"The Good Life"

It was a jungle, the trees knotted close together, large leaves obscuring the sunshine and water droplets dripped from above. The sound of insects seemed loud in the dense undergrowth and the occasional rustle of leaves indicated some other bigger animals. Birds cawed, loud unwavering noises and Trowa looked up to see one fly away, too far now to see anything but the flap of wings as it disappeared.

The heat was intense and Trowa's footing was not as firm as he would like as he followed Heero, walking a few steps behind his partner. It had not been a smooth extraction and Trowa would grumble at Heero later, tell him that it had been a fuck up but first they needed to get as far away from the prison as they could.

Trowa had been in a prison in Cambodia for three weeks. He had been sent as a certain prisoner had some information regarding a terrorist network and the only way to get that information was for someone to infiltrate the prison. And infiltrating a prison meant being locked up, being thrown in with the vilest criminals imaginable and Trowa had known it had to him out of the two of them. Heero wasn't as good at blending in as he was and Trowa's grasp of languages due to a childhood drifting among merc groups meant he could communicate. So Trowa had gone in, Trowa had talked to the right people, traded with the right people and found out who funded the terrorist network and then all he had to do was wait for Heero's extraction.

It had been damp, squalid, awful conditions - a cell shared with four other men and one pot to piss in. To say it had been unpleasant would've been an understatement but then Trowa had still probably experienced worse. And he had known he would get out - he knew Heero would come for him at the designated time once he had gained the relevant intelligence. And he had been able to survive in the prison, the fights, the attempts to knife him in the back, the food which had been rice cooked in dirty water with the occasional vegetables, as he knew within a few short weeks, Heero would blast through the walls, hold out his hand and lead him out. Then there would be a week of hot sex and sunshine somewhere in Asia as far away from fucking Cambodia as possible but right now, Trowa was still a little annoyed at Heero -his usual perfectness a little off.

"You okay?" Heero asked, his voice low as he looked back for a moment, realising Trowa was further behind than he expected.

"Yeah," Trowa growled, veiled anger in the word.

He was "okay" - he had been injured worse before. When the blast had rocked the prison, the response had been chaos and Trowa had been caught in the crushing of desperate men searching for freedom. Not that Trowa blamed them - his stay in the secret political prison had been a vacation and those other's men - they were there forever. And no one would ever get near them. So when it got rough, when the building began to crumble and men fought and slashed with make shift shivs, Trowa had ended up stabbed in the back once, not too hard, and slammed into some debris. He was sure his shoulder was dislocated as he'd done it once before, at the circus, on the high wire and his walk was awkward with his arm hanging limply at his side. Yeah, he was okay but that was because he was fucking Trowa Barton - childhood mercenary, former Gundam pilot and secret Preventer agent. If he were a normal man he would've curled up and fucking given in, pain radiating down his spine and into all his senses.

"We can stop."

The offer was there and Heero had not looked him in the eye - not turned to look at his face to see him grimace. Trowa wouldn't admit to Heero he was weak - that he'd not been fed decent food since their last night in Phnom Penh, room service ordered on the Preventer's dime, shared naked between rounds of rough needy sex, eating to recover energy to continue to explore every inch of each other's perfect bodies. And that was before the blast, the pain, the stab wound he was bleeding from.

"You sure?" Trowa asked.

Heero nodded, glancing in his direction. "There's a stream. I can patch you up."

Trowa wanted to ask whether they were far enough away from the prison as his ability to track the distance they had travelled was hampered by the way he felt, by the throbbing in his head, by the stabbing aches in his muscles so he trusted Heero as he always damn did, trusted his innate skills that made him a fucking good agent and had ensured his survival in a life of hardship and violence. Instead, of asking anything Trowa only followed as he heard the stream, the sound of trickling water filling his ears and he watched as Heero dropped the backpack to the floor, kneeling down beside it and retrieving whatever supplies he thought he needed. Trowa walked slowly, his feet heavy and knelt beside the stream, using his good hand to splash water on his face, washing the beard he'd acquired as he tried to remove some of the dirt and grime from his features.

"Your shoulders dislocated," Heero observed coolly and Trowa nodded.

He knew why Heero said it and Trowa understood. He needed it putting back into place. There was no point waiting until they were free of the damn jungle so he merely turned, offering his body to Heero to do what he wanted with it. And Heero removed his leather belt, the sound of the buckle seemingly loud and he offered it for Trowa to put in his mouth. He accepted it, remembering the severe sharp pain of it being put back into place and Heero grabbed hold of his arm firmly, pushing like he knew how, and the pain was immense, Trowa biting down on the leather as his shoulder "popped" back into place.

He didn't make a sound as he slipped the belt out of his mouth, the indents of his teeth in the black leather, handing it back to Heero.

"Strip," Heero ordered and Trowa did as he commanded, weak and with no ability to fight, and he needed his wounds tended to, needed the bleeding to stop so he consented, pride and stubbornness gone. He'd seen Heero bleeding and wounded and tended for him. He'd seen him weak. And Heero was the only person who would ever see him like this - vulnerable and in pain.

The prison had given them itchy grey jumpsuits, utilitarian in design, shapeless and numbered, and Trowa now unzipped the material, dirty and sweat stained, parting it down his chest where a grimy white tank top looked as grey as the jumpsuit after his time in the prison. Keeping the prisoners supplied with clean clothing had not been priority.

"Wash."

Trowa glared at Heero as he busied himself with the first aid kit and so he finished stripping the material away, letting the jumpsuit fall to the ground, the tank and boxers following. It wasn't that he damn cared, stood naked in the jungle as Heero had seen it all before - knew it all intimately, had kissed and caressed every part of him and he walked to the stream, wading in, the cold immediate after the heat of the hike.

The cold water was more refreshing than the showers at the prison - Trowa had known he would've been a target despite his height, his broad shoulders, his muscles so that the first day in the cold shower block, he had been pushed and he had fought back, breaking a man's wrist, giving another a black eye. So he had limited his showers after that - afraid that there would be more men and he would potentially be outnumbered. So the water felt refreshing as he submerged himself, raking his fingers through his hair as he got out the blood and sweat and dirt from his bang, from his beard, washing his skin with his hands in the frigid water.

Clean, cold, he stepped out, Heero watching his moves, there were no towels, but Heero had clean clothes, boxers, combat pants, a t-shirt and Trowa dried himself a little with his dirty jump suit before slipping on the boxers and sitting on the ground to let Heero patch him up, knowing that's what Heero wanted him to do.

He felt Heero's fingers trace the scars on his back, the new ones and Trowa couldn't help the slight shiver at the touch, not from the cold of the water as the jungle was damn hot, stifling but from touch that wasn't laced with violence and pain. Heero's fingers were assured, careful, a man who could bend metal, who had killed numerous men with his bare hands, now carefully traced his wounds.

"It'll need stitches back in the Phnom Penh."

"Do whatever."

Heero didn't say anything, applying medical glue, bandages, wrapping up where he had been bleeding and Trowa trusted him implicitly. His body was always broken, damaged but Heero could always heal it. Just as he could do the same to Heero and had been doing it since they were fifteen.

The bandaging complete, Trowa was going to move, dress but he stopped, stalled as he felt a kiss on his neck, a lick to his pulse and he leaned back into that sensation as hands moved to wrap around him, fingers tracing patterns over his chest. Heero's hands were gentle, skittering across his bruised skin and he was mouthing his flesh, kissing at his shoulder, touching him in a way that made Trowa's body respond. He'd missed Heero.

"Fuck," he breathed as Heero ran his hand down his abs, reaching into the waistband of those boxers, finding his cock, half hard and stroking it to full hardness.

It had been too fucking long, too much violence in that prison, too much pain, that to feel someone touch him and that someone being Heero was too damn good. It made Trowa close his eyes, lean back into Heero's body as he continued to stroke him, his dick leaking at the tip as Heero kept up his rhythm, running his hand down the full length, pumping him, running his thumb over the head and slicking the moisture over the tip.

He was close quick, biting at his bottom lip, his thighs tensing and Heero's hand stopped causing Trowa's eyes to open wide, but the pause was momentary as Heero moved from behind him, silently, pushing him to the leaf strewn floor and his lips kissing down Trowa's chest, his tongue lapping around his nipple, his lips following the trail of new and old scars until he was swallowing Trowa's cock, taking it deep in his mouth, moaning around it in pleasure and Trowa surrendered completely - no longer feeling pain, only feeling the sensation of Heero's mouth, hot and warm, his hips thrusting lightly into it, the coil of release building in his gut. His fingers touched Heero's hair, thick and coarse, damp from sweat and he looked down once to watch before he let his head drop to the floor, looking up at the canopy. He wondered if this was Heero's apology - the apology for being the one sent to a secret prison in the middle of fucking nowhere, his apology for the extraction he'd fucked up, his hardships... Trowa didn't care as a finger moved, teased, and he felt his body jerk, his dick twitch and he came, hard deep into Heero's mouth.

Panting, he wiped sweat from his forehead, as he felt those lips leave him after one more suck around the head. He felt Heero then, hovering over him and Trowa leaned up for a kiss, Heero ignoring his beard and Trowa ignoring the salty taste on his tongue.

When their mouths parted, Trowa raised an eyebrow in question but Heero was moving off him, packing away the first aid kit into the backpack, letting Trowa dress in the clothes he'd left on the ground pulling them awkwardly over his shoulder and his aching body, the intensity of orgasm washing away and leaving him with the aches of his time in the prison and his extraction.

Once he was dressed, Trowa pushed back his still damp hair from his face and looked over to Heero, ready to move on as though nothing had happened. He wanted to ask why, why he'd been so intense and intent on giving Trowa pleasure, why his hands had ghosted over his skin, making him feel things he'd not felt in weeks but instead he gave him a little nod to indicate he was ready to move, to follow Heero's lead.

Heero took the sign, slung the backpack over his shoulder, looked up to the darkened canopy and then began to walk, following the stream.

"We should get to the vehicle before nightfall," he said and Trowa answered in a small grunt, walking beside him, his steps a little more assured now that his shoulder no longer hung limply from its socket.

As Trowa walked, he suddenly felt Heero's fingers brush his arm and Trowa looked at his hand on his own skin - how Heero's skin was darker against his own paleness and he heard the words, soft, an apology that Heero so rarely gave.

"I'm sorry."

Trowa's answer was a touch of his hand on Heero's shoulder, feeling the sweat of their hike and they continued walking, side by side, no more words necessary.

Chapter 4

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