"Déjà vu"

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters

Rating: R

Warnings: Post war, angst, language, lemon

Pairings: 1x2, 2x1

Summary: Duo finds himself reliving a scene from his past

"Déjà vu "

Ghostly coils of pallid smoke wafts from a tarnished tin can with the faded label "Market Fresh Yellow Cling Peaches" then the last ashy embers writhers away.

Beside the makeshift ashtray crammed with crushed cigarette butts, a clammy glass drowns in a water ring beading on the cracked concrete windowsill. Disowned by the whiskey, caramel-colored ice cubes melt with a dull clink.

Perched on the Fairmont's rust-corroded third story fire escape, a dusky silhouette, huddled in a thin blanket, another cigarette smothering between calloused fingers, surveys the dismal slate gray cityscape.

As rare rain trickles off the seedy hotel's paint-flaked cornice offering pitiful protection the lone man contemplates the mirage of memory called déjà vu.

******
Life has come full circle for the L2 enigma named Duo Maxwell.

Poverty raped Duo's childhood, deprived of him family and friends. Being a bastard stole his legacy.

Ironically the same failed social system that sentenced orphaned children to starvation and the ravages of disease facilitated his larcenous skills and improved his aptitude for stealth.

After any expectations for a marginally normal existence were entombed in the ruins of Maxwell Church, the forsaken gutter rat's rage fueled a fervent fire. But, unlike the legendary phoenix reborn from the ashes, revenge transfigured Duo Maxwell into the God of Death.

Finally a crucial encounter with the eccentric scientist Professor G. provided Pilot 02 with a ray of hope. Gundam Deathscythe was more than an instrument of destruction. The black Mecha also afforded an opportunity to extract final retribution.

******
Domed "sky" continues to weep. Gritty rivulets sketch metaphoric patterns across crumbing pavement and weed-choked sidewalks.

A flick propels the spent cigarette into fitful artificial wind. Duo glances through an opened window framed in ratty curtains at the coverlet shrouded figure curled up in his bed.

Accompanied by the incessant Drip Drip Drip of raindrops, he mentally dances with vague recollections of New Edwards Air Base, a remote command center where four like-minded men joined his fight against the tyrannical authority of the Untied Earth Sphere Alliance.

Although the uniquely diverse warriors had pledged their allegiance in the colonial quest for freedom, the pilot code-named 01 soon proved to be an anomaly.

Unlike Duo who craved his fellow pilots' company, Heero Yuy was a self-imposed loner. Despite his horrid past Duo tried to be optimistic, Heero viewed life as cheap and himself as an expendable pawn to be sacrificed for the ultimate checkmate.

Duo wore a jester's mask to hide his pain. Heero's stoic demeanor was a false facade thrown up against any hint of vulnerability. Even their identities were lies. Heero Yuy was borrowed from a pacifist assassinated by Heero's mentor Odin Lowe, while Duo's persona was created to honor his friend Solo and a kindly priest, Father Maxwell.

Oddly, despite their seemingly insurmountable differences, the street urchin and detached recluse with a death wish discovered they did shared an honor-bound duty to dispatch the Specials of OZ back to the hellish realms from which they were spawned.

******
So the war began.

Both saints and sinners, the Gundam quintet was christen with the blood of enemies and innocents. Fighting instincts were forged in the heat of combat. Any regrets were tempered by the soulless solitude of exile.

Senseless destruction.

Deaths of comrades and foes.

Coming together.

Falling apart.

Nevertheless, whether on the Colonies or Earthside, every wayward path always guided Heero and Duo back to each other.

******
Tin can abandoned to the elements, Duo slips over the sill. Grime clouded window slithers shut with a stubborn whine. No longer buffeted by the wind curtains calm. Shards of ice whirlpool around the bathroom sink in a whiskey-tainted torrent.

Duo settles on a wobbly metal chair near the bed. Rain taps on the windowpane. Reminiscing ends. Yet one bittersweet memory vies for attention. Duo closes his eyes and drifts away.

******
Twelve hours before a decisive battle ended the war Duo roamed aimlessly through the battleship Peacemillion. Gazing through a large viewport he was transfixed by wonderment at thousands of stars flickering like ethereal fireflies in the ebony infinity called space.

In the hushed silence he questioned the fulfillment of his purpose, gauged successes and berated failures. Plagued by an unforgiving conscience the remorseful God of Death was suddenly aware of his corporeal condition; how insignificant he was in the vast universe.

Fate offered no guarantees to Gundam pilots, made no promises they would see tomorrow. Words whispered for fear Death might overhear Duo declared. "I won't spend what might be my final night alone."

Heero didn't refuse his comrade's request to enter his Spartan quarters. There was no exchange of courteous salutations, no query concerning the tears tracking down Duo's cheeks.

A softly sighed, "I don't want to be alone tonight." was answered with a nod just before Heero brushed a caressing kiss across Duo's quivering lips.

Decorum or moral correctness weren't discussed. No consensus that love should be the deciding factor were debated. Foreplay was abbreviated. Lust spurred panting and groping and divesting of clothing until both bodies were bare. Stroking. Pawing. Fingertips enkindled torrid waves. Arms and legs entwined.

Moans accented pleas for release. Curses accentuated orgasms. Heero and Duo engaged in primal sex, testing physical stamina and triggering multiple climaxes.

Sated, they slept.

In the morning Duo was alone again.

******
The war ended.

Pilots 01, 02, 03, 04, and 05 scattered like embers in a firestorm.

Whatever the syndrome. Guilt. Depression. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder or just not giving a damn, Duo withdrew into L2's hellish netherworld and, like ink into rice paper, faded into misery.

Six months.

Cigarettes and liquor became convenient vices. Meaningless sex offered temporary solace from soul-numbing despair. Frustration toyed darkly with Duo's mind.

Every effort to find the illusive Perfect Soldier became an exercise in fucking futility. Then last night Duo answered a soft knock and opened the door to his shabby room. Without forewarning Heero Yuy stood in the dank, urine-fouled, trash-littered hall.

No fond greetings passed between the warriors rendered useless by peace. No inquiries as to health or happiness. No commentary concerning how much their scant measure of sanity had been desecrated.

Duo didn't question why, after all this time, Heero had sought him out. Neither did he acknowledge the tears tracking down Heero's face.

A softly sighed, "I don't want to be alone tonight." was answered with a nod just before Duo brushed a caressing kiss across Heero's quivering lips.

******
Heero stirs from sleep, lifts the faded blue coverlet in a wordless invitation for Duo to join him.

Lying face to face Heero evokes memories of their last night on Peacemillion and willingly confesses no regrets about surrendering his virginity.

This night, shrouded in artificial twilight shadows, Heero is grateful for unconditional sanctuary and for love that prevailed over lust.

Seeing the faraway look in his lover's eyes, Heero wonders, "What do you remember?"

Duo snuggles closer and whispers. "Déjà vu."

OWARI

Déjà vu—Karen Hickman—November 2016

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