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"From the Shadows to the Light "Written By: Hemlock Inyx Category: Supernatural/Romance AU Pairings: 2x5x2 Rating: R Spoilers: Mild, if any. Warnings: OOC-ness, yaoi, vampires DISCLAIMER: This chick does not own any of the Gundam Wing characters because they belong to Bandai and Sunrise. I am borrowing them for this fict and will return them in good (if somewhat sticky) condition. I also don’t own Lynn Erickson’s Out of the Darkness, on which this fict is heavily based (well more like a fusion/translation). This fict is written out of love and not for profit, don’t sue. Thanks and enjoy! This is dedicated to: TJ Dragonblade for all her enthusathem for this fic. Thanks for being so crazy TJ. Summary: Chang Wufei had sworn revenge on the creature who had made him less than a man—had sworn to strike him down. Then he met nurse Duo Maxwell, who reawakened all the best parts of his latent humanity. But Wufei knew he was putting Duo at risk—and not only from himself. His old enemy Milliardo took an unholy interest in all Wufei’s affairs. Duo was a fighter, though. He believed in Wufei. He believed that Wufei could be cured of his "condition," that they could find a way to have a life together. But Duo hadn’t reckoned on Milliardo, who was determined to thwart Wufei—and Duo—until the end of time.
" From the Shadows to the Light "
Over the next few weeks, as winter descended upon the city, Duo's life took on a new dimension. His shift in the emergency room remained the same, but that was all, because the rest of his life had turned into a fairy tale. He lived for the evenings, three or four times a week, when Wufei would take him out, and those nights that they didn't see each other, when they would speak on the phone. He drifted in a bedazzled state that was utterly unfamiliar: he hardly slept, his appetite was gone, he dreamt and thought of Wufei obsessively. He was blissfully happy. Words of songs went through his head, oddly disconnected phrases of love songs that he'd heard in the past and finally understood. It was fortunate that Duo worked the night shift and slept during the day, because Wufei was always busy then, and the only time they had together was in the evenings before his shift, or on his nights off, when they would dine late or go to a show or the ballet or the opening of a gallery. "Please, Wufei," he said one evening as they got their coats at the Savoy, "you don't have to take me out to such expensive places all the time. I could cook something for you, or we could..." Wufei held his shabby brown coat for him as if it were an expensive cashmere. "It is my pleasure, Duo. You work hard enough as it is, and I would not dream of asking you to do a thing for me." He slipped his arms into his coat and turned to look up at him. "Why are you so good to me?" he asked. "Because it pleases me," Wufei said gravely. "And because of all the many souls I have known in my life, you alone deserve it." Duo couldn't help smiling. Wufei was always saying things like that, things that burst inside him with ineffable sweetness. Duo accepted all these pleasures because he believed, perhaps naively, that Wufei really did derive happiness from them, and because he wanted to be with him so desperately that Duo didn't dare analyze this new relationship. He certainly didn't dare ask himself--or Wufei--why this polished, handsome, wealthy man had chosen him. "Did you want to go to that nightclub in Soho, the one I told you about?" he asked. "The jazz group?" "Yes, they are considered fine musicians." Wufei steered him out of the restaurant and into the cold night, and Duo breathed in the fresh air. "Do you want to very much?" he asked. "I wish whatever you prefer." "Would you mind if we just went home? To my place or yours. I'm perfectly happy just talking, Wufei," he said. They usually ended up at his brownstone on Riverside Drive, which Duo had come to love. It was on a corner lot, three stories high, with granite copings and a fanlight over the shiny black front door. There was a flight of white marble steps ascending to the entranceway, which was also faced in marble. In the middle of the door was a huge brass knocker, and on either side were exceedingly tall windows framed by black shutters, fronted by wrought-iron grilles in a lacy design. Inside it was old and dusty, but so elegant, so roomy. Wufei had told him he'd purchased it furnished some years before and had not changed a thing; he had selected the neighborhood because it was private and quiet, almost like a small town, removed from the frantic pace of the rest of Manhattan. Wufei was an enigmatic man; Duo recognized this despite his lack of worldly knowledge. He was kind and gentle, with a dry, sardonic wit. He knew without asking that he'd had some dark episode in his past, perhaps the divorce he'd mentioned. Wufei was absolutely proper, never touching him, never holding his hand, never kissing him good-night. And yet Duo knew he liked him very much, and he was often puzzled, thankful at times, slightly disappointed at others. Wufei was so beautiful, so smooth and perfect, his clothes immaculate, always in dark colors, his voice low and hypnotic. He spoke softly in his slightly accented English, and Duo knew he also spoke Mandarin Chinese, Italian, French, even, Greek because he always ordered in those languages at the restaurants they frequented. They talked about many things, and Wufei knew so much about every subject. Art, music, dance, theater, business, politics. Duo realized how narrow his interests were, and he tried to learn, to absorb all the beauty and culture and knowledge that Wufei had at his fingertips. He told him about his family: mother, father, sister, brother, nephews and nieces. Such an ordinary family. Wufei, on the other hand, spoke little of his relatives, telling him only that his mourning had not abated since the day they'd died. A strange man, touched by tragedy, he thought, but Duo would never, never pry or press him for more information. He ate nothing when they dined out, merely toyed with his food, telling Duo he'd spoiled his appetite at a business lunch or some such excuse. "Then don't take me out to dinner," he said. "If you're not hungry, we could stay in and order a pizza. There's no sense in wasting all that good food." "I enjoy taking you out," he told him. "I enjoy your pleasure. Please, Duo, humor me." A strange man. Mysterious and certainly different. Oh, God, he was so fortunate to have met him! On the bus going to work one night, Duo idly picked up a newspaper left on the seat. He glanced at the headlines, then read an article about medical research funding that caught his eye. On one of the inside pages he noticed an article because the headline was odd: Man Drained of Blood in Central Park. He read on. Several weeks ago police had found a man near the reservoir in the early morning hours. He was unconscious. In the hospital he was found to need five units of blood. A small injury was discovered on his neck, but he couldn't remember what had happened to him. How weird, Duo thought, and something made him shiver inwardly. Was that the night he'd been attacked near the same place? My God, he thought, maybe those men who'd attacked him had done this as well. Maybe he should have gone to the police. Well, it was too late now. That poor man... Wufei called him at six the next evening, the usual time. He would never phone earlier, he explained, for fear of waking him. "I wish to take you to the Manhattan Gallery this evening. There is a showing of a very fine new artist I particularly want you to see," he said. "I’d love to, Wufei. Um, will it be dressy?" "Not at all. Come as you are, Duo." He laughed. "I'm in my old bathrobe, Wufei." "Oh, I see. Yes, something a bit more formal than that," he said, and Duo wasn't sure whether he was teasing or dead serious. Wufei came for him at seven that evening, and he was already waiting by the mailboxes, wearing black pants and a white shirt with a round collar under his brown coat. Clothes were becoming a problem, because he had no wardrobe for evenings out, and Wufei always dressed impeccably. He knew his own garments were cheap and plain, and he was self-conscious. Wufei, however, never seemed to notice. "Hi," he said as Wufei came into the building, and he was so glad to see him that his heart leapt with joy. "Duo, you are already waiting. Am I late?" "No, no, just on time. I was ready early." "Shall we go, then?" The limo sped them silently downtown. "Tell me about this artist," Duo said, sitting next to Wufei in the cavernous back seat. Wufei sat close, but not touching him, and he wondered if, under his sophisticated veneer, Wufei was shy. Or was it something else? He suddenly realized Wufei was speaking. "His name is Jay Hamish, and his medium of preference is watercolor. Scenery, but impressionistic. He has a fine touch." And Wufei went on to describe the way this newly discovered artist used color and line, the way he had experimented with realism when he was younger. "You know so much about painting," Duo said. "Have you studied it, I mean in school or something?" "School? Ah, no, I am merely interested. I attend the gallery exhibits." As soon as they entered the gallery Duo felt like a daisy in a vase of roses. Elegant women wearing black velvet pantsuits or bright flaring long dresses or tights and fringed, beaded or sequined tunics flitted about with champagne glasses in there manicured hands. Men in fine tailored suits or the latest fashions straight from the runways talked of business and art. Duo set his jaw and stayed close to Wufei, who was to his mind the handsomest, best-dressed man in the elegant throng. Beauty is only skin deep, he reminded himself, and it didn't matter how he was dressed or what he looked like. They sipped champagne and ate canapés, or rather Duo did. Wufei was not hungry. They strolled among the beautifully lighted canvases, and he pointed out to Duo the way Hamish had executed each piece. He listened, rapt, and studied each painting, learning from Wufei’s knowledge. Still, he was always aware of the female attention Wufei drew. It didn't matter if they were at dinner or a show or strolling through a museum, women noticed him. He had a certain magnetism that radiated from him, although he never, ever seemed the least bit aware of it. When Duo used the rest room, he returned to find a gorgeous black-haired creature trying to latch on to Wufei, and, as always, he felt uncertain. Maybe he'd rather be with that woman. Why wouldn't he? But Wufei saw him standing there and quickly moved to his side. "Who was that?" Duo couldn't help asking, and then he hated himself. What a mouse he was! "No one," he replied. "There is no one here but you, Duo." And Wufei gave him that reassuring smile, a mere tilt of one corner of his mouth. They left the gallery after an hour, and Wufei asked if he would have time for a late supper. "After all those little things I ate?" He laughed. "I couldn't manage another bite. But if you're hungry, I'd be glad to go anywhere you like." "No," he replied, "I am fine." He touched his stomach with those slim white fingers. "A late lunch, a board meeting." They walked this evening--the gallery was not too far from Wufei's house and he'd sent the limo away. Duo kept expecting him to take his arm as they strolled. It seemed such a natural thing to do. He craved his touch constantly, even found himself tapping his arm or brushing his sleeve, any excuse to be near him, but he didn't respond. Yet Duo was forced to believe that he found him attractive--Lord knew why--and he fell back on his native patience. He was just too much of a gentleman, he supposed, to press him. Or perhaps he was uncomfortable with his sexuality, it had taken Duo years to be comfortable with being gay. "That was a wonderful show," Duo said as they strolled. "Yes, it was. I am so glad you enjoyed it." "I want you to know how much I appreciate all these places you take me. Sometimes I feel, well, that I don't really fit in, you know. These people, the ones at the galleries and all, they're so sophisticated, and I'm..." "What, Duo?" Wufei stopped short and faced him. "You feel unworthy?" "Well, uh... I'm not like them. I'm not like you." He shook his head. "You are a human being, so are they. The differences between you are nothing, a length of cloth, a few words. They mean less than nothing. You are a better person than all of them. They are not worth your little finger." "Maybe I'm not worth so much as all that, Wufei. How do you know?" "I know." "You have a high opinion of your own judgment," he said lightly. "I have had quite some time to develop it." "Well," he said simply, "thank you. I think you're very nice, too." "Nice," he said, and that corner of his mouth lifted in gentle self-mockery. He began walking again, and Duo felt a chill fall between them, a coolness that hadn't been there before. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked after a minute of strained silence. "No, not at all. I am, perhaps, unused to compliments.'' Relief flooded Duo. And then he couldn't help saying, "I'm not the only one who thinks you're... attractive, you know. Women seem to..." But he put up a hand. "I am not interested in that," he said gravely. "I would equally enjoy the opera or an art show if the places were entirely empty of spectators.'' Duo gave him a curious sidelong glance. "I guess we're alike in some ways," he said. "Not very social." But, still, his statement made him wonder. They walked on, along Eighty-fourth Street, the one also called Edgar Allan Poe Street. Duo commented on it. "I wonder why they named it that." He shivered. "His stories are so scary, spooky. What an imagination." "His stories frighten you?" "Yes, oh gosh, they're so weird, and everyone always dies in strange ways" "You do not like eerie stories7" Duo laughed. "Give me a happy ending, a wonderful love story. That's what I like." "Happy endings are so rare in real life." "All the more reason to have them in books and movies, then." He felt Wufei's weighty gaze on him, although he said nothing. At his house he had a cup of coffee. He'd gotten some things in his kitchen, Duo noted, so that he could offer him a drink or a snack. He poured himself a cup, also, but when his was finished, his cup was still full. "Tell me, Duo," he said as they sat in the library, the room he seemed to use most often. The sheets had been removed from the furniture, and he'd started a fire in the fireplace. Shadows leapt on the dark green walls of the room, on the rows of books, on the heavy leather chairs and sofa, glinted off the glass teardrops of the lamps. "Anything," he replied. "Are you free Saturday night? Do you work then?" "I'm supposed to work, but I could switch with someone." "Ah, it is too much trouble." "What? Come on, tell me." "There is an opera I wish you to see. At Carnegie Hall." "An opera," he breathed. "Mozart, The Magic Flute, a favorite of mine." "I’ll switch with Sally." "This is not a problem for you?" "No." Duo shook his head. "I've worked for her lots of times, whenever she has a date. She owes me." "I will acquire tickets then, if you are quite sure you can arrange the night off." "Oh, yes, Wufei, I’d love it." Late the next afternoon, when Duo arose, he knew he had an important task to accomplish. He had to go shopping, buy himself some clothes, make himself presentable. The opera. Men wore tuxedos to Carnegie Hall, didn't they? Well, sometimes, anyway. Oh, yes, he could picture Wufei in a tux. He'd be devastating. He dressed quickly, checked his savings balance and shook his head. Well, he'd just have to spend some of it, and never mind that Mexican trip he'd been saving for. This was far more important. He took the subway to Brooklyn, where he knew the stores better, all those discount places his mother constantly told him about. He'd have to hurry, too, because they might close before he was through. The stores intimidated him with their vast arrays of clothing, racks and racks of slacks and shirts, tables of sweaters. It took a long time and four stores, but Duo got back on the subway with several shopping bags. He totaled the items in his mind. He'd spent too much, but it couldn't be helped, and, after all, the coat had been an incredible bargain, only ninety-nine dollars, half price. It had cost a lot, but Wufei was worth it. He wanted so very much to be worthy of him. On Saturday he picked him up precisely on time, as always. And he did have on a tuxedo, and a black cape lined in scarlet satin. He was as splendid as any king. "You have purchased a new coat," he said when he saw him. "Yes," he said, abashed in the face of his magnificence. "It is most becoming." "Thank you." Was he just being polite, Duo wondered, when his plain gray coat was so obviously inferior to his cape? Well, he wouldn't let it bother him, because this was a special night--he was going to the opera with Chang Wufei! He'd gotten them seats in the orchestra, close to the stage. Wonderful seats. Inside, Duo was quivering with excitement. The beautiful people, the hall itself, the atmosphere of refinement and culture and beauty. "You are comfortable?" Wufei asked. "Yes, thank you. These seats are fabulous." Wufei was the perfect companion, charming, attentive. And here he was, all dressed up in new clothes with the best-looking man in the place, the best scats. His heart was so full he was close to tears. Duo couldn't help it; he squeezed Wufei's hand and said, smiling tremulously, "Oh, Wufei, this is so wonderful.'' And then the house lights dimmed as the orchestra began the overture, and Duo never even noticed that Wufei's eyes were not trained on the stage like everyone else's, but on his hand where he'd just touched him. It was during the intermission that Duo began to notice the other people. Women wore long gowns, sweeping skirts with gold lame jackets, jewel-toned dresses with plunging necklines. Most of the men wore expensive suits or tux’s like Wufei’s. He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and saw instantly that he stood out like a sore thumb among these beautiful people. His happiness drained away in some measure, even though he told himself fiercely that it didn't matter. They were returning to their seats, and Duo knew he'd been too quiet, his mind fighting the small nagging sadness. "Is something wrong?" Wufei asked as they seated themselves. "Oh, no, no, really. Everything's wonderful. The music, the seats..." "You are very quiet." "Sometimes I get that way," he said. "Do you mind?" "Of course not. As long as nothing is wrong." Duo straightened his back. "It's the most wonderful night, Wufei," he said, and he meant it. He leaned his head down close to his, and Wufei said in his hauntingly modulated voice, "You realize you are very lovely tonight." Duo’s heart lifted, soaring with the music as the opera began again, and he sat there next to Wufei, a smile on his lips, suffused with joy.
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