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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 "
Wufei hung up the phone with exaggerated care and stared at it for a long time. The feelings that roiled inside him were so strange, so wildly implausible. He was set apart from those emotions that defined' humanity, so how could it be that he was so affected by a few words from a mortal man? Of course, Duo was right. It had been inevitable that he would recognize his unnatural qualities, and Wufei couldn't imagine why he had thought otherwise. Yes, Duo was absolutely correct. He needed time to think, and when he did he'd never again speak to him, never go out with him, never sit on that chair or make coffee in his empty kitchen. Wufei moved away from the telephone and paced back and forth, feeling an urge, an overpoweringly strong desire, to be in motion, to run from something. He tested himself inwardly and realized, with a spurt of near shock, that he felt pain, visceral pain, an ache that was not physical but a part of him, a part of every one of his perverted cells. Duo. He walked down the front hallway, toward the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, head down. Could he endure this new refinement of torture? After five hundred years he had come to a kind of bitter acceptance of his fate, but this was a new facet to his agony; this was unendurable. He could pursue him, try to convince Duo that he wasn't.., what he was. But if he did, he'd be in danger. Wufei whirled on his heel, a blur of darkness in the big tiled kitchen. He wanted him so badly--the thirst, the craving, it was unutterably powerful. Each time he was with Duo it gathered strength. He saw in his mind's eye Duo’s slimness, the purity of his smile, the long white column of his neck, the fluttering pulse at his throat, the fine blue veins under his fair skin. Yes, the hunger was growing, but with it there were other, peculiar, feelings, equally strong, bizarre sensations that he could not put a name to, and they built inside him like lava in the seething caldron of a volcano. The sweet pain of his need for Duo had been growing for weeks, an obsession he could not control. He was insane, totally possessed by this mortal man whom he could never have in any way. How could this have happened? Wufei paced his huge, cold house that night and realized he'd been obsessed with Duo not just at night but during his daytime rest, a torpor that normally disallowed dreams, and yet he was there. When he awakened with the setting sun, he thought of Duo, feasting on his memories, his foul hunger as unbearable as his ceaseless loneliness. A hundred times he had started out his door to hunt in the dark street, to use another body to assuage the need that was weakening him more every day, but he knew it would do no good. It was Duo he coveted with a single-minded lust, no one else. If only he could end his terrible existence. If only the threads that held him to his life were not so strong. Wufei went up the stairs to the attic. Duo stared at him from the canvas. Wufei groaned in anguish at his sweet gaze. What was the hold this one mortal man had on him? He lifted the painting from the easel and replaced it with a blank one, then he got out his palette, his tubes of paint, the deepest shades: crimson, purple, pure black. He swiped at the white canvas, a line of jewel-like red, then another, then faster and faster, slashing savagely at the canvas until it was a scene of carnage. He stepped back and cocked his head, examining it. "Yes," he whispered to the empty studio, "that is my soul." The hours of the night crawled by. Wufei gave up his attempts at painting. He wandered around his house, restless, afraid to stop, the pain eating at him like a cancer. What was Duo doing now? Holding a wounded person's hand, giving a sick child a drink of water, dispensing pills, drawing blood? Blood. His head jerked in an inadvertent spasm as he pictured the hollow needle, the rich, ruby-colored stuff that he handled so casually. His throat tightened spasmodically. He prowled the library, the wainscoted parlor, the dining room with its crystal chandelier, long table and garland murals on the walls. Finally he put on some music--he'd almost forgotten about it in his desperation. Buddhist chants, yes, those ancient religious songs that reminded him of the temple, of the peace that had been his. The men's strong voices, rising and falling, the words that were like a balm, a cool cloth on his fevered brow. He passed in front of the speakers, listening, mouthing some of the more familiar phrases, and then at last he was able to sit, to remain still, to listen, to feel a small measure of calm. His mind went back over the centuries, questioning, trying to remember. Had he ever been so agonized before? Had he ever yearned so, been so weak, so reluctant to assuage his needs? Had he ever felt about a mortal the way he did about Duo? No, his mind answered, and no and no again. Not in five hundred years. Oh, there had been times of desperation, spells of hunger. In Paris during the revolution, a mere two hundred years ago. He'd tried to abstain, but the need had grown too strong, and he'd given in finally, searching the streets for the worst of the debauched murderers who took advantage of the turmoil. In the midst of that death and destruction, his small incursions had gone unnoticed. Then, again, in Shanghai in 1875, down by the port. His urges had sent him there, into the midst of the lowest form of humanity and he drank, but only from the most derelict of men, the ones ruined by pox, gutted by the flux. He chose carefully. He always picked his victims with care--when they were alone, in alleys and abandoned buildings, and he told himself that many of them would recover and live, none the worse for their experience. He told himself that, but he loathed himself, anyway, and his hunger for human blood would be suppressed for years at a time after one of those feasts. Sometimes he thought he had his needs mastered, he almost convinced himself, but he always reverted to type after a time. But not like this, never like this. He sat while the chanting of the choir swelled around him, and he reflected on his choices. He knew one thing with absolute clarity: he could never give in to his urges with Duo. He was too precious, too trusting. Whatever he felt, he could not touch him. In any case, he'd all but told him he was done with him, hadn't he? His choice was obvious--give Duo up. He put his smooth, pale face in his white hands while his inner voice cried no, never, and he knew he couldn't bear to do it. His mind cleared with the simplicity of the decision he hadn't even known he'd made. He had to see Duo once more, just once. He had to tell him the truth. He knew his schedule well, as he'd told him his hours. If he hurried he would reach the hospital when Duo was finished with his shift. He had to see him face-to-face--a telephone call would not do. Wufei shrugged into his black cashmere coat, although he did not feel the cold in any true sense. He did it for the sake of normalcy, so that he might pass among humans and not be noticed. He felt calmer now, the terrible restlessness gone. His decision was made, and he would follow it through to the end, whatever that might be. He passed among the night shadows swiftly, a dark blur almost undetectable by the human eye. As he went he thought of the remarkable pass he'd come to--telling a mortal not only who he was but what he was, throwing himself on Duo’s mercy. He had lost all his defenses, all his acceptance, all his dignity; he was an empty husk and could only race to his fate, knowing but unable to stop. He passed through Central Park and turned north. A few souls were abroad at this hour, but they did not see Wufei as he dashed by. The hospital was ahead, close now. He knew what door Duo would emerge from, as he'd picked him up there once, an unobtrusive back door that led into a parking lot. He checked his watch. He would be out soon. Wufei melted into the shadows and waited with absolute patience, preparing himself for this confrontation. It was cold, he registered, although he did not feel it as discomfort, but there was something else that disturbed his concentration. Ah, yes, he thought, his nostrils flaring, it was the scent of blood. He pulled back farther into the shadows, steeling himself against the coppery tang, and he waited. Duo came out of the door with another nurse, talking, smiling, an ordinary human male, one with a job, friends, a family. For one stark second he envied Duo with such sickening intensity that he had to close his eyes. Then he watched Duo for a moment more from the shadows that embraced him, until he drew abreast of him. When he caught his scent—talc and sweet flesh and antiseptics--he stepped forward. "Duo," he said. He saw him instantly, halted and stared. His body was as taut as stretched wire, his eyes wide. "Duo," he said again and took a step forward. He saw him move, an involuntary jerk away from him. "Duo, you coming?" the other nurse called out. "Uh, go on ahead. Don't wait," Duo said, his eyes still on Wufei, like a deer's in the headlights of an oncoming car. "Duo, please," he said, and it was then that he saw the naked fear on his face. Wufei recoiled with a pain so intense he nearly cried out, and he knew that this was the worst moment of his long, long life. ~ ~ ~ (***) ~ ~ ~ Duo saw Wufei cringe as if he'd hit him. He saw as if he were inside Wufei, the devastation, the wasteland of his heart. And he had done this to him without ever speaking a word. His mind whirled, and he could think of nothing to say, yet as he stood there looking at him, the fear that had nagged him dissipated with the cold white puffs of his breath. They remained that way for an endless, tortured moment, and then Duo knew that whatever Wufei was, he could not leave him to his loneliness. Duo put out his hand, and Wufei looked at it for a moment, then he reached out and grasped it, his fingers as cold as marble. "Will you come with me, Duo?" he asked in that smooth low voice with its trace of an accent, and the pain in it scored him like a whip. All he could do was nod. His house on Riverside was full of shadows and disembodied voices crying in pain. Wufei poured him a glass of red wine with care and handed it to him. His eyes had a gleam in them he had not seen before, and Wufei regarded him in silence for a while. "Don't he afraid," he finally said. "You are forever safe with me." "Wufei. I...I'm sorry if I hurt you. I only meant..." "I know," he said sadly. "I am not as other men. My ways frightened you." "Yes," he whispered. "You are not afraid now?" Wufei asked, his gaze holding his. He shook his head. "Good, good," he said, then a ripple of pain crossed his features. "Wufei," he said breathlessly. "Do you trust me?" Wufei asked, standing by his desk, encased in a kind of waiting stillness. "Yes," he whispered again. "Duo, I have to tell you a story, and you must believe it. Then everything will be clear." "Yes, Wufei," he said, but the truth was that he dreaded whatever he was going to tell him, dreaded it with every fiber of his being. He almost cried out, No, don't tell me! And he almost put his hands over his ears, but instead he sat there holding the wineglass, gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. // Oh, God, don't tell me, Wufei! //
// No, please… //
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