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"Bananas in Space "Written By: Asymphototropic
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing. Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the
light, but never quite arrives there) Email: asymphototropic@aol.com Pairings: 1+2+3 (Preventers) Rating: NC 17 Summary: Duo's banana doesn't have a tattoo. What's
a guy to do? Warnings to date: sequels are never as good as
the original story
"Bananas in Space " Part 10. "Strip to the skin. Everything off." "Yer kidding." "Nurp. Strip." "In case you numbskulls hadn't noticed, it's my eye that's gone bum. Not my bum." "Tell that to Doc Speekes. He'll be in shortly. Here, have a gown." "Hellfire." "Sounds good. Keep yer warm against the draft. Har." "Very damned funny." Maxwell grumbled to himself as he cast off his uniform and skivvies, then hastily gathered the scant comfort of the infirmary garment over his naked flesh. He perched nervously on the brink of the examining table. It was debatable whether he was more relieved or regretful at Barton's absence. Trowa was on duty again at his beloved hospital, halfway across the colony. Meanwhile Heero Yuy was somewhere deep in the bowels of L2 Preventers headquarters, engulfed by the enthralling details of his ongoing comp and com upgrade project. Duo was on sick roll until Preventers Med designated him 'fit' at some level of duty. Which he hoped would happen as soon as the infirmary personnel got through examining him into oblivion. He'd dutifully handed in his record of treatment from the ophthalmologists at the civilian clinic. What more could there be to say on the subject? The smirking medic asshole returned to get vitals. Temperature, pulse, respirations. As the man released the blood pressure cuff, Duo groaned at all this thoroughness. Looked like the Doc was going for the whole nine yards. Next thing, they'd be expecting him to... "Head for the head and piss in a spec cup." "Shit!" "That too, if you can muster any." "You want the sweat off my balls as well, while I'm at it?" The tech studied the clipboard with a satirical glance. "Nurp. Dun see any orders for testicular exuberance. But yer might wanna save some, just in case." xXxXx "Mr. Maxwell." Awhile back, Doctor Speekes had been the one to send Duo off to L1 Preventers' Hospital for an appendectomy. The man had a hint of native Sanc accent to his voice. Despite his kindly, soldierly bedside manner, and no matter what his actual family background, he sounded wealthy, patrician, and therefore snobbish. Duo supposed, just as he himself sounded like the L2 brat he was, and therefore nasty by default. Accents were like that. The head of L2 Preventers Medical tapped the clipboard chart with a pen. "Ophthalmic contamination with the urticating hairs of a tarantula. While investigating banana smuggling. Tsk and tut. If it was anyone other than yourself, I should suspect a creative attempt at malingering. But since its you, shall we just chalk it up to 'shit happens' and leave it at that?" Maxwell snorted. The crudity sounded quite comical, coming from such an elegant man's mouth. "Yessir." "I'm just going to pop the top off this device and have a quick look-see at the old eyeball here. Ah, that is somewhat painful, I gather?" "Yessir," Duo agreed, trying not to writhe right out of the physician's grasp and run like hell. "Easy now. Sorry about the bright light. Just another glance. Very well. You can shut your eyes and keep them shut while I put the patch back in place. There, that's better, eh?" "Yessir." "Clearly, you are grounded, right off flight-ready status for the duration. Vision issues, if nothing else." Duo couldn't totally suppress his disgusted huff. He could pilot any diddly squat vehicle, aircraft or spacecraft, ever made, blindfolded. "Yessir." "Now let's have a gander at the rest of you. Is the redness and swelling, irritation around the face and neck better, worse, or the same, compared to before?" "Better. Hardly feel it at all." "Hmm. Yes." Speekes unfastened the gown and dropped it to collect in the Kid's lap. "Breathe easy while I sound out the old ticker. And now, deep breaths, in and out. Again. That's it. Sides and back. Are you having any shortness of breath? Pain upon exertion? Any night sweats or chills?" "Naw. Nothing like that." "Very good." The doctor replaced the gown over Duo's shoulders, but didn't bother to fasten it. "Just lie on back, while we consider the tum and environs. Ah yes, the infamous Maxwell appendix, may it rest in peace. These incision sites have healed nicely." The man's hands kneaded his belly like he wanted to scramble his kidneys. "Any residual pain? Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation? Excessive gas? Bloody stools? No? Good, good. You are approximately how old?" "Nineteen." The doctor raised a slightly skeptical eyebrow. 'Approximate dis, mister,' Duo silently retorted, but kept the bird finger as well as the resentful thought to himself. "You are sexually active?" "Uh huh." Duo couldn't help it. Flushed scarlet from scalp to toes, at the memory of just last night. Yuy and Barton. The rock and the hard place. Steaming hot games. Seemed like he'd been having a rather good time with the two of them. Coming and going. He'd been that long without sleep, beginning to hallucinate. How much of that had been real and how much glorious phantasm? He had a vision of Trowa going down on him so teasingly, taking him in with sweet candy lips, all the while glancing from under his wild thatch of hair. The erotic suckling sounds. And glinting green eyes, taunting Yuy as he'd been touching Duo. The image switched. Yuy nuzzling Duo's ear, his steaming breath on his throat as Barton intruded his hot erection into Duo's mouth. A harsh split with reality, time that jolted past, then Trowa naked and feral, crouching on his haunches, ready to pounce and devour. Meanwhile Yuy's deep searing cock thrust hard up Duo's ass, himself held pinioned as Heero's hands and mouth burned over every sensitive millimeter of flesh he possessed. Duo sucked in a deep breath at the sensual memoir. Heero, toying with his braid, while Trowa fingered himself, lost control, came all harsh and wicked, secretly crying like a wild raptor in the night. Then Yuy and Barton, wrestling on the floor, as Trowa fought and yielded to leather and steel, making Heero struggle for the proof of victory, despite the acknowledgment he'd already won. Captive Trowa pinned beneath Heero's golden body, their combined warriorly power radiating heat from the coupling. Well matched and thoroughly, those two. And then the jointure, consummated, welded metal, melded at the molten molecular level. Duo apart from them, freezing and distant in time and space and vital matter. His hard-on raggedly raging along with the inflamed pounding of his face and mind. His helpless climax, untouched, spurting upon his scarred abdominal surface, with no more urging than the image of the others, joined before him, apart from him. He had drifted in troubled imagery, nightmare and reality conjoined, indistinguishable in intricate pain and pleasure. Someone had cleaned his body. Someone, sometime had sheltered his exposed limbs beneath the thick comfort of a sleeping bag. He had risen hazily from the depths of mined mind into the solid mundane perception of ongoing life, to find his body carefully cleansed of carnality, and creature comfort secured. He found himself grateful for these favors. Duly, if dully grateful, for the company, for the inclusion at some comradely level. He hadn't a complaint anywhere in his conscious mind. At least none he could identify with a name. "Uh huh," he agreed to the physician's assessment of 'sexually active'. Guess you could call it that, all right. Killer clinches. He waited as patiently as possible through Doctor Speekes' lecture. His strict admonition not to participate in intercourse if Maxwell's judgment were at all impaired by alcohol. And to use protection each and every time, without exception. To avail himself of the condoms, supplied free of charge to all personnel at Preventers HQ. They hadn't been, of course, using protection. Why bother? His street intelligence being what it was, Maxwell would know if either Yuy or Barton were getting laid by anyone else. And Duo had been included in their torrid sessions often enough that he'd felt little urge to tom cat the alleys. So he waited with an outward semblance of respectful attention, until the stern, handsome doctor arrived at the culmination of his lecture. Duo didn't bother to vouchsafe that he hadn't felt the need for protection, being monogamously bigamous. Or however you could describe the relationship in which he found himself currently tumbled. "Uh huh," Maxwell agreed, when Doc Speekes finally seemed to run out of fuel. "You may get dressed. But leave your boots off. Before your departure, I want an accurate weight on you. For the present, I'm adding an oral antihistamine to your medications. You are cleared for light desk duty, half days." "Doc, I can't possibly..." "Can and will, or else I'll admit you to the infirmary, to enforce a bit of quiet time. And you are to meet with the dietician for advice on food intake, today. Report back here on Friday for an interim follow up. Earlier if any symptoms should take a turn for the worse." "Yessir." The dietician proved to be a sweet young thing. Too young to have such strong maternal instincts, to Maxwell's way of thinking. But she seemed ready and eager to feed every member of L2 Preventers within easy reach. He had visions of her stirring a massive caldron of noodle soup. She smiled blissfully at Duo. "You should eat at least one food item from each of these lists, at a minimum, on a daily basis. More if you are hungry enough." Duo goggled at the amount of food she wanted him to eat. He figured he'd have to give up breathing or Preventer assignments in order to spend that much time on food. He politely started to phrase this utterance, when his com unit suddenly sprang to life, ordering him to report to command at once. Simultaneously, an agent stuck his head into the office. "Maxwell. Commander Dickerson's passing the word for you, pronto. Off-colony conference call, bunch of honchos on the honker. And like that, yeah." And like that, yeah. Duo nodded, hastily took his leave of the sweet young thing, then jogged down the hall after the long legged aide. Maxwell was pretty certain what was about to happen. And overall, it was pretty big. Pretty damn, fucking big, and it was his fault too. Shit was about to hit the fan in a major way. And he, Duo S Maxwell the First, himself, had personally loaded the shit upon the wagon, ready to tip and rip. Now was not the time for hesitation, second thoughts, or any such like wussiness, he told himself. But he couldn't help the bitter review that flooded, unbidden, through his somewhat overwrought brain. Life had been so much simpler, BBY. Before Barton and Yuy. Duo had been trying to sleep, desperately needing to sleep. Such a simple thing. Lie down on the sorry soft sofa and sleep. But there Barton had been, like some hedonistic god of yore, sweet of face, hard of body, grinning like mass mayhem and offering him wicked fruit. Perfect fruit, perfectly rotten. Black market banana. He had ripped into Barton, then, cruelly. Like the poor boy was somehow supposed to have been born with an understanding of nasty L2 power politics. Trowa couldn't have looked more hurt if Duo had kicked him in the balls and laughed. Mistake number one. That was too painful. He'd had to escape Barton's look. So he'd run like a coward, instead of facing up and making reparation. Run straight to the baddies, to beat them up, to place the blame where it belonged. A totally idiotic maneuver with foreseeably wretched consequences. A murder victim, the corpse placed upon his doorstep. The blame placed upon Maxwell. You challenge a Big Boss, and this is the result. Your fault. Mistake number two. Yuy, going off like a canon, just naturally followed. Yuy, reminding Maxwell so much of Solo. That look of his, taking the L2 Kid back to the bad, bad old days. When the whole damned colony reeked of plague death. Reminding Duo how quickly golden youth could be taken down and destroyed. From health, to illness, to death, to stinking rot. How easy that transition, how slick with blood that slope. Duo had looked at Heero's handsome face and prayed. Pleading, that if his friend had to die, it would be quick and violent, and over fast. Naming, calls. Imagine a calamity, and it becomes reality. Stupid superstition. But Maxwell felt he had invoked disaster, and now was bracing for it to happen. Mistake number three. And then, he'd plummeted. Dropped low down. That scene at the hospital, running in terror from the doctors. Barton, having to chase and subdue him. Having to scold him and take him in hand. Having to coddle and coax, handle him like some fragile psych case. Believing now that Duo was unreliable, that he was shaky, that Yuy and Barton would have to take up the slack. Mistake number four. At long last, the cold night. The final quietus on his hiatus. Sex games. He should have kissed them both good night. Shut the damned bedroom door, hit the hay. Instead, he'd taken the easy way, gone for that damned fine feeling, so delicious, so addictive. It was his own fault, every last inch of it. Just when he'd been telling himself that it was for their own damn good. That they should put a little distance between themselves and the L2 Kid. The two of them kissing and climaxing. They went together, perfectly. Duo could see that, feel it. He had tried to hold off, until one or the other, or both had come back, to get him off, to finish the game. Instead, he'd watched the hottest action in the whole fucking universe, rocketed on the voyeur vision, and collapsed into oblivion. Mistake number five. Now it wouldn't go, would it? Telling them, for their own safety, to split. They would misinterpret it. See it as jealousy, or depression, or gods-knew what. Instead of what he meant. That he, Duo S Maxwell the First, the L2 Kid, had brought about a great, gawdsawful mess that was about to get so much worse. And that Barton and Yuy needed to duck and cover. Get the hell out of Dodge. Run the frig away. For the duration. Like that, yeah. Maxwell concluded he was fucked. Front, back and sidewise. And there wasn't a damned screwed to perdition thing he could do about it. But suck it up, skip from one disaster to the next with undiminished enthusiasm. So he entered Dickerson's office. "Ah, Maxwell. Good." The Commander must have gotten off the com with Doc Speekes just moments ago. The man's survivalist mimicry, blending his native L2 accent with the infectious Sanc cadence, and just sounding too fucking weird in combination. Duo tried hard not to chuckle at the audible evidence. Why did he just know that Dickerson and Speekes had been discussing Maxwell? Paranoia. Persuasive, pervasive. Settle down. Get a grip. "We've got L4 on the line." "Great." Duo nodded his enthusiasm for L4 on the line. Quatre Winner's glossy image on the monitor hit him like a ton of bricks. This whole damned situation sucked like a black hole. ~ * ~
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