|
"Operation Operative Operation"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 Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Language Summary: Someone wants to steal Duo's appendix. While its still in him? Pairings: 1 + 2 + 3 3x3 this chapter
"Operation Operative Operation "
Part 3. Duo glared at his aggressor. "Hey there, pretty boy," Juloiskoe taunted. "All tucked in for nighty night? Antibiotics, huh. You got an STD from selling your tight little asshole as cunt on the street?" "Hey there, ugly ape," Duo mocked him. "You got a monkey on your back, or is that just a gigantic pimple? "Fucking whore." "Snot-nosed junkie. Wimp addict. Do you cry when you don't get a fix in time?"" Duo laughed when he saw that the Neanderthal had pretty much depleted his mental ammunition already. "Yer know?" the kid drawled, grinning widely now. "I can smell Satu-ring fumes all over you. On your hair, in your clothes. If you been sampling the designer drugs, you can kiss rehab good-bye. Nobody in colonial Preventers will tolerate that shit. The byproducts are fucking explosive." "Oh bullshit." But the jerk lifted his arm to sniff at his sleeve. "Gods save us from amateur chemists," Duo rolled his eyes. "You didn't even realize. I bet you been sloshing the stuff around in buckets. Its a wonder you haven't blown a side out of the colony already." "You're lying." "Nurp. Sorry. That stuff is worse'n nitro. The
narcs consider it a threat of mass murder, cooking it up anywhere
on the colonies. And the real bummer for you is. There's something
called a 'depot effect'. That crap you been tokin' latches on to yer
serum albumin and hangs on fer weeks. Your urine test'll be positive
for like forever, man. Don't let anyone light a doobie when yer "I don't believe you." Duo smiled angelically. "Suit yerself, buddy. Dun say I didn't warn you. But you go in to the hospital pissing that stuff, they'll drop kick you into the stockade so fast, yer butt will pass your shoulders by mid-flight." Juloiskoe stood uncertainly, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Just one more thing," Duo batted his eyelashes. "Yer gonna be the smelliest grease spot on the walls in just about 37 seconds if you dun buckle into a chair pretty soon." "Shit." The Neanderthal lumbered hastily back to his seat. "Make sure its got a green light," Duo called helpfully. He had to stifle his laughter before it seriously upset his belly.
Totally boring. And therefore dangerous. Trowa Barton was not into his current assignment at all. He just couldn't take it seriously. And he knew that was a recipe for disaster. He was undercover for Commander Sally Po. She had chosen him specifically as operative because of his medical knowledge. Trowa liked Sally a lot. She was smart, pretty, nice, funny, talented, knowledgeable. A great mentor. She was going to write a letter of recommendation for him when he applied to medical school. Or veterinary college. He hadn't decided which yet. So how could he refuse when she asked him to go undercover on her case? But he just couldn't muster any enthusiasm. After all, what sort of criminal activity was he likely to discover at a hospital? Other than illegal sales of prescription narcotics, he amended mentally. But that wasn't what Sally Po was after at all. Not even close. No. It was a question of a budget crisis. Specifically related to elective surgery. Somehow, for no apparent reason, expenses associated with elective surgery had suddenly skyrocketed. And they were threatening to financially break the Preventers' bank. Trowa figured this was a case for a bunch of accountants. Not a young and wild, clever and resourceful, former mercenary soldier. One who was equally good with fists or guns. Force or wiles. However, Sally insisted. Some funny business, sneaky, underhanded, was going on here. Something that slid as slick as snot, right under the multitude of government accountants' noses, without causing their tiny, myopic eyes to blink even once. Commander Po needed a man on the spot. She wanted Trowa to get down and dirty. Dig deep and come up with the soiled laundry in this joint. He sighed. What was there to uncover? What could there be? It boggled the imagination. Preventers personnel came in here, wanting things. And, not surprisingly, the doctors obliged them. Guys wanted vasectomies, mostly to please their sweethearts
or wives. Ah, love. Love is in the air. The guys lay down willingly
on the surgical table. Not much later, they left to go back to work.
Emulating the poor farmer who had "only a couple of acres. A
couple of ache-ers, get it? Har." It was a standing joke on the
floor. He had heard it a dozen times in less than a week from Trowa sighed massively. Oh, then there was the highly exciting topic of hernia repair. "My in-testines decided to become out-testines." And TURPS for benign prostatic hypertrophy. "Hey, man, what're you here for? My prostate dun gone prostrate." And cholecystectomy. Good one. "You mean you're gonna let that doctor cut you open? What have you got, rocks in your head? No, rocks in my gall bladder. Get it? Gall stones. Har." Very funny. Trowa rolled his eyes. He had great faith in the general dishonesty of mankind. But elective surgery just wasn't fertile turf for creative crime, in his educated opinion. So he'd been here at the central hospital on L1 for
nearly a week. Anyone asked, he was here for wisdom tooth extraction.
Nobody really asked. Trowa was very good at surreptitiously fitting
into his environment. He decided if nothing turned up today, he was
out of here. He would tell Sally he had a hypothesis. The elective
surgery floor had been infiltrated by a militant troupe of His contact at the hospital, Dr Denne, Chief of Head and Neck Surgery, was a dearly trusted friend of Po's. The elderly, silver-haired gent had contributed a room for Trowa's base camp. Actually, it was a closet. Literally. But electronically secured against intruders. And crammed to the rafters with lovely computer equipment. Trowa adored state-of-the-art hardware. Dr Denne had a need for advanced imagery in his medical practice. The stuff filling the closet was the surgeon's last year castoffs, maintained as back-up. If these were the outdated units, Trowa would like to see the doctor's current comps. It gave the young man a hard-on, just touching this stuff. Back to work. Trowa was on-line, in a chat room frequented by soldiers and veterans. Probably another stupid waste of time. Still, sniffing for nasty rumors seemed better than sitting around in his slippers and jammies, sniffing the hospital cafeteria's aroma in the lunchtime distance. He had minimal attention on the chat room conversation, while his eyes feasted on the electronics he had not yet sampled. Maybe he could play with this stuff, just a little? If he promised not to break anything. Then his eyes fastened onto the screen. A presence had arrived on-line. Someone who was pleasant and scintillating. Everyone wanted to talk to him. And this charismatic newcomer was nudging the conversation subtly, slowly. Toward the topic of doctors and hospitals. Toward the subject of elective procedures. Trowa followed the verbal manipulation with fascination. Everybody had some hospital experience. Or signs and symptoms they wanted to discuss. The chat was comfortable, thoughts spilling across the screen. This guy was good. Charming and witty. Careless in his misdirection. Without thinking why, the young man reached between his legs. The hospital pajama pants were thin from many laundry scrubbings. He could feel the intimate details of his anatomy, caressed by the tickling cloth. Boredom made his desire more urgent. Then he stiffened in more ways than one. "Hey, do I know this guy?" he asked himself, still fingering his hardness. "Not you," he sneered at his cock. 'The guy on line with the hinky questions." No way. No way. Yes way. Mr Slick. In a military chat room, bugging the joint for dirty rumors. Doctors, hospitals, elective procedures. Dirty money. Heero Yuy, with a vengeance. Heero Yuy on the case. "Hey. My case," Trowa told the screen, rubbing his erection harder all the while. Maybe he'd been premature in his decision to close the investigation. "Don't ever say 'premature' when you're holding me, jerk," his cock told him. What would the psych docs think of a hardware-induced hard-on that talked back to its owner? Trowa returned to the subject at hand. Erm, the other subject at hand, he smirked. Heero Yuy was no fool. And pilot 01 was most definitely on the case. Operation Elective Operation? Maybe this prospective crime scene required further scoping after all. "One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do," Trowa typed into the chat room. There came a pause filled with electronic blinking. "Three dog night," Yuy returned. Trowa was overwhelmed with his sudden vivid memory of the other young man. His past companionship. A sympathy of history or lack thereof. The subtle humor seductively pulsing under Yuy's thoughts. The solid compactness of his golden body. The succulent smell and taste of his flesh. "Sometimes I reminisce about the days of war, when Peace..." Trowa typed. "Seemed a Million years away," Yuy responded. Peacemillion. Trowa's mind dwelt upon the good old bad old days. Heero Yuy. "I did warn you," his cock gasped as it ejaculated all over the inner aspect of his pants. When Trowa finished groaning his release, he wiped his hand on the side of his bathrobe. "Meet me in Xanadu?" he typed. "Beat you there," Yuy laughed.
"You're not exactly Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon," his cock sneered at him. "I came, I saw, I came. I came into the closet. Then I came in the closet. Now this gives new meaning to 'coming out of the closet'. If only I could work a dangling participle in amongst the verbs. There's got to be something clever I could do with a pun on 'dangling bits'. Oh well, Heero's not here to hear anyway. Maybe later? Hmm." As Trowa strolled through the intersection between the sedate hallway of Head and Neck Surgery, and the perpetual bustle that was Elective Surgery's corridor, his senses were instantly assaulted. "Hey, man what're you here for?" "Hemorrhoidectomy. You know the one about the proctologist that had to excuse himself because he was about to look up a friend?" "Har. You're such a Crack Up. Get it? Har." Trowa was shaking his head and rolling his eyes. Which accounted for his temporarily obscured vision. Which accounted for his running into someone with a violent jar. The other person seemed ready to fall over. So Trowa held him up as he mustered his sincere apology. Which died on his tongue, unspoken. No way, no way. Yes, way. A third undercover operative on the case? Operation Elective Operation was getting crowded fast. Trowa Barton looked down into the wide eyes of Duo Maxwell. ~ * ~ |
