s sake, I hope he shows up and saves your sorry ass, Heero.”

And then he pulls away and turns toward one of the conference rooms, leaving me in the proverbial dust. I sigh and quickly duck into the copy room.

And then I sigh again.

Despite Quatre’s less-than-flattering words, he does make a rather good point. It is rather shitty luck that I haven’t yet been able to capitalize on this “Golden Opportunity,” as he calls it. I scowl as I shove the impressive stack of papers I’ve been hauling around into the copier’s automatic feeder and irritably punch the Start Copy button.

I think about Relena’s plan. I think about the seemingly simple instructions she’d given me. I think about Trowa’s impending – if obnoxiously well-meaning – deadline. I think about the less-than-ideal confession situations I’d been given thus far today.

I think it’s time to come up with a better plan.

Not that Relena hadn’t had the right idea: just be my snarky sonuvabitch self and let my friends irritate me into admitting to the fact that someone else already owns me, heart and soul. It had been so simple, really. But what good is a confession of my affections, however reluctantly it’s dragged out of me, if my intended doesn’t hear it for himself? Or rather – as I had been planning – overhear it.

But I’ve had shit for luck today in getting myself in the ideal situation.

Time to change that, I think.

While I wait for the copier to double-side, collate, and staple the fifty-seven sheets of paper I’d assigned it, I resign myself to doing things the hard, painful, humiliating way.

I sigh for the third time in as many minutes: Confession Time.

But before the inevitable circus commences, let’s get one thing straight: I am a snarky sonuvabitch. And while most people can – and will – argue that the concept of “Romance” is relative, it’s an unarguable fact that I am quite possibly the least romantically-inclined individual on the planet. I am okay with this. In fact, I prefer to express my emotions and passion through volatile honesty.

Yup. Snarky sonuvabitch.

I kind of suspect that my intended wouldn’t mind a bit of romance. Might even enjoy the gentle attention. But, I’m just not that kind of guy. And I have no intention of delivering the message of my undying devotion in a misleading manner. Mostly because I doubt I’d be able to manage the typical and pre-planned, romantic and heartfelt confession-of-love dribble with a straight face. But... I reluctantly admit there’s a small part of me that expects to fail this mission so it’s just as well I don’t make an idiot of myself any more than is absolutely necessary.

So, Operation: Confession. Underway, right? Yeah, okay. Whatever.

Seriously, I hadn’t been kidding when I’d told Relena that I couldn’t see how this totally unsubstantiated rumor of hers was supposed to solve both of our problems. I’m still honestly thinking the woman is delusional. There’s just no way starting a rumor about me being the father of her unborn child is going to magically fix my life. Although that bit about vilifying herself to get out of the upcoming reelection campaign had tipped me off to at least one certainty: if I don’t find a way to rectify this situation, then she will whip out that dreaded Extended Plan and run with it and force me to deny it and demand paternity tests.

And consequently endure all of the media hype involved with that. Truly, a fate worse than death at the hands of an atrociously named rebel faction like The White Fang. Gah.

But a plan is starting to come together for me. And just in time, too. Eighteen-hundred thirty hours is the usual quitting time around here. And I know Trowa will follow through on his threat to move things along for me if I don’t handle this within the next ninety-eight minutes.

And it’s just that steadfast, stubborn best-friend interference that I’m counting on.

*****

I soundlessly creep toward the open doorway and lean forward until I can peer around the edge of the frame. I try to hold back the evil grin at the sight of Duo Maxwell looking over various documents while leaning back in his chair with a pencil behind his ear, another speared through his dangling braid at the base of his neck, and yet a third wobbling precariously between his lips as he nibbles on it like a misguided, oversized rodent.

Seeing this, I’m almost glad I’d rolled out of bed this morning.

Eager to complete the moment, I draw in a breath, intending to use it to call his name just a little louder than necessary and hopefully watch him spasm in his seat.

“What’s up, Heero?” he asks amicably without looking up from the sheaf of paper.

Deflated, I grumble as I move into his office and plop myself down in the guest chair. “A hypothetical,” I reluctantly grind out. I’d originally planned to trade witticisms with him for a few minutes but I’m feeling a bit petty after he’d just blithely stolen my thunder. In fact, my blunt address of the supposed topic of my visit is a bit rude of me... in the weird standard of etiquette we’ve evolved over the years.

He sets down the papers and turns to face me, a brow arcing in silent remonstration at my bad manners. “Yeah? All right. What are we pretending you won’t be doing as soon as you pry yourself up off of my extra chair?”

I grunt as neutrally as possible, warming up my throat in preparation for the words I’ve committed myself to spitting out. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone were to confess his or her undying love and devotion to the object of their affections, what would be an appropriate... er, scenario?”

For a long moment, there’s no reply. I risk a quick glance in Duo’s direction and find myself being blinked at owlishly by a pair of dark eyes framed by a face that’s too pale to be a natural, healthy shade of Caucasian pasty-white and hovering above a wide mouth that’s slightly slack with astonishment.

Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a camera right now.

Maybe the security camera in the hall has a good view of this... I resolve to look into that before I go home tonight.

“Er...” he says.

I’d like to think I can competently translate most of his sub-English noises, but this one simply means he’s still shocked stupid. No deep meaning to be found there. As patient as Barton, I wait for his paralysis to evaporate.

“You, er... hypothetically... want to, um...”

Confronted with Duo’s awkwardness, I suddenly find my own confidence. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’ve never done it before. And the whole thing seems incredibly schmaltzy to me, but...” I heave out a very put-upon sigh, wordlessly communicating my willingness to do dirty jobs such as this only because they must be done.

“Schmaltzy...” I think I hear him murmur as if shocked that he’d even hear those syllables pronounced in my voice. But he eventually clears his throat and haltingly suggests, “Well, flowers might be nice. Women like flowers.”

I arc a brow. “Do men like flowers?”

Duo draws in a deep breath. His eyes slowly unfocus. His mouth snaps shut.

Definitely checking the security footage tonight.

“Uh... m-men?”

“Yes,” I reply with complete aplomb. I’m having far too much fun to bother keeping the slightly smug tone out of my voice.

“Well... how about during afterglow?” he finally suggests.

And it’s my turn to stare at him. Holy shit. I haven’t even asked my intended out on a date and Duo’s already got us past both foreplay and climax! “Are you suggesting that men don’t typically appreciate sentimental romantic gestures?”

“Er, well...” Duo reluctantly vocalizes, shuffling his file folders and memos. “I’m sure they do, it’s just... great sex is usually much better appreciated and, uh, you know... actions speak louder and all that.”

“Uh huh,” I muse aloud. “And how would I go about getting this man into bed when I haven’t even asked him out yet?” I inquire and belatedly add the necessary “Hypothetically” to the end of that question.

Duo frowns up at me through his lashes and demands in a tone that indicates he’s regained most of his equilibrium, “Why are you quizzing me about this, anyway?”

I don’t bother to hold back my feral grin. “Mostly...” I drawl, enjoying his riveted attention, “I just wanted to see you squirm.”

“You are a bastard, Yuy,” he enunciates precisely, each word receiving equal weight.

I chuckle darkly. I can’t disagree with something so obviously true.

Turning back to his interrupted reading, Duo manages an off-hand, “Was that all?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I sigh out and stand. I saunter out of his office and take one step before I realize my fascination with the Awkward Duo Show had completely managed to sidetrack me from my primary objective. I promptly back up and lean on the doorframe again. “Oh! By the way, have you seen Wufei around?”

Duo seems to freeze over the appalling mess of papers that seemed to have suddenly and soundlessly erupted from the neat stacks he’d just exerted such care in organizing. I watch his eyelids flicker briefly but he doesn’t look up and meet my gaze as he tells me, “He said something about getting some stuff out of the supply closet.”

I almost laugh. “Thanks,” I tell him and continue on my way. I don’t hear him acknowledge my gratitude... which is unusual because Duo is never shy about calling out after someone in the sanctified halls of Preventers HQ.

Still grinning softly to myself, I continue on my errand.

*****

“Chang,” I say, leaning into the supply closet and accepting the vaguely curious glance Wufei tosses in my direction. “You rushing off anywhere tonight after the clock strikes quitting time?”

Appearing slightly startled, Wufei replies slowly, “As a matter of fact, I do have a... previous engagement this evening.”

I sigh. “Okay, well, I need to talk to you. In my office. Before you leave tonight.”

He doesn’t ask me what it’s about. He has better sense than that.

“Eighteen hundred,” I tell him.

He frowns. “That’s not going to work,” he tells me. “I have records to return to the archives before I can –”

“Ask Duo to take them down for you,” I reply.

He sighs and grumbles, “As if I haven’t had my daily dose of Maxwell temper tantrums already...”

“It’s important,” I assert, threading an unsubtle steely note into my tone.

“Fine. Whatever, Yuy. But if your partner manages to sour my stomach...”

I grin. “I’ll owe you one,” I predict promptly.

“Damn right you will,” he grumbles and grabs one last item – a box of paperclips – and storms past me, disappearing down the hall to his office. Idly, I wonder if Duo’s in there waiting for him, ready to speculate about that bomb I’d just dropped not fifteen minutes ago. Chang certainly won’t thank me for that. But on the plus side, he’ll be more than happy to send Duo down to the archives in an hour.

I briefly toy with the idea of meandering past Chang’s office on the off chance that I might hear some interesting bits of conversation... but I still need to do some actual work so as not to arouse suspicion regarding my New and Improved Plan.

In my mind, I’m counting down to quitting time.

And I’m trying not to dwell on all the possible ways I could irrevocably fuck this up.

That’s me. The eternal optimist. They call me Mr. Bubbles, don’t you know?

I release a martyred sigh and, ignoring the questioning glances of a few irrelevant bystanders, stride off in the direction opposite of the one I want. After all, I still have packets of fifty-seven paged, double-sided, collated, and stapled reports to distribute.

*****

Office life is not glamorous.

It is not fun.

It is not even a decent form of exercise.

So, all in all, I don’t recommend it.

But I haven’t walked out of the building and disappeared into utter obscurity yet. Although it’s a near thing. Especially with that last meeting I’d arranged with Wufei looming in my mind. Can I really go through with this? Can I not? Am I really prepared to permit myself to be dragged into the spot light?

Being a media sensation is not a recognized career path, after all.

Unless you’re a politician.

Or a cannibal.

Well, same difference, really.

I deliver my reports with a grunt and a glare, hostilely daring anyone and everyone to say something to me about my... detrimental attitude. And before you ask, yes, I have been reprimanded before for “disrupting the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation.” Now ask me if I give a damn.

I meander past the break room and glance at the obscenely large, perfectly functional office clock hanging over the microwave and note the time. I also note several dazed-looking agents staring fixedly at it with empty, coffee-stained mugs clutched in their hands. Which leads me to wondering how, for such an unadorned bit of technology, it manages to get a disproportionate load of the attention around here. On more than one occasion I’ve wondered if there might be some secret office cult whose objective is the worship of that clock and its ability to get us through our miserable jobs, one measly second at a time. But I’m procrastinating, I know. And I know you know. So don’t even give me that look.

You know the one I’m talking about. And you should know better than to try to wield it upon me effectively. I’d invented it, after all.

Besides, it’s time to kick things into high gear.

I take a deep breath and steady myself. In a few more minutes, it’ll all be over.

I’d say I’m consoling myself, but that last thought isn’t very consoling. It’s more like the forerunning echo of doom.

My, aren’t I fucking cheerful today?

I step out into the hall and turn left. I know precisely where I’m going because, let’s face it, I’d refused to work here before I’d memorized the floor plan. Oh, and I do usually spend some small portion of my day here.

Did you catch the sarcasm in that last bit? Are you sure? I can re-think it for you if you like. No? Fine, then. Be that way.

I stop in front of the door I’d closed on my way out the last time I’d passed through here and allow my steely mission determination to eke into my bones, muscles, and pores. Only then do I push open the door and stalk into familiar territory.

I briefly wonder if my plan is going to work. I wonder if Trowa is going to arrive at my office as threatened at the end of the day. I wonder if he’s going to be towing an obscenely curious and pushy Quatre Winner in his wake. I wonder if they’re going to stumble upon a grouchy and pacing Wufei.

And if I’m very lucky, they’ll keep each other busy while I handle... this.

I turn the corner and almost trip over my own feet as the man I’ve silently and secretly sold my soul to is currently bending over a file box muttering about overbearing bastards and musty file dust.

And suddenly things are feeling just a tad snug in my nether regions. And it’s not me. Really. My pants are shrinking. Swear to God.

He must have scented my hormones or something because damn if he doesn’t look up right at that exact moment.

I never thought I’d say this, but... Un. Resolved. Sexual. Tension. Heeello.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing down here?”

I quirk a small smirk at him and hold up my own appreciably smaller stack of old files. “What does it look like?” I counter dryly. “I’m staring at your ass.”

He snorts. “Another good one. You’re on a roll today.”

Yeah. Too bad I keep likening it to an execution drum roll... “You have no idea,” I murmur.

“So...” he begins, turning back to his filing and affecting an over-bright tone. “It must have gone all right, huh?”

“What’s that?” I ask, pretending to not understand what he’s trying to ask.

“You know... your...” He seems to struggle with the words for a long moment before he finally manages, “Hypothetical.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah. That.”

Well... looks like someone’s taken up a new hobby. My hobby. My snarky-bastard-grouch hobby.

Wow. It really is true: imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

“Hm...” I reply thoughtfully. “I haven’t figured out how to get him into bed yet.”

He snorts. “Why the hell not? You are Heero Yuy, aren’t you? Master of the Mission?”

Indeed. “Honestly, I don’t know how to go about it.”

The only other person in the entire, cavernous room shakes his head and sighs. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Even if you totally bungled the declaration of love spiel, he’d be an idiot to refuse you.”

Oh, really? I can think of plenty of reasons for someone to smack me down with a prompt rejection. But if he hasn’t figured them out yet, as if I’m going to clue him in.

“Besides,” Duo continues. “This kind of emotion emits an energy. It’s totally subconscious. On some level, the guy’s got to know. That kind of... affection doesn’t last without a connection that goes both ways.”

You know, when I’d stalked down here at eighteen hundred fifteen hours today, I’d figured I was coming to Confess, not listen to my intended wax mystically philosophical. Hm... I suppose I could still back out now... but I have to admit his idea does have a certain appeal. Even to the cynic in me.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know.”

With a heavy, defeated sigh, he leans back on his heels, obviously giving up his pretext of filing as he no doubt realizes I’m in one of my more stubborn moods. I think I hear him mutter the words, “Oblivious ass,” and I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or my intended.

In a clear – if weary and somewhat wooden – voice, he asks, “What makes you think he doesn’t know?”

“Because he’s you.”

The words echo in a silence that is only produced and maintained by acres of papers being crammed together in dusty, metal shelves. You can only experience this particular brand of quiet in old, stuffy libraries... or archives warehouses.

I ignore the weight of the air pressing in on us as he slowly turns toward me and stands. I notice a smudge of dust on his cheek before I’m drawn to those wide dark eyes.

And for the second time today, I thoroughly enjoy the fact that I’d just managed to stun Duo Maxwell speechless.

Go me.

I don’t step closer to him. I don’t really need to. I can reach him just fine where he is. And I do. I pass my fingertips over his cheek, erasing the small deposit of grime and ghost my hand over his ear and down his neck to the base of his thick braid.

Where I gently remove the pencil he’d shoved into it hours before but has obviously forgotten. Moving slowly, relishing his surprise, I press the writing utensil into his hand and offer him a wry smile.

“So, wanna go out tomorrow night?” I ask. It’s not very romantic, but I’m not really sure that Duo would be able to properly appreciate elaborate romance in the state he’s in.

Mute and bemused, he nods somewhat reluctantly. But I’m heartened by the fact that it takes him several long seconds to make himself stop the motion.

I offer him one of my nice smiles. I know he likes those. “I’ll pick you up at nineteen thirty, your place?”

Again that trance-like nod.

And that’s it. Mission completed.

“Thanks,” I tell him and turn to walk away, still holding the stack of files I’d appropriated for an excuse to visit this room.

I make it halfway to the end of the row before he calls out. “Yo! Where do you think you’re running off to, Yuy?”

I turn but I don’t halt my progress toward the door. Walking backwards, I grin widely and tell him, “All the running I do maintains this rather nice ass, thank you very much!”

He barks out a laugh. “Or perhaps you think I should be thanking you... for the view.”

“Great idea. So glad I thought of it.”

“Oh? You’re thinking these days? Should I be keeping that bit of information confidential?”

“Highest level clearance only,” I quip.

“If you don’t watch that clearance, you’re going to damage that ass before you can get out the door.”

My grin widens. “No faith...”

“What can I say? I’m a show and tell kinda guy.”

“Glad to hear it,” I reply, reaching for the door handle and giving it a twist. I don’t think about the mess waiting for me in my office. Or the phone call I have to get through to Relena so she doesn’t do anything that’s been christened with capital letters. I imagine she could still salvage her career at this point, but I know she won’t. She’ll blow everything out of proportion and cause a dust-up that will force her political allies to look elsewhere for a new poster child.

She’ll be thrilled.

Almost as thrilled as I am right now.

I don’t force a “good night” out past my tight throat. I’m content with the memory of Duo Maxwell’s parting expression – all glittering eyes and sly smile – accompanying me up the lift to my office. I’m content with the promise I’d glimpsed therein.

As I press the button for my floor, I review the events that had finally led to me accomplishing my objective... however reluctantly I’d accepted the task. In the end, it hadn’t been a romantic confession. Or a passionate one. Or even a volatile expression, like the ones I figured I’d favor. But, if everything goes somewhat better than dismal tomorrow evening, perhaps Duo and I will have the chance to explore those possibilities.

And everyone – Relena, Barton, Winner, and you included – is just going to have to be happy with that.

For now.

The End.