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" Better Than Fine "Written By: Presser DISCLAIMER: This fanfiction is not written for profit. The author claims no ownership of the characters. Pairing: 1x2 Rating: PG Spoilers: The story refers to the final events of the series. Warnings: Post-series AU, light romance Summary: What do you do with a broken heart that never found the courage to say "I love you?"
Duo struggles to find the courage to confess to Heero, but before he can, Heero vanishes, leaving only a cryptic note that explains nothing. Weeks later, Duo finds a letter taped to his shower curtain. Who broke into his apartment to leave it? Why? Does this have anything to do with Heero's disappearance?
Better Than Fine answers these questions with
a surprise twist that will leave your pulse racing and warm your heart. "Better Than Fine " 4
Duo woke early the next day, not exactly bright-eyed but more rested than usual. He took his phone from underneath his pillow, where he'd taken to keeping it while he slept. Just in case he calls. The lock screen read 5:30 a.m. This has gotta be a first. He didn't feel like dozing off until his alarm an hour later, so he pushed up and swung his legs to the floor. His braid fell against his thigh, the tip bushy from lack of brushing. Actually have time to wash it, even though it's a weekday. Duo slipped the tie off the end and began loosening his long, gold-auburn hair, stopping for a massive yawn and a satisfying stretch and groan. As he padded to the bathroom he reached inside his shorts and scratched himself. At the sink he finished pulling apart his braid and drew his hair forward to examine it. When he turned to the shower he froze.
What the hell?
There was an envelope taped to the shower curtain. The three big questions immediately jumped to mind -- Who, How, and Why -- trailed by the lesser concern of When. Duo stared without moving, then left the bathroom to search the entire apartment. Nothing was out of place; there was no sign of forced entry. He came to a stop in the living room, at a loss as to what to do.
Conjectures beginning with "could it have been" and "what if" bumped into each other in his mind, falling apart before they could fully form. He thought about scanning for fingerprints, loose hair, and the like to ID the -- The what? Not a thief. Nothing was taken. Just the opposite, in fact. Something was left. Duo dismissed looking for DNA evidence as a silly overreaction.
He shook his head. I just don't get it. If it's a message from Heero, then why didn't he just -- Duo rolled his eyes and muttered "idiot" under his breath. Just go read the fucking note, moron. As he took a step, his hair brushed the back of his thighs. He looked down. I'm standing in the middle of the living room wearing nothing but boxers with my hair down. And Derek wants me there early today for the new client presentation.
Derek was the Head of Development for the Theodore Rossi Foundation, a nonprofit organization created by its namesake to teach other nonprofits how to develop funding strategies best suited to the type of work they did. Duo was Derek's right-hand man, much more than an Executive Assistant, who often took meetings in his place -- not that Derek was above treating Duo like a gofer when it suited him. Duo liked to use plain English in his presentations --"Hit 'em with words they'll understand immediately" -- while Derek preferred language Duo privately called "Execubabble," high-flown turns of phrase designed to impress potential clients but devoid of substance, as far as Duo could see.
One of Duo's jobs was to copy-edit everything that flowed from the Development Office, and that included virtually all TRF press releases, brochures, and correspondence from Derek to clients as well as notes for his presentations. He learned early on that Derek thought Plain English was demeaning to TRF's clients. "We don't talk down to people, Duo; we talk up to them." Duo wondered how Derek would explain what that meant if pressed, but he wasn't about to ask him to do it.
Now Duo hurried back to the bathroom. Shit. I've wasted half my time looking for clues instead of seeing what's in the goddamn envelope. Plus I haven't even started getting ready. If I'm not early today of all days, Derek'll kill me.
Duo examined the envelope before touching it. Looks like just plain Scotch tape holding it there. He tapped the bottom edge with a fingernail. It's light enough. Probably just one sheet of paper in it. He cautiously detached it from the shower curtain and turned it over. Not sealed. Hm. Inside was a single sheet of crisp stationary. Duo unfolded it and read.
You are invited to a private dinner with Trowa Barton, Managing Editor of Kingston Press Richardson Place, 720 North Franklin Avenue 8:21 p.m.
Duo turned the sheet over. The back was blank. That's it? He turned on the tap in the shower and folded the letter back into the envelope. As he waited for hot water to rise through the plumbing, he ticked off the many questions that came to him. Why would Trowa do this? Or was it Trowa? If not, then who? If it was him, why wouldn't he just call? And why such a formal invitation? Trowa of all people knows this would set off every alarm bell I've got, even if it arrived in my mailbox. Plus breaking into our apartment? What the hell is he playing at?
Clouds of steam drifted by his nose, so Duo stepped under the water only to jump back immediately. "Damn it! No way I've got time to do my hair now." Chill bumps rose under what little water got on his skin as he frantically toweled dry the parts of his hair that got wet. After grabbing a shower cap and tucking a makeshift ponytail under it, he washed quickly. As he hastily toweled off, questions yammered at him like a nest of journalists at a White House press conference.
Richardson Place is as upscale as it gets: top of the Bank of America building, the crown jewel of the mayor's downtown renovation project. But it's surrounded by storefronts with bars on broken windows and hotels with rooms for rent by the hour. Duo opened the bathroom door and swung it back and forth to dissipate the hot, humid air of his shower.
He quickly brushed and braided his hair before pulling his best "impress the client" clothes from his closet and drawers, dressing as fast as he could. If Trowa hadn't signed the letter, there's no way I'd treat this as anything other than a prank. But that's his signature. I'm absolutely sure it is. Duo checked himself in the mirror, adjusting the knot in his tie and looking over his braid. His phone said he had seven minutes to catch the bus that would deliver him to TRF's offices just in time to pull his paperwork together for the meeting. This'll have to do. Duo grabbed his backpack and keys and left, unaware that not one article of clothing he wore matched.
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