Author: Karen, The Huntress
Pairings: 1+2
Warnings: Language, Duo and Heero POV
Archive: DHML Archive
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
(* indicates thoughts)
Gambit
<~~Shot through the heart and you're to blame. You give love a bad name~~>
Duo's POV:
Heero Yuy is one cold, calculating bastard!
Don't get me wrong there are benefits to being cunning, kept me alive for plenty of years, and scheming ain't necessarily a bad thing either.
Any soldier worth his salt will analyze, evaluate and formulate a workable battle strategy, but Heero examines and reviews every mission parameter, step by step bordering on obsession, to a complex, logical conclusion.
When he latches onto an idea he's like a stray dog with a bone and can be just as stubborn when something doesn't suit his fancy.
However my biggest gripe with Pilot 01, dubbed the Perfect Soldier for his adamant adherence to duty, is his damn secretive nature. Yeah, if Heero gets any more anal retentive about guardin' his thoughts and shieldin' his emotions he won't shit for a week.
Why does everything about Heero Yuy have to be so insufferably complicated? That was one question I was determined to answer, after all, there's nothing I like better than a challenge.
Not the drink-your-cronies-under-the-table contest or taking a dare to run butt naked through the Senior Officers' Lounge. This was a personal assignment to chisel away the stoic barriers erected between the Perfect Soldier and the world-between Heero and me.
I'll adopt a proven tactical stratagem, a slow and steady line of attack until I make inroads into the uncharted territory of Heero's intricate psyche.
First lesson learned from my eccentric mentor, Professor G., was to find your opponent's weak spot, a chink in his armor that could be easily exploited.
Now there's the problem with Heero Yuy who's been conditioned to physical excellence and mental exactness, to act more like a machine---a precise match for the Zero System.
The goal of the Perfect Soldier's compliance-focused training was to eliminate all feedback that interfered with his ability to pilot Wing Zero, to hone reactions until he performed without hesitation and to ignore any sentiments as to the deadly consequences of defeat in battle.
Unfortunately the domino effect of this coerced perfection was the internment of emotional responses. It's as if Heero can only communicate on levels that entail calculations of weapon range and velocity; data hacking and statistical probabilities for an acceptable outcome so he must relearn what it means to be human.
Heero deserves to hear the wind whisper instead of barked orders, to speak without pre-considering every word and, for fear of evoking inappropriate consequences, not to repel from a touch deemed too intimate.
He needs raw, raunchy passion; to experience the lustful carnality of pure, primitive sexual release.
So that's how my undertaking to become 01's salvation began, with good intensions and, perhaps, not sufficient patience for the sensible transition from comrade to lover.
*********
This evening I instigated the initial phase of "Operation: Save Heero".
The maintenance bay was nearly deserted when I sauntered inside then craned my neck up the catwalk's second tier to sight in my objective. Climbing the access ladder I found Heero sitting cross-leg beside Wing's right hip.
Furrowed brow and deep-set frown told me the weekly scheduled maintenance wasn't going as planned. Spanners, rackets, channel lock pliers and an assortment of wrenches were strewn in uncharacteristic disorder.
A dog-eared manual for Wing Gundam Zero XXXG-00W0, pages creased and marred by telltale fingerprints, was opened to show six diagrams for a series of swivel joints which connects Wing's hips to the torso.
My presence was barely acknowledged by a sideward glance as I advanced on the frustrated mechanic.
Easing down next to an electronic circuit tester with various colored cables knotted up like an octopus hugging itself I asked rhetorically. "How's it goin'"?
In Heero's typical retort a grunt accented his annoyance.
Shifting my weight for a clearer view, "Can I help?" was offered.
Finally intense blue eyes gazed through brown bangs to center on my ever-so-angelic face. "There's too much slack in the third coupling."
"This one?" I confirmed, pointing at the problematic connection then leaning nearer until we're a mere breath apart. "Let me see."
Scooting back on his impeccably sculptured arse, Heero granted better access. Flashlight illuminating the bothersome linkage, I jiggled a wobbly bolt meant to hold parallel lengths of Gundanium together.
"Give me a number two socket wrench."
Of course my extended hand "accidentally" grazed Heero's muscular thigh. "Sorry." I feigned a sincere apology.
Heero's silent scrutiny, with no visible changes in posture or expression, caused me to wonder if the targeted touch had been noticed and ignored or if it even registered through the insensitive shroud of his self-imposed detachment.
After a few unsuccessful twists failed to tighten the bolt I stated the obvious. "It's broken."
A like-minded nod was offered without comment.
Straightening with a sigh my braid slithered over my shoulder. "We'll have to dismantle the entire system. Probably goin' take a couple of hours."
Verifying the particular segment was indeed refusing to snug up Heero concurred, "Might as well get started."
*********
Two hours, eighteen minutes.
Heero guides the last external heat shield in place. I secure the double latch. The job had gone smoothly, each stage carried out with proficient precision. As usual there was no wasted time or effort and no pointless conversation.
My mid-evening cup of coffee and two strawberry muffins had long ago been spent and my stomach is protesting. A glance at my watch confirms the reason.
"9:12". I proclaim crossly, "As in the fuckin' P.M." is added to emphasize the lateness of the hour.
"Mess hall is closed." Heero states as he swabs greasy hands with a wet wipe.
Second lesson learned from G's not-as-strict soldierly schooling: Take advantage of every opportunity to disarm your foe, be it an actual weapon or mental defenses, and I got high marks in stealthy shrewdness.
"Got food in my room." is declared nonchalantly.
*The ready availability of provisions should be a sensible solution to Heero's hunger which would surly prod him to a rational conclusion.* (Damn, I sound like Quatre)
Heero agrees. "All right."
One step closer to mission accomplished.
*********
The untidy state of my quarters wouldn't pass military inspection and certainly not 01's "by the book" standards, but it's my cozy pig sty.
How shabby can it be when the clothes on my back, one duffle of personal belongings and a second bag containing four bogus Colonial passports, a fake UESA shuttle pilot license, two pistols and extra ammo is the total sum of my stuff?
So what if I decorate with empty beer bottles! What's the harm if my limited assortment of attire seldom gets hung up? As far as the dust-festooned cobweb in the corner, it's still being used by a spider.
All the homey touches make the place feel lived in. Not like Heero's sterile environment with a bedspread you can bounce a quarter off of and every possession sitting obediently in its designated location.
I unlock the door and step aside. Heero's opinion of my organized confusion is mirrored in a disapproving "screw up your nose" expression as he navigates the cluttered maze.
Gathering my makeshift pajamas, a navy blue tee shirt and gray sweatpants, off a single wooden chair I invite my guest to sit.
A plastic container of hoarded goodies is retrieved from the closet then I smooth out the rumpled coverlet which will serve as a table cloth. With the same eager anticipation of a tomb raider unearthing secret treasure the lid is lifted.
Once more Heero is brutally honest. "That shit will kill you."
"The stash ain't that bad." is proclaimed as I take inventory.
Several cartons of chicken flavored dehydrated noodles in ready-to-serve cups. (Simple enough directions, "Just add boiling water.") Three oatmeal and chocolate chip cereal bars, two pop-top cans of processed cheese, a box of slightly stale crackers and, to round out the alleged deadly foodstuffs, half a dozen packets of vacuum sealed mystery meat that claims to be turkey.
Lastly, four cans of Ready Rations, some dietary sadist considers food, prompts me to support Heero's "unfit for human consumption" theory. "These are worse than shit." I readily admit.
Hot water from the bathroom sink reconstitutes the noodles but Heero and I have to share the last unbroken synthetic compound fork. We do have our own cheese, with crackers to scoop out the questionable dairy product. Lukewarm bottled water rounds out the impromptu feast.
Despite Heero's stern warning about the absence of any nutritional value his grumbling stomach quickly overrules his sensibilities.
After a few minutes of awkward silence I inquire about Heero's last mission. I really hate discussin' war, yet that's what encourages 01 to be talkative. He doesn't volunteer many specifics and I don't press for any; general information is enough to keep the dialogue from bogging down.
Throughout our informal t¨ēte-¨¤-t¨ēte (another of Quatre's fancy phrases) I mentally debate if Heero would be receptive to closer contact; whether or not to change the subject to a seductive mode.
Now I'm the one studying every angle and trying to gauge the predictability of Heero's reaction.
Forty-five minutes.
Noodles are gone, the cheese and crackers reduced to globs of orangey essence and crumbs and there's nothing left to talk about.
"Thanks." Heero expresses his gratitude while stretching which tightens his shirt to accentuate every ripple of muscle underneath.
My pondering over cause and consequence comes to an abrupt halt. Hormones trigger a game of hare and hound.
Heero makes it to the door just as I zero in on my target.
Don't think-Act.
A firm grip on Heero's arm checks his forward motion. A tug pivots him in place. A momentary meeting of amethyst and cobalt orbs then I execute my strike.
The kiss is resolute with no chance for misinterpretation.
Heero's body tenses.
Willing to suffer, at best, harsh verbal chastisement and, at the worse, harsher physical reprisal I break the kiss then retreat twelve inches to better gauge my safety margin.
Heero's expression is unreadable.
Uncertainty?
Irritation?
Rage!
Even though my heart is hammering, I maintain a calm veneer and search the Perfect Soldier's eyes for the incensed glare that precedes a flying fist that'll knock me into next week.
Heero remains still. The only clue he's indeed flesh and bone and not an emotionless machine is the hard breaths heaving in his chest.
*You really pissed him off.* echoes inside my mind.
"Maybe."
*Was it worth it?*
"Yes."
Heero shifts his stance.
I flinch-the cower betraying the God of Death's undaunted facade.
In the split second of a heartbeat Heero grabs my shoulders so tight it hurts. Before my befuddled brain commands action he returns a kiss so fierce it threatens to buckle my knees.
*********
<~~I play my part and you play your game. You give love a bad name~~>
Heero's POV:
Duo Maxwell is one cold, calculating bastard!
While standard degrees of supposition might be acceptable in warfare, I never take anything at face value.
A brilliant sunset does not mean the sky is on fire. Dragonflies are not mythological winged lizards. Likewise, Wing Zero is not a futuristic knight made invincible by Gundanium armor.
As Colonial conflict cheated my youth, life became a stern teacher and I learned hard lessons in stoicism. Don't trust. Don't feel. Absolutely do not allow useless emotions such as pity, fear or love to cloud your instincts.
Wing's architect, Doctor J., augmented these impassive inclinations. Rigorous training enhanced physical stamina. Specific mental conditioning, designed to perpetuate sound judgment, forged logical conclusions and absolute clarity. Finally, flawless integration with the Zero System christened me the Perfect Soldier.
Certified for solo missions, the concept of collaboration was implausible. Additional personnel, no matter how qualified, create complications and, most likely, fatal outcomes.
Therefore, I foster no desire for camaraderie or a requisite need to bare my soul for consolation or clemency. For a dedicated warrior seclusion is the only sensible choice.
*********
Now concerning the problematic Duo Maxwell.
Although there are certain redeeming qualities in inventive subterfuge, Pilot 02's devious shrewdness plus a blatant disregard for protocol is intolerable.
Duo Maxwell is impulsive, his laissez-faire attitude unprofessional and, with erratic mood swings teetering between manic and serene, he's best described as a loose cannon.
However my major complaint is his annoying attempts at familiarity.
A prime example occurred this evening in the maintenance bay. Like Jacob Marley's apparitional vexation of Scrooge the self-proclaimed God of Death materialized on the catwalk.
In much the same way "Can I help?" was his rationalization for invading my comfort zone and his thinly veiled "unintentional" touching was neither appreciated nor encouraged.
I will admit, despite the constant chatter, the unsolicited contact and his unorthodox mechanical methods, Duo did prove invaluable in the swift completion of Wing's right hip swivel joint refit.
*********
021:12.
"Mess hall is closed."
"Got food in my room." Duo proposes a solution to the lack of provisions.
Already aware of 02's resistance to neatness as I've witnessed firsthand the chaotic clutter strewn about Deathscythe's cockpit after an extended mission, there's still no realistic way to prepare for the scope of disarray in his quarters.
Yet another enigmatic quirk in Duo's duel personality.
How can anyone so unorganized, so undisciplined maintain consistent command in combat? It's as though Shinigami lurks just beneath the deceptively apathetic surface, bidding his time until he's summoned into the fray by the battle cry.
Equally unprepared for Duo's dietary stockpile, especially the Ready Rations which are categorically deficient in any nutritional value, I state as fact, "That shit will kill you."
Needless to say, despite the dangers of severe gastric distress, hunger overruled my apprehension.
While we dined on reconstituted noodles with a shared fork, Duo inquires about my latest assignment, not about particulars, just a general discussion shared by comrades with warfare in common.
Finally, with dubious cheese products and crumbling crackers consumed and the soldiers' subjects talked through; bone weary and mind numb, I stretch the kinks from my spine.
Walking to the door, "Thanks." is offered for the considerate hospitality.
Suddenly a hand grabs my arm. Prepared to reprimand Duo for again interposing himself into my private space, I'm whirled around. Face to face, I'm stunned by the predatory gleam in his oddly colored eyes.
The unpredicted kiss is delivered with resolve and, perhaps, a hint of urgency. Seconds seem like forever, then a hiss of breath as our lips part and Duo withdraws to a cautious separation.
Dumbfounded, I stare.
Trying to figure what in the hell just happened, a myriad of conflicting sensations bombard my ability to think. As I experience a rare instant of vacillation, *FUCK YOU!* screams inside my mind.
Damn that unrelenting scythe of intrusion wielded so expertly to hack through my meticulous defiance. Damnation on Duo's skillful invasion of sensibilities, that confusion of conformity which could comprise the Perfect Soldier's proficiency.
Resentment seethes in my gut. Lungs swell with pounding breaths. Eyes narrowed, heart hammering, fingers balled into enraged fists, it takes every ounce of self-control not to thrash Duo within an inch of his life.
Direct on target, an acidic glare centers 02 in the crosshairs.
This hare and hound gambit ends here!
Strangely, amidst the righteous indignation, the escalating anger, a faint voice whispers. *Listen to your heart.*
"Shut up!" is growled through clenched teeth.
Undeterred the voice utters logically. *Don't think-Act.*
A shift in stance.
Duo flinches.
No commonsense contemplation. Hands grab his shoulders roughly and I deliver a kiss fueled by so much passion it's frightening.
Duo's arms encircling my neck, he hangs on as if his legs refuse to buoy him up.
Bodies meld.
Lips burn from the fierceness.
Like a breached spillway, newly awaken primal urges flood over me. Beset by the swamping tide, I cling to Duo like a drowning man.
Overwhelmed!
Pull away!
Plagued by unaccustomed pangs of guilt, I beg Duo's pardon for my failure to maintain control. "I'm sorry."
Taking ownership of pushing too far, too fast, Duo confesses, "My fault." Then braces for the expected rejection.
Instead, my wondering aloud, "What happens now?" offers a glimmer of hope.
"We figure it out together." Duo declares then, with another kiss, encourages me to listen to my heart.
OWARI
Back to Karen, The Huntress's Fanfictions Page