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"Caught in the Crossfire "Written By: Miss Murdered Disclaimer: I don't own the GW characters –
am just borrowing to torment for my amusement Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Swearing, yaoi, violence, hints of long
past NCS Pairings: Primarily 3x2, past/presentish 1x2,
past 3x4 and 1x3 Summary: When Trowa's nephew is threatened by
the ruthless father who abandoned him, Trowa needs help in order to
fight back and protect both Catherine and the little boy. Things get
complicated when both Shinigami and the Perfect Soldier come to his
aid as the three men must discover where they stand with each other
while they work out a way to protect Trowa's family. "Caught in the Crossfire "
"– the fuck?" Duo felt angry, more than that as Trowa was not waiting
in the control room. The virus had been uploaded, the main systems
were all down, but Trowa was not there. "He's gone to Nabokov." Heero was sitting at the console, the unconscious men
dragged out and dumped in the corridor without care. "No shit," Duo spat, angrily grabbing for
his weapon in his waistband, checking it with rough impatience before
returning it. "Duo," Heero said in a low growl, a warning,
but Duo just shrugged. "This wasn't the plan." Heero response was blunt, his eyes cold. "It's
his family." It was as though that explained it all – Heero
turning back towards the control panel and ignoring Duo entirely.
It did though – explained the whole goddamn thing as really,
Duo had loved and lost enough damn people in his young life and if
he'd had the chance to do something, he'd take it. He just didn't
expect Trowa to do what he did. Then again, as he'd acknowledged,
he'd fucked the guy a couple of times – what did he really know?
It stung, somewhere deep down, and Duo leaned down for the bag at
Heero's feet. Heero raised one defined eyebrow in response but Duo
ignored him as he brought out charges, plastic explosives – shit
they didn't think they would need but had with them. It seemed now
they would. There was a question on Heero's face as he keyed in code,
visible on the screen, bringing up the security footage, and that
was when Duo saw Trowa – a gun to his head, surrounded by Nabokov's
men, his hands tied in front of him, vulnerable. They could kill him
at any damn point. Yet they hadn't, he could see the man on the screen,
the man that was Alexei Nabokov who started all this and Duo gritted
his teeth, his decision truly made. "What are you going to do?" Heero asked, his
voice wary – as it needed to be. "Distraction." Duo didn't say anything else – could say he wanted
to make fireworks or see it all go kaboom but it wasn't time for a
witty comment. Just time for some action. 'Huh, maybe Trowa did rub off on me and all,' Duo thought
as he grabbed up the required items, but he stalled for a second,
looked back at Heero, sitting straight-backed, his eyes darting across
the screens, his fingers working across keyboards and it was weird
to see him like that. Made him remember him at fifteen – a time warp
or something and Duo didn't know if he needed to say goodbye. Really
say goodbye. But he just opened the door – avoided stepping on
the bodies on the floor and began to walk swiftly to set off a distraction. He hoped that it would bide Trowa some time. He hoped
it would give him the opportunity to march in, all guns blazing, and
shoot the fucker. Also to give Trowa a piece of his mind – that
he was worth more than killing the motherfucker. Trowa was better
than him. He held onto that notion, that idea, as he set up explosives,
those skills unused for so long. Really, as a hit man it was about
subtlety. Duo was about to use a method that was the equivalent to
a sledgehammer and quite frankly, he didn't give a fuck. It would
work. Hell, it would work. And it would be fun. Maybe Duo didn't get chance to
use his skills with explosives but he hadn't forgot shit. There were plenty of times that Duo had been accused
of not being the smartest – he still remembered Wufei's hinted
comment – and though it wasn't damn true a part of him liked
the fact he was doubted a little. That he was underestimated as that
meant when he wired up explosives, placed at a pressure point in the
building, it wasn't expected and it rocked the place, the entirety
of the old building shaking from the charge and Duo was far enough
away to revel in the violence of the explosion while remaining in
relative safety. The explosions caused the emergency systems to kick
in and suddenly Duo felt the water trickle down onto him, the emergency
sprinklers activated because of the flash point of heat and he got
to his feet, feeling the cold water soak his clothing and braid immediately.
He had felt worse than the sudden onslaught of water from above but
he could imagine the residents of some swanky ass apartment complex
hadn't. The panic was what he needed. Duo smirked, reached not for
the gun but the blade he'd acquired. Now it was time to do what he'd
damn well appeared out of nowhere for. This was it. Kill the target. The residents fled, everyone travelling in the opposite
direction of Duo as he ascended the stairs. Few paid him attention
though he kept his blade hidden, tight to his thigh, as the sprinklers
continued to pour from above, the plush carpeting soaked through under
foot. It felt like other times – sneaking into rich men's
homes, ready to stab a knife through someone's heart – kill,
take a life, unleash Shinigami. And that's what Trowa had wanted –
why he'd called and asked for him – because he wanted death for
Nabokov. Wanted him bleeding out and dying and suffering – and
Duo could do that. Hell, could he do that. The top floor was something Duo had memorised and when
he arrived he was rushed by some idiot – young maybe, inexperienced
– but his blade slid in, his knife in the stomach and Duo twisted,
pulled out. The guy slumped and Duo wiped the blade along the black
denim, unseen, as the water diluted the blood and he looked up through
his bangs as a gun was fired, a handgun, and Duo ducked, rolled to
the floor, brought out his gun and fired back, smirking as he did. The tension of the last few days melted as Duo surrendered
to that side of himself he'd kept tamed during the emotional tension
of the type they'd been working through the past few days. Now he
let loose, raised his gun as he rose to stand, a low crouch as he
fired at the men who attempted to kill him. Today wasn't the day Duo Maxwell died. It was the day
he disappeared into nothingness but he was not leaving a corpse –
however fucking beautiful it would be. The door to the penthouse remained opened where a body
lay prone, water still pouring from the ceiling as Duo stepped over
a man, groaning, when he heard the sounds of a struggle and he sped
up – damn caution to the wind. Duo knew he could be stealthy
but now was not time for that – now was time to act and think
after as he couldn't be too late – Trowa couldn't be dead or
bleeding. He thought about Eli, about that last hug and his stomach
churned and Trowa was more important than he'd ever be because of
that little guy. That little guy needed him and loved him and that
was all that mattered. Duo rounded the corner and saw Trowa on his knees, a
gun to his head, Nabokov standing overhead, an angry snarl on his
face, two heavies – one bleeding from his nose and the other
holding Trowa's shoulders as he looked up defiantly, his long bang
stuck to his face due to the water. It was the element of surprise that Duo needed and so
he acted, the gun firing and taking out the guy holding Trowa, the
shock of the bullet and the slumping body giving Trowa the opportunity
to swing his legs around and take Nabokov to the floor. Duo fired
again, taking out the other guy as he saw Trowa scramble for Nabokov's
dropped weapon, kicking it out of reach. Duo approached, gun raised and pointed at Nabokov –
who didn't look afraid. "Hands where I can see 'em, asshole." Nabokov sat up. The water had made his suit cling. His
smile though was still there, a sneer in fact, and Duo didn't like
it so he lashed out with the butt of his gun – a spray of blood
arcing from his mouth and he slumped back, a groan of pain. He should
just damn well shoot but he reached for Trowa, his wrists cuffed,
though he kept one eye on Nabokov as he brought out a lock pick from
his pocket. "Didn't think you'd still carried that shit,"
Trowa said softly as the cuffs popped open. Duo cocked his head, quirked his lips. "Old habits
die hard, I guess." Nabokov moved to a sitting position, the back of his
hand wiping his bloody mouth and he spoke, rough and harsh. "You don't have time now – the police will
be here to arrest you even if you kill me. You still lose them, Barton.
My men are everywhere in this country and you will rot in a prison
and suffer every pain imaginable and so your sister will still
suffer and my son will grow up angry and violent. You didn't
do anything. You didn't protect him." Duo watched, dumbfounded, not expecting Trowa's actions.
His blade, loose in his hand, was suddenly not there and he felt it
leave his grip but Trowa was fast and silent and deadly, driving the
knife deep into Nabokov's chest – so fucking deep. "He was never your son," Trowa whispered as
he pulled the knife out, blood rushing and Nabokov had nothing to
say – no capacity to say anything as he bled out, the red mixing
with water and tainting the plush white carpeting. Trowa slumped then and Duo grabbed at him, getting him
to his damn feet, his hands covered with blood, his clothes –
the stupid maintenance guy's uniform all red and Duo shook him. "Fuck, that was not how it was supposed to be!" Trowa only murmured softly. "It's my family." Duo wanted to shout, to scream, but Nabokov was right
– they had to get out. "Go then, asshole, get outta here!" Trowa looked slightly dazed, his eyes glancing to where
Nabokov was dead and bleeding and defeated and Duo shook him, grabbing
at the taller man's shoulders. "Go!" Duo shouted, water in his face, blood
on him – not sure if it was the heavies' or Nabokov's. "You
need ta fucking leave!" Duo was shouting the words over the sound of sprinklers
and his throat felt raw and he wondered if he could hear the wailing
of sirens and a lump was in his throat and a stinging in his eyes
as he looked up. He didn't shout – this time he begged. "Go, Trowa." Trowa regained the composure required and nodded, the
knife falling to the floor, and his bloody, wet hands touched Duo's
cheek and it didn't matter that there was blood on them as they kissed
one final time as it seemed fitting – blood and death and a kiss
goodbye. And Trowa backed off. Said nothing else as he turned
to leave, seeing Heero in the doorway. There was one brief touch between
them as Trowa walked away and then he was gone and Duo closed his
eyes, raised his face up to the ceiling hoping that the sprinkler
water would cleanse him or make him feel damn better but it didn't.
The only thing that did was Trowa's touch and with a growing sickness,
Duo knew he'd never feel it again. He felt Heero, sensed him, a touch on his arm. "You go too." Duo opened his eyes and looked at Heero, his blue eyes
deep and sad, maybe, and Duo shook his head. "Go – I can deal with this," Heero said
softly, his head inclined to indicate the room and he put his hands
onto Duo's shoulders, forcing him to look at him closely. "They won't get me. Go." Duo wavered but took a step back, Heero's hands falling
off his shoulders and now that would be his last moment with him –
his first love, his shadow. Duo blinked back water in his eyes –
not fucking tears – and turned, grabbed a gun from one of the
prone bodies on the floor and hurtled down the plush stairwell, his
eyes blurred and his breathing ragged. He was outside quickly, bursting into the cold night
air, running fast, so damn fast so that he felt nothing but his body
straining and exertion and not the pain of his last brush of lips
with Trowa or Heero's fingertips disappearing off his shoulders. The night was so damn cold and eventually he stopped,
an alleyway, and he leaned against stonework, the sound of the river
not so far away and he fell to the ground, the hard cobbled pathway,
and he shivered, so fucking cold – the wet clothing and saturated
braid not helping. He curled up, wrapped his arms around his knees
and felt his breath come in short, uncontrolled bursts as he tried
to regain some control. But Duo felt himself sob, like he hadn't damn
done since the church as once again he'd lost everything he loved
and he was alone in the cold darkness of a violent night.
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