Collateral Damage Part 2
"Hey!" Heero exclaimed as cat-like reflexes intercepted the slumping body just in time to save Duo from crashing face first into the floor. In one fluid motion, his right arm centered under Duo's shoulders, left arm slipped beneath Duo's knees. With minimal effort the semiconscious Irishman was carried inside and lowered onto the wrinkled bedcovers.
Door locked against outside intrusion, the bedside lamp was switched on. In a rare uncertain state of "what in the hell do I do now", Heero stood over Duo's frail body watching him tremble and pant in shallow intakes of breath.
Earlier that evening, when the by-the-book hired gun set out on what was deemed a routine mission, Heero never imagined he'd not only disregard the prime protocol "leave no witness" but he'd bring a spared stray back to his transient home.
"You really fuck up this time." was mumbled in stern reprimand as his leather jacket was dropped on the faded chair. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?" continued the one-sided dialogue regarding the complicated mess created by his uncharacteristic compassion.
*Don't just stand there.* Heero's inner counsel chided his indecisiveness.
Arguing against further involvement, Heero growled, "Why should I give a damn about this hustler?"
*Because it's the right thing to do.* his doggedly relentless conscience insisted.
A resigned sigh prodded Heero to action. Duo's scuffed boots were pulled off and set aside. The thin denim jacket was tugged over uncooperative shoulders, slipped down clammy arms and flung atop the leather jacket. Briefly he paused to grin at the fully exposed red tee shirt embossed with a comical portrait of Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa smoking a joint of marijuana.
Distracted attention redirected to Duo's ashen face, still bearing traces of Akira's blood, Heero studied the curve of his jaw line, high ridged cheekbones, nose turned up slightly on the tip and---perfect lips. Like a textbook case of covert infiltration, baffling fascination caught the specialist emotionally unarmed.
As if on cue Duo moaned and the cynical assassin, who believed himself immune to any brand of suffering, was set upon by an unpredicted surge of empathy. Before he could decipher the sudden ambush of actually giving a damn, his hand mopped back sweat-soaked bangs from Duo's hot forehead.
Fingers cold on the feverish brow, "Why are you doing this to me?" was wondered even though he knew Duo wasn't deliberately ill just to piss him off.
He didn't need this delay, not now. After the termination had been carried out with detached efficiency, the post-mission plan was a few hours of restive sleep in the seedy 70's era, pay-per-night Sunset View Hotel. Come morning, contact the Green Dragon Syndicate's veteran Lieutenant, Chang Wufei, collect payment then put ample distance between himself and the inevitable investigation his murderous deed would've spawned.
As always, shutdown, block out the memories. Concentrate on the next hellish job from the next Clan or Syndicate or underground organization paying for temporary ownership of his soul. No time to dwell on the endless turf and drug wars or rival subordinates vying for positions of power. Keep moving and pray some stupid lapse in judgment doesn't get him killed.
Heero's frustration was self-directed, irritation aimed at his failure in discipline, that faltering reminder he was indeed human. Mentally mirrored in that clouded windowpane of self-loathing, the uncertain assassin gazed back at an unfamiliar reflection with cobalt eyes as lifeless as Akira's death-glazed stare.
Finally a jittery sense of apprehension, of becoming entangled in a metaphoric spider web of licentious desire, fostered his defense impulse to bug out and leave the enigmatic Irishman to fend as best he could.
All the while, struggling to open his weakness-laden eyelids, Duo shuddered as the horrid scene on the wharf replayed in frightening clarity. Akira's violent contortions when the bullet bore into his skull, sightless eyes and raspy gurgling as fluids stifled his lungs.
Perhaps Duo was recalling the indescribable terror when he came face to face with his own mortality. How his heart hammered, the death knell echoed in his ears and fear tasted rancid on his tongue.
"Please." he pleaded as the killer with soulless eyes stalked like a hound of Hades.
Sucked into panic's quagmire his mouth gaped in a silent scream and hands grappled wildly at thin air for any interceding handhold.
Duo's sudden animation jolted Heero from musing over what should have been. Instinctively his arms slipped around Duo's damp torso and pinned the battering appendages to his side.
*This isn't like you.* his deep-seeded stoicism declared.
Incensed by the unmasking insight, "I know." hissed through clenched teeth.
"NO!" jerked Duo awake with a forceful start.
In a rare display of sympathy Heero whispered soothingly. "Shhhh."
Fighting with an adrenalin rush that almost broke Heero's hold, Duo bucked against the protective embrace. "Let me go. Damn bastard. LET ME GO!"
Although Duo had no prior knowledge of Heero's disownment by his father, the words cut as if a knife has been plunged into his heart. The anguish multiplied when Duo twisted the blade, "Fuckin' murderer!"
*What damnable decree of fate put this street rat on the moral high ground? He's no better, just a common thief and whore.*
*But Duo IS NOT a killer!*
Stunned by the harsh revelation Heero let go.
Curled up in a defensive fetal posture, legs tucked and arms hugging his sweltering body, Duo's breaths hitched for air. Unable to halt the hyperventilation he floated on the brink of unconsciousness.
Opting to ignore the hateful, hurtful declarations and rage-induced withdrawal, Heero urged. "Breathe."
Too weak to resist the firm persuasion Duo finally sucked in a lungful of air. The restored respiration convulsed his entire body threatening to wrench every muscle. Again Heero shored up his supportive embrace. Gradually the wheezing eased and Duo settled into a lethargic state of exhaustion.
Encircled by strong arms, braid tangled and sweat tracking down flushed cheeks Duo managed to open his eyes to behold the penitent gunman with a bleary gaze.
"If you keep fighting you're going to get worse." Heero whispered close to his ear. "Will you trust me? Please."
With a feeble nod Duo agreed, his surrender the ultimate test of faith. He had no more reserves of strength or wits, nothing left to throw up a battlement against this callous killer who, with no qualms, might betray his trust.
*********
Worn military style under his wrist so sunlight or moonlight couldn't glint off the glass to give away his position, Heero checked his watch. Fifteen minutes since he and Duo consented to a provisional treaty.
"Got to cool you down. Stay still, I'll be right back."
Filling the bathtub with lukewarm water so as not to shock Duo's overheated system and a quick stop at the refrigerator for bottled water, Heero returned to find his impromptu obligation staring at the discolored ceiling tiles.
As Duo sipped cold water to ward off dehydration, "Need to get your cloths off." was stated not suggested.
Twin pools of blue/violet were slow to focus and a slurred, "Yeah." didn't guarantee cooperation but shortly, stripped to his boxers, Duo sprawled on the bed with apparent indifference to his near nude condition.
In diffused lamplight the hazards of life on the streets are accentuated. Duo was too thin. Skeletal ribs could be counted. Hip and collar bones protruded under his pale skin and dark circles underscored his extraordinary eyes.
Given that Heero had two similar indentations on his chest, the ragged white dimple in Duo's left shoulder was identified as a roughly healed bullet wound. Remnants of more recent scars were etched on his abdomen. The wrist Akira twisted was swollen and banded with dark blue bruising.
Scrutinizing the battle scars Heero noted a patch of color, contrary to the inner city souvenirs, on Duo's upper left arm. The tattoo was an intricately designed Celtic Cross bordered in black. Inside the vertical and horizontal sections, emerald green Celtic knots intertwine in rows and the circular center where the segments intersect was inked in bright scarlet.
"Well I'll be damned." acknowledged the discovery.
Feeling vulnerable without his Glock, Heero tucked the Austrian pistol into his waistband before guiding Duo to the bathroom.
"Want to keep your underwear on?" he asked to preserve a modicum of modesty.
"No."
"You sure?"
Eager to be free of the damp chafing garment, "Off." was proclaimed irrefutably.
Duo flinched when the, now cooler, water rippled around his naked body. A mumbled "Ah shit" preceded a sturdy shiver. The messy braid floated for a moment then sank below the water line.
"You all right?" Heero wondered, reaching for the soap.
Duo's wordless nod signaled a positive response.
Under different circumstances Heero wouldn't have hesitated to ogle the Irishman's lower anatomy. However, despite debatable scruples, he adhered to a strict code of not taking advantage of anyone with altered perceptions-drunk, stoned, deft or, in this case, suffering in the throes of fever.
A soapy washcloth cleansed layers of blood, sweat and grime from Duo's face.
Wring out dirt-dulled suds.
Re-soap.
Gently swab Duo's chest, down both arms (pause to admire the indelible cross) then scrub across his belly but stop short of the groin area.
"Better if you tend down there." Heero assigned the delicate duty to Duo who made a lackadaisical swipe then handed the cloth back so legs and feet could be washed.
Body spotless, the urban soldier, skilled in handling every contingency, faced his ultimate challenge: Shampooing the Irishman's utterly impractical long hair.
The rubber band securing the waterlogged plait was so badly snarled Heero gave up and snapped it in two. Starting at the tips, he finger-combed to separate the triple sections until reddish chestnut strands merged into a thick wet mane.
A liberal amount of shampoo was applied and worked into a frothy lather. Fingertips massaged his scalp. Careful not to snag the twin silver hoops in Duo's left ear, hands traveled downward, dispersing foamy bubbles along the way then the last five inches were lifted to finish the job.
"Just a few minutes more." was promised as the process was repeated with conditioner.
Tainted water growing cold, Heero lowered the drain lever. As a murky mini whirlpool swirled soapy dregs away, faucets were adjusted to an ideal temperature for the final rinse.
Throughout the bathing Duo had been so relaxed he'd almost drifted off to sleep. A gentle nudge roused the tranquil vibes. He opened his eyes to see Heero holding two threadbare tan terrycloth towels.
Heero offered a helping hand out of the tub then, deciding the Irishman's boxers and socks were too soiled, went in search of fresher garments. Meanwhile, fever broken but still weak and shaky, Duo sat on the closed toilet lid, one towel wrapped around his hips and blotting his soggy hair with the second.
*********
Heero extracted two nylon duffle bags from the free-standing wardrobe. In keeping with his nomadic status, the green bag hadn't been unpacked. Blue and green plaid boxers, a navy blue tee shirt and white cotton socks were selected from the Spartan belongings.
The rectangle black duffle accommodated the tools of his trade. Inside, a second standard Glock 21 and eight .45 caliber, thirteen round clips and a Glock 27 plus six .40 caliber nine round clips were stored in series of mesh pockets with Velcro closures. Serving as a backup pistol, the subcompact model 27 was preferred with a shoulder holster as it created a smaller bulge under his coat or jacket.
Also secured in identical end pockets, additional apparatus included fingerless sure grip gloves and three universal-extension silencers.
The ultimate weapon in Heero's portable arsenal was sheltered in a hard-side metal security case, a Barrett M99 sniper rifle, broken down into three quick-assemble segments. Strapped under the case's lid was a long-range night vision scope sheathed in a leather pouch, two detachable .416 magazine boxes for a total of ten armor-piercing bullets and a tripod stand to assure accurate targeting.
Heero was hauling the security case from under the bed when Duo tottered from the bathroom. Wearing only a towel, pale skin peppered with goose bumps and stringy hair draped haphazardly about his shoulders, he resembled a scarecrow left out in the rain.
Yet again, Heero couldn't avoid noticing his spur-of-the-moment roommate's malnourished condition. "Put these on." he insisted, handing over the boxes, shirt and socks.
Hands braced on the bed for balance, Duo eased down on the saggy mattress then eyed the borrowed clothing with skepticism as if reckoning what would be expected in return, after all, nothing in his world was ever free.
"You can't wear that towel all night." Heero stated logically.
Currents of chilly March air leaking though warped window frames prompted Duo, for then anyway, to put his pride aside. "Thanks." acknowledged the generous gesture.
Duo slid his legs into the boxers and wriggled until the plaid fabric disappeared under his terrycloth "kilt" then removed the towel. With a bit less effort he slipped the tee shirt over his head, tugged it in place and swaddled his feet in cottony warmth.
Nodding at the gathered duffle bags and silver gray case he wondered. "Ya fixin' to leave?"
"Not tonight."
"In the morning?" hinted for some timetable when Duo and the gunman might part company.
"Yeah, we can't stay here too long."
At the collective "we" Duo cocked his head. "What ya mean we? Who says I'm goin' anywhere with ya?"
The night's hectic turn of events had taken its toll. Suddenly Heero was tired and short tempered. "I don't want to argue." he declared as his stomach protested the fact he hadn't eaten since midday. He also had no idea when Duo had his last meal. "When was the last time you ate?"
Duo shrugged, "Been awhile."
Searching through the green duffle, Heero retrieved a comb and handed it to the "scarecrow". "See what you can do with that rat's nest while I scrounge up something to eat."
Duo set about the arduous task of combing out his matted mane. Heero scooted the bedside table into a more suitable location for an early morning supper.
In the kitchenette, he fetched two bottles of water from the fridge, picked out a pair of the least pitted spoons, tore off several paper towels to serve as poor man's napkins then carried the peculiar collection to the makeshift dining room.
Comb snagged in a knot of split ends Duo muttered depraved expletives that would've made the devil blush. Fifteen minutes more, the mostly detangled mane flaunted an incredibly smooth texture.
Voice amplified, "Where the hell is my rubber band?" was inquired with obvious exasperation.
"It broke." Heero disclosed a partial version of the truth.
"Where's my jeans?"
"In the bathroom. Want me to get them?"
The bed springs squeaked. Duo shuffled toward the bathroom, mumbling under his breath, "I ain't fuckin' helpless."
Duo fished another rubber band from his jeans' pocket and tethered his silky tresses into a loose ponytail. Washing his sweat-fouled boxers and socks in the sink, he hung the damp undergarments on a towel bar above the hissing radiator to dry. In a somewhat better mood, with jeans and red tee shirt in hand, he nodded to his host on the way back to the multi-purpose bed/sitting/dining room.
*********
Heero ferreted out the last can of store brand, two for a dollar, chicken noodle soup, which was a bitch to open with the dull manual can opener, empted it into a sauce pan with a wobbly handle, added water to make it go further and set the pan on medium heat.
In a previous investigative rummage through the cabinets he's found three plates, two chipped and one cracked down the middle, in the most gosh awful shade of puke green.
Two yellow ceramic mugs with the slogan printed in faded black, "Anthony's Bar and Grill: Where the beer is cold and the women are hot." were so badly stained he wouldn't have used them for cockroach feeders, after all, why insult the cockroach.
Lastly one large bowl bedecked with pink roses was the less damaged of the mismatched dishware and thus had been utilized for all his fine dining.
Pouring hot soup into the flowery bowl, the pan was left in the sink to soak. Steaming bowl, half of loaf of white bread and a small jar of grape jelly with a butter knife submerged in the purple goo joined the hodgepodge on the table.
"Bon appetit." Heero wisecracked in an outrageous falsetto Julia Child impersonation.
Careful not to encroach into Duo's personal space, he sat on the bed. With a frown Duo inclined his head at the pistol nestled in Heero's waistband, "Could ya put that somewhere else, it makes me nervous."
The Glock 21 relocated on the floor, each man took up a spoon to partake of the meager feast. In sync they slurped the communal chicken noodle. Slices of bread were slathered in silence.
Preoccupied in disquiet reflection Duo gulped water, wiped his mouth then, figuratively spitting into the wind, inquired, "What was ya quarrel with that man on the docks?"
Heero's empty spoon hovered in midair. Just when Duo figured he was going to catch hell for being too nosy, "I didn't have a problem with him." was confirmed matter-of-factly.
Curiosity playing havoc with Duo's better judgment, "So why did ya---" a pause to mull over the correct word. Kill. Execute. "Ah hell, ya know what I mean."
"I was finalizing a contract." Heero stated with the same aloof detachment.
Duo didn't know whether to be shocked or frightened or outraged. "Didn't ya wonder 'bout who he was or what shit he did to get on somebody's bad side?"
Heero dipped into the shallow, tepid soup. His spoon clinked against Duo's forsaken spoon. "Better not to know."
While Duo didn't claim to be a saint, committing his fair share of sin-whiskey, gin and pot, brawling and sex, and even with the motto "Do unto others before they do it unto you." he was never inclined to malice or violence and certainly not to bloodshed.
Given his maladjusted childhood Duo could've justified numerous excuses for deviant social behavior. At eight years of age he became a ward of the court for protection from an abusive stepfather and a mentally unstable mother who was too afraid of being alone to come to his defense.
Over the next four years, due to his rebellious nature (being a free spirit), Duo was shuttled between overcrowded juvenile facilities and foster care, including a brief enrollment at Life Haven, a Catholic school for "wayward" boys where he went AWOL after three weeks.
By twelve he was a cunning guttersnipe. Living daily from hand to mouth, doing whatever it took to survive. Now at sixteen, the resourceful, street smart Irishman was sharing soup with a man who had no compunction about being a freelance gun for hire.
There was no doubt the secretive, no last name, Heero was also a victim. Cruelty and neglect, betrayed love and ruined trust, these collective circumstances sowed the seeds of cynicism then took root to choke his humanity.
Yet Heero demonstrated the highest measure of compassion by sparing Duo's life. Whether for his sake or Duo's sake, he didn't abandon the scared and sick secondary target on the wharf. Instead, he jeopardized his covert status and took an odds-out gamble the Green Dragon Syndicate wouldn't send an assassin gunning for him.
Duo swallowed hard to dislodge the lump of realization that Heero had indeed disregarded his strict protocol. "Why didn't you kill me?" was asked barely above a whisper.
"Because," Heero lowered his eye to stare into the pink rose bowl, "it was the right thing to do."
TBC...
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