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"Deep Cover"Written By: Karen The Huntress Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its
characters Rating: R Warnings: language, angst, suspense, lemon Pairings: 1x2, 2x1 Summary: Any way you look at it a whole lotta
shit can happen in four months. Hair trigger hazards of a covert solo
mission and danger zooms into the red zone. "Deep Cover" Part Four
~Aftermath~
Battle commotion subsides. A fortunate Preventer team, one minor injury and no casualties, corrals Red Dragon stragglers, tends the wounded and body bags the dead.
Desirous of privacy, Duo guides Heero behind shipping crates crammed with all manner of unlawful contraband. Seated on wooden boxes he scrutinizes his partner.
Four months transformation.
Habitual orderliness has deteriorated as if Heero just doesn't gives a damn.
Usually tanned face is pale and haggard. Brown hair, while often untamed, is unkempt. Stubble dapples his chin. Athletically lean body is too gaunt. The final unpredicted bombshell, a sliver hoop adorning his left earlobe.
Most disturbing aspect—a vacant expression far more profound than mere impassiveness.
Heero Yuy never was an open book. Seldom put his emotions on display. However, Duo could always decipher subtle nuances. An arched eyebrow. A twitch of lips or the lustful "come hither" summons for sex. Now his entire demeanor is unreadable.
Duo yearns to hold Heero's hand. Better not push too hard. "Talk to me. " he begs unashamedly.
Heero stares at his blood splattered boots. (Yohji's blood) Pause stretches into eternity. Finally a flicker of perception. "I want to go home." is declared barely above a whisper.
Wufei takes possession of the incriminating flash drive. Duo sheds his Kevlar vest then commandeers a Preventer SUV to drive him and Heero back to headquarters.
****** Une agrees, reluctantly, to reschedule post mission debriefings until the next morning. One stipulation. Heero turns in a preliminary evidence summary.
Duo and Heero slide into the front seat their black Range Rover with the license plate 01X02. Trip home is navigated in awkward silence. Rain speckles the windshield, each droplet mirroring psychological distortions spawned by the whore dubbed deep cover.
Dirty fingernails graze over frayed threads on stonewashed jeans. Heero gazes absentmindedly out the passenger window. Identical indifference is evident when he enters the apartment and drifts down the hall to the bedroom.
Duo assumes command, gathers green boxes, white cotton socks and matching navy blue lounging trousers and tee shirt.
"Take a long hot shower while I fix something to eat."
"Not hungry." Heero mumbles in apathetic monotone.
Entrenched in the throes of exasperation Duo hisses, "Shit, Heero, it's clear you ain't been eating, at least nothing nutritious. I'm bone tired so just cooperate."
****** Humid steam converts the bathroom into a sauna.
Heero strips off layers of clothes exuding telltale whiffs of sweat and pot and whiskey. He lifts the hamper lid then reconsiders, reckons the ratty garments should be burned and forgotten.
Hand swipes across the mirror, exhumes a foreign reflection from the fog. Curious contemplation regards the likeness staring back. Eyes lack intensity. Blue isn't as bright. Yet there's an underlying familiarity. An identifiable visage of a former self.
"Can't change the past." he resigns with a dismissive shrug.
Sore muscles. Stiff joints. Persistent headache petitions relief under the shower's pounding spray.
Heero braces both hands on sage green tiles. Water, hot enough to redden the skin, cascades over head and shoulders and back. Slithers down penis, buttocks and thighs.
Four months.
Or Sixteen weeks.
Or 121.7475 days.
Ever mindful of every word, when a slip of the tongue could be disastrous, dominated his entire thought process. Deception became his mantra until lies raped the truth without a pang of conscience. Deeds done to indulge Akira Komura's psychopathic whims were chillingly mechanical.
Physically and emotionally naked, with only a waterproof curtain to keep the world at bay, Heero's confident persona begins to crack. Fragile fissures burst. Reproach surges through ruptured floodgates.
Accented by pounding fists, "DAMN THEM ALL TO HELL!" is aimed at Dr. J, Operation Meteor, Preventer, Red Dragon and vindictive quirks of Fate.
Clean clothes in hand, Duo slumps against the doorframe. Even though an opaque shower curtain distorts the profile there's no mistaking body language.
Rage. Bitter curses growled in resentment. Silhouette bowed in anguished contours.
Duo's heart aches.
Heero is so fuckin' self-reliant. As much as Duo wants to intervene, hold his partner and promise everything will be all right, Heero must be granted the tattered remnants of his dignity.
Clothes are placed on the sink. Bathroom door closes with a soft click. Halfway down hall Duo sucks in a trembling breath. Eyes string. Months of worry overwhelm shaky control. He surrenders and gives tears free rein.
****** Dried and dressed, Heero appraises his reflection. Flushed cheeks portray a healthier glow. Eyes aren't quite as dull. Freshly shampooed bangs feather over his forehead. He leans closer, taps the silver hoop. Could take in out. No, keep the adornment as a mission souvenir.
Tenuous coping mechanisms in force, Heero goes in search of Duo.
In the kitchen Duo slides a six eggs, cheese and bacon omelet onto a pre-warmed plate. "Want toast?"
"Don't have much appetite." Heero states wearily.
Duo establishes midnight supper rules. "Made a lot so you gotta help me eat it."
Omelet is divided equally. Mugs of strong coffee poured. Duo and Heero sit on opposite sides of the table. Clinks from forks on stoneware plates and slurps of caffeinated liquid are the only sounds. Noticeable tension. Odd silence as if neither man knows how to start a conversation that should be effortless.
Four months of severance cannot be made whole. Lost time can never be recovered. Days and nights apart cannot be reclaimed or the ache of absence soothed.
Duo frets the edges of a paper towel serving as his poor man's napkin, mentally debates his next strategy.
Previous experience directs him to give Heero time to sort out the myriad of emotions. Most importantly the warrior needs unconditional support to heal invisible wounds marring his soul.
Actions speak louder than words. Duo reaches across the table, slips his hand over Heero's hand. Despite the tender touch his partner freezes up like a Gundam with joint circuit failure.
Undeterred, Duo declares, "I love you."
Hand trembles. A somber sigh. Heero whispers, "I'm sorry."
Taken aback by the unexpected apology Duo tilts his head. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."
Moist blue eyes focus on Duo whose optimism never wavers, who believes they can take on the world and win. "Our last night together I treated you like shit." Heero confesses.
"You had a lot on your mind."
"Dammit, don't make excuses for me. Truth is I was afraid if we got close I wouldn't leave."
Before Heero utters another word of self-condemnation, Duo kneels by his side. "I understand the complicated choices between obligations and relationships."
Not yet ready to receive absolution, Heero shakes his head negatively. "Should have never put the mission before you."
Duo opens his arms. "Come here."
Pilot 01. Master of Gundam Wing Zero. The Perfect Soldier forged by warfare accepts steadfast salvation.
A drowning man, Heero sinks to the floor and trusts his lover to buoy him above the engulfing deluge of deep cover. Head cradled on Duo's shoulder, tears wash away guilt and shame and pain.
No need for words. No demand for dialogue. Reassurance is communicated by touch. Redemption is silently vowed. TBC
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