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"Gambit"Written By: Karen The Huntress Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its
characters Rating: R Warnings: Language, Duo's POV, Heero's POV in
Part Two Pairings: 1+2 Summary: Duo has a plan to get Heero to notice
him. "Gambit " Duo's POV:
Heero Yuy, Codename 01, is a perplexing enigma! Don't get me wrong there's benefits to being shrewd, kept me alive for years, and scheming ain't necessarily a bad thing either. Any warrior worth his salt analyzes, evaluates and formulates workable battle strategies. Heero examines every mission parameter, surveillance dossier, armament synopsis, step by step, bordering on obsession, to a complex logical conclusion. Heero latches onto an idea like a stray dog defending a bone. He's just as stubborn when something don't suit his fancy. My biggest gripe isn't his adamant adherence to duty but damn secretive nature. Yeah, if Heero gets any more anal retentive about guardin' thoughts and shieldin' emotions he won't shit for a month. Why does everything have to be so insufferably complicated? That's one question I'm determined to answer. Never refused a challenge. Drink-your-cronies-under-the-table contest or taking a dare to run butt naked through the Senior Officers Lounge. This assignment is personal. Lessons learned from my astute mentor Professor G.: Utilize your opponent's weak spots, chinks in his armor to be exploited. Tactical maneuvers. Slow and steady advancements into uncharted territory—Heero's intricate psyche. Distinct tactical methodology applies to a Perfect Soldier conditioned to physical excellence and mental exactness. Heero performs like a machine. A precise match for the Zero System. Communicates on technical levels. Calculations. Weapons range and velocity. Data hacking. Statistical probabilities for absolute correctness. Compliance training coerced Heero into introversion. Eliminate all feedback, any interference while piloting Wing Zero. Hone reactions. No hesitation. Ignore sentiments. Accept, without pause, terminal defeat in battle. Heero deserves to hear the wind whisper instead of barked orders. To speak without considering every damn word or, for fear of evoking inappropriate consequences, retreat from a touch deemed too intimate. He also deserves raunchy passion, lustful carnality and primal sex. Nobody fucks with Duo Maxwell and his resolve to chisel away stoic barriers erected between 01 and the world. Between Heero and me. ******
Spanners, rackets, channel lock pliers and an assortment of wrenches were strewn in uncharacteristic disorder. Also the hard copy, dog-eared manual for Wing Gundam Zero XXXG-00W0 confirms scheduled maintenance wasn't going as planned. Brow furrowed Heero thumbs through the low tech handbook marred by telltale fingerprints. His search ends on pages 192-193 displaying six diagrams for hip to torso swivel joint connections. As I advance on the frustrated mechanic my presence is barely acknowledged by a sideward glance. Easing down next to an electronic circuit tester, red, blue and yellow cables knotted up like an octopus hugging itself, I ask rhetorically. "How's it going?" Typical retort. A grunt accents Heero's annoyance. "Can I help?" Heero scoots closer on his impeccable arse, aims a flashlight to illuminate the bothersome linkages. "Third and fourth couplings are out of sync." Took a moment to scrutinize the problem. "Something ain't right." I agree. "Hand me that micrometer gauge." Of course my extended hand "accidentally" grazes Heero's muscular thigh. Intense blue eyes veiled in brown bangs center on my ever-so-angelic face. No change in expression. Did the subtle touch register through his shroud of detachment? Perhaps the lack of response is merely indifference. Far from defeated, back in mission mode, I measure breadth, length, segment dimensions and angular conformations. "Allowable deviation ranges are way out of alignment." Heero nods without comment. "Entire system has to be dismantled." Evaluation verified. Heero concurs. "Let's get started."
Heero secures double bolt latches on external heat shields. Repairs had gone smoothly. Each stage carried out with proficiently. No wasted time or effort. No pointless conversation. Mid-evening cup of coffee and two strawberry muffins had long ago been spent. Stomach protests. A glance at my watch. "21:38 in the fuckin' P.M." I proclaim crossly, "Mess Hall is closed." is added to emphasize the lateness of the hour. Heero scrubs greasy hands with orange waterless gel. Wipes off the goop on a dingy towel. "Sleep now. Eat in the morning." Another lesson from G's pragmatic schooling: Take advantage of every opportunity to disarm your foe, actual weapon or mental defenses. Got high marks in craftiness. "There's food in my room." I declare nonchalantly. *The ready availability of provisions should be a sensible solution to prod Heero to a rational conclusion.* Dammit, now I'm channeling Wufei. To my surprise the offer to eat is accepted. "All right." One step closer to mission accomplished. ****** My untidy quarters wouldn't pass military inspection. Definitely not 01's by the book standards, but it's my cozy pigsty. Room can't be that shabby. Don't own much stuff. Not counting the clothes on my back there's one duffle of personal belongings. A second reinforced carrycase holds four bogus Colonial passports, a fake UESA shuttle pilot license, Sig Sauer Automatic, Glock 17 and extra ammo clips. So what if I decorate with empty beer bottles! No harm if my limited attire seldom gets hung up. As far as the dust-festooned cobweb in the corner, it's still being used by the spider. Unlike Heero's sterile environment, everything in a designated location and bedspread you can bounce a quarter off of, I prefer a homey ambiance. Heero expertly navigates the cluttered maze of organized confusion. I gather a navy blue tee shirt and gray sweatpants off the single wooden chair and urge my guest to sit. L2 survival hoard. Three plastic containers are retrieved from under the bed. I smooth out the rumpled coverlet, aka, makeshift tablecloth. With the same eager anticipation of a tomb raider unearthing secrets, each lifted lid reveals its treasures. Seven cartons of chicken flavored dehydrated noodles in ready-to-serve cups—just add boiling water. Three oatmeal and chocolate chip cereal bars. Six pop top cans of processed cheese. Box of slightly stale crackers and, the pièce de résistance of foodstuffs, a dozen vacuum sealed packets of mystery meat claiming to be turkey. Heero ponders the culinary minefield. "No nutritional value." "Stash ain't that bad." Four boxes of Ready Rations, some dietary sadist considers food, prompts Heero to expound on his unfit for human consumption theory. "That shit will kill you." ****** Despite Heero's stern warning about sustenance deficiency his grumbling stomach vetoes apprehensions. Hot water from the bathroom sink reconstitutes two portions of noodles, add two synthetic compound forks. Plenty of crackers to scoop out the creamy, but questionable, cheese product. Lukewarm bottled water rounds out the impromptu feast. Fifteen minutes pass without chitchat. Finally I break the awkward silence. "How did your solo mission go?" Really hate discussin' war, but whatever encourages 01 to be talkative. Heero doesn't volunteer many details. I don't press for specifics. General information is enough to keep the dialogue from bogging down. Throughout our informal tête-à-tête (Quatre's fancy phrase) I mentally debate seduction. Remember Heero ain't receptive to close contact. Another guesstimate factor, unpredictable reactions. Now it's me studying every angle. Assessing toleration levels. Possible volatility. Forty-five minutes. Noodles are gone. Cheese and crackers reduced to globs of orangey essence and crumbs. Nothing left to talk about. Heero stretches kinks from his shoulders. Shirt tightens to accentuate the ripple of muscles underneath. "Thanks." expresses his gratitude. My pondering over cause and consequence comes to an abrupt halt. Hormones trigger a game of hare and hound. Centered in now or never crosshairs I intercept Heero before he reaches the door. Firm grip on his arm checks forward motion. A tug pivots him in place. Momentary meeting of amethyst eyes and cobalt eyes. Don't think. ACT! The kiss is resolute. No chance for misinterpretation. Heero tenses. Prepared to suffer harsh verbal chastisement, or worse, severe physical reprisal I end the kiss. Breathless. Retreat is not an option. Heero's expression is unreadable. Uncertainty? Irritation? Rage? Heart hammering I feign a calm veneer. Instincts on high alert I appraise body language, an incensed glare in advance of flying fists that'll knock me into next week. Heero remains still. Only clue he's not an emotionless machine is hard breaths heaving in his chest. *You really pissed him off.* echoes inside my mind. "Maybe." *Was it worth it?* "Yeah." Heero shifts his stance. I flinch. The unpredicted cower betrays the God of Death's undaunted facade. In the nanosecond of a heartbeat Heero grabs my shoulders so tight it hurts. Before my befuddled mind commands action he responds with a kiss so fierce it buckles my knees. End Part One
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