Author: Karen, The Huntress
Pairings: 2x1
Warnings: Yaoi, Lemon, angst, violence, cursing, death.
Archive: DHML Archive, Shades and Echoes.
Rating: R
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, etc, etc, etc.
Saving Grace Part 1
A shadowy shape drew up close to the rough mortared brick of the building's side. A faint gleam of silver flashed under the haze muted streetlamp. The bare flicker danced on the pistol's steely finish as it was pressed against a black leather jacket. A pause, then the figure moved silently along the narrow alley shrouded in the concealing mist.
Ahead an outline stood just beyond the streetlamp's fringes. Briefly a face was pulled from the darkness as the man lit a cigarette. Then the face was again swallowed up as the used match struck the damp pavement. Bluish smoke seethed from the man's flared nostrils swirling up to join the night fog drifting in from the bay.
It was not a coincidence the two men were in such close proximity. But they were not there for some clandestine midnight meeting, quite the contrary. In fact the man leaning lazily against a street sign had no idea the other human form was there. He had to clue he was being stalked, hunted by one the best. Of course such knowledge would have been of little comfort to the prey. His impending death, had he known, would not have been accepted with any less foreboding or fear.
The unaware target took in one last, long draw on the cigarette pulling the burning end almost to his fingertips. On last swirl of exhaled smoke mingled with the accumulated smog before the spent butt was tossed aside. A few lingering sparks bounced from the reddish tip then disappeared into a oil-slick puddle.
The stalker stopped at the building's edge. Now his mark was in plain sight. Nothing stood between the assassin and his assignment. The silencer-tipped barrel's blackened hollow moved up the intended victim until it aligned perfectly with a kill-spot over the heart. With unwavering focus the pistol held its target in its deadly aim. Slowly, steadily, the trigger quivered as the finger through the trigger guard pulled back. Now the gun and the hand grasping it acted as one.
A slight sigh escaped the assassin's lip as the final, lethal commitment was made. Just as the trigger pull reach the firing point dispatching the deadly shot, as the muzzle flash exploded in the darkness momentarily setting the mist on fire, a second figure stepped up next to the condemned man.
In a single split second, the bullet passed between the mark and the new arrival. A single second more and the man flinched, jerking backwards as the piercing projectile ruptured in his chest. Without a sound the man dropped straight down collapsing into a constricted heap.
It was a clean kill. The man never knew what hit him.
The now lone figure stood fixed in place. Shock from the sudden, deadly turn of events held him in its fear-induced grasp. His altered perception didn't notice the black-clad form as it stepped out of the gloom. Didn't see the same smoking barrel bearing down on his middle. All he could see, holding his stunned eyes in its unyielding grip, was a scarlet stain oozing through the fallen man's shirt.
But some intuitive spark in his fright-muddled mind cause him to direct his sight forward. Involuntarily he jump, stumbled backwards until the adjacent building blocked his escape route. Eyes, widened in panic, searched for some alternative path. Hard breaths pounded in his heaving chest. But all he could see, all that presented itself in the muted light, was the polished gleam of the targeted weapon.
A silhouette, clothed in black, blended with the night. No face could be seen beneath a thick crop of dark hair. No eyes to read, to reason with or, maybe, hold the slightest degree of mercy.
The first rule of a successful mission: Leave No Witnesses.
That rule was fixed firmly in the assassin's thoughts as he sighted down his outstretched arm. Now the pistol became a natural extension, part of his body, part of his mind. "Kill him!" his cold, detached training ordered.
The killer's steely, brooding eyes narrowed on what he now could see was a male who could not have been any older than himself. Again the Boy's eyes were pleading in their fear-widened stare. Those eyes, flashing with deep violet sparks.
"Kill him! Do it now!" the discipline instilled command screamed in his head.
Tension contracted the trigger. This time a hard puff was used to store up an aim that seemed to become stiff and shaky. "DO IT NOW!"
"Oh God, please!" the Boy's pleaded his voice trembling as the last of the syllables trailed off into a faint whisper.
The trigger continued its resolute backwards movement.
The Boy covered his head with arms that were trembling as much as his voice. Turing his face to the wall, he breathed out one last whimpered, pitiful plea even though he knew his petitions for mercy were falling on deaf ears.
With a shudder and a low moan, the young man resigned himself to the end. Closing his eyes he waited for the fatal shot to resound in his hearing. Prepared himself, the best he could, for the hopefully brief pangs of pain and then the black void that would follow.
One more fraction of an inch on the trigger and the job would be over. Two bodies would be discovered in a pool of blood come the first light of day. "FINISH IT!" the icy inner voice screamed.
But something else spoke in the executioner's mind. Something he had not heard in the longest time. The Boy's pleas broke through the deafness, striking a haunting cord, ringing in his ears.
A brief remembrance flicker inside the vacancy where his conscience had all but been used up, almost destroyed by years of following orders with practiced efficiency. By countless killings until hatred of the job and hatred of himself had left only a thin shell of humanity which, at that moment, threatened to crack leaving him without any hope of redemption.
A memory of an earlier time. Another young man who was once innocent, but who allowed his anger and pain to rule his senses and harden his heart. And who, in a single rage driven act, sealed his fate for a lifetime. Through a clouded windowpane of self-loathing, the assassin could just make out a tear-stained face dimly reflected. Then with a sudden clearing of the glass, his own face, mirrored in shimmering teardrops, stare back with sightless, hollow eyes.
"NO!" he screamed inside his head. The pistol's end raised upwards pointing at the night-deep sky. The gun slid back into his quivering hand as his muscles relaxed dropping his arm at his side. "No." he repeated faintly under his breath.
"You. Boy." he called stepping towards the cowering young man.
The frightened Boy only drew up more at the husky baritone voice sounding at his back.
The man called once more, but, this time, there was a softer pitch to the edgy voice. "Turn around. I won't hurt you." he promised with more than a hint of sincerity accenting the words.
Slowly the Boy twisted his head. A long, heavy chestnut braid swung back and forth between his shoulders. But the quivering youth left his body braced on the wall, not yet willing to fully expose himself. Although completely turning around or not would not matter, not if the man's intentions were to kill him.
The Boy's wide eyes focused on the figured partly veiled in the damp fog. But he could see clearly enough to know the gun no longer held its deadly aim.
Instead the barrel pointed at the ground. But the Boy did not deceive himself that the weapon could still be quickly raised and fired if the young gunman chose to do so.
"Please." the trembling voice implored, barely audible above the bustling city's noises.
"I said I wouldn't hurt you. Now turn around, damn it." the deep voice ordered. The forcefulness of the words and the irritated tone did little to reassure the terror-stricken youth of the man's promise not to harm him. But nevertheless the Boy did not want to do anything that might give the gunman a reason to change his mind.
Slowly the youth pivoted still bracing his quaking shoulders on the building's side. Lowing his eyes, the Boy stared down at his battered boots trying, quite unsuccessfully, to calm his labored breathing and ease his heart's tight pounding in his chest. Finally with a shaky sigh, the Boy found the willpower to raise his sight, but not enough to see the imposing figure's night-shrouded face.
The outline shifted slightly, the pistol swayed by his leg. "Hum, just a kid." the man told himself seeing the Boy's face fully, "Just a damn street kid."
The Boy sucked in another shallow breath and waited. For what, he was not certain.
Moving forward once more, the imposing figure stopped a few feet from his spared victim. Now narrowed eyes could be seen more clearly beneath heavy brown bangs tousled about his forehead. For the first time the trembling Boy realized the threatening assailant was, indeed, not much older than himself.
"Please mister," the Boy found his voice, "let me go, I promise I won't say nothing to nobody."
"You know I can't do that." the man stated the obvious.
"Look, I don't know who you are, nothing about you." The Boy replied grasping at anything he thought would make sense, anything to make the man reconsider, "I wouldn't have anything to tell. Besides, in this part of town, one more dead body will hardly be noticed. The cops sure as hell won't care."
"No." came the chilling response, "You have to come with me."
The Boy dared to lock his sight with the gunman's brooding eyes, "Ah, come on, mister, why can't you just let me go?" he begged.
"Because I am not supposed to leave any witnesses." the man answered flatly, "You are supposed to be dead now." he finished without a hint of emotion in his husky voice.
"I am." came the startled reply, "Then why ain't I?"
A pause passed between the gunman and the Boy as the assassin studied the question, struggling in his own mind to find the answer.
"I don't know." came the troubled reply as the man continued his inner-conflict over his decision and his subsequent actions.
"Now come on!" This time it was expressly clear the order was not open to debate. The Boy had but two choices, comply or die.
The gunman tucked the pistol under his jacket hiding it from view, but kept it trained on the still quite shaky youth now standing by his side. "Move."
The pair started off down the alley opposite the prone man laying in a congealing pool of blood. Moving just ahead of his watcher, The Boy was keenly aware of pistol's bugle under the leather jacket. With a nod of his head, the gunman directed their path across the street. Another nod turned them to the left.
"Damn, he doesn't talk much, does he?" the street kid thought to himself.
"Where are we going?" the Boy asked lowly passing under a blinking neon sign. The bright glaring light glinted off a silver studded earring poised in the Boy's pieced earlobe as he raised his head to read the scarlet letters overhead.
"Where I'm staying." the man stated as the tavern sign's red lights flickered on his high cheekbones and sparkled over his black jacket.
"Are you going to kill me then?" The Boy's voice trembled again as he breathed out the question, dreading what answer he might receive.
The gunman paused, taking in the young man's pale, sweat damp face. He knew the Boy had to be scared, probably to the point of panic, but the chalky cast on his delicate features, the clammy moisture, conveyed something more than simple stress and fright. No, the Boy didn't look well at all.
"Now I've done it." the Boy thought to himself, "Now I've made him mad."
This time, though, there was something strangely different in the cobalt eyes looking back, something not as threatening as before. "Not if you cooperate." the gunman sighed, "You ask a lot of question, don't you?"
"Sorry."
The man started again. The youth kept up the steady pace to where ever they were going. In the back of his mind, however, the Boy entertained the notion, if the opportunity presented itself, to pick an escape route among the maze of alleys and side street and bolt for his freedom. But the bugle under the quite expensive leather jacket was a constant reminder that the obviously skilled marksman could drop him in his tracks before he got ten feet.
Now it was the gunman's turn to ask questions. "What is your name?"
"Duo." came the whispered reply.
"Just Duo?"
"Maxwell," the Boy whispered again, "Duo Maxwell, but no one calls me nothing but Duo."
The Boy swore a ever-so-slight grin touched the corners of the man's mouth.
"Duo." he repeated with a certain sense of amusement, "What kind of name is that?"
"My name." the Boy shot back with an imprudentness that surprised the assassin.
The smirk flowed into a thin lipped smile, "All right, Duo." the man conceded to the lad's brashness.
Taking a calculated risk, Duo decided to make one more inquiry, "Hey, you got a name?" he asked feeling justified since the introductions seemed to be one-sided.
"Heero and don't ask for a last name." the man stated dryly putting Duo on notice that was all the information he intended to reveal.
"All right, Heero." the Boy tuned the words back around, then wondered if he had overstepped the bounds of Heero's patience. If he had the gunman didn't indicate it in either his body language or stoic demeanor.
"Are you a whore?" came the next question completely out-of-the-blue.
Duo checked his stride for a second taken aback by the man's bluntness.
"Professional?" came the reflective response, "Nope. I have turned tricks when I needed money to eat, but, to be honest, I would rather steal than whore. Hell of a lot easier and not near as messy."
The subtle smile grew wider as Heero admired the Boy's honesty, "Well." he shook his head, "We all do what we have to." he stated flatly. Duo was certain the man was speaking from an abundance of pervious experience.
One more turn at the next corner. One last streetlight before the pair made they way around the back of a run-down, two-story building. At the rear a door groaned on stubborn hinges. Heero stood aside to let Duo go in first.
To the right a dim hall ended at a graffiti covered door. Duo recognized the spray painted "artwork" as the signature of the Satan Street Gang. They were a nasty bunch and he wondered if his watcher knew he had invaded their territory. But Duo had no doubt the obviously street-smart, cold bastard could handle himself with the Satan gang members or anyone else who made the deadly mistake of getting in his way.
To the left stairs gave access to the second floor. Once again a head nod prodded Duo up the stairs. He climbed slowly suddenly feeling weak and shaky.
The gradual pace was not to Heero's liking. He didn't like being so exposed on the narrow stairway. It was be to easy to get trapped between someone at the top and bottom and the limited space put his maneuverability at a dangerous disadvantage. Putting a hand on the sluggish youth's moist back Heero applied persuasive pressure to prod Duo along.
Finally they reached the top. Using the already placed hand Heero guided Duo to the left until they reached the third paint-worn door. A tarnished number 6 identified the correct room.
Letting go his supporting hand, Heero tucked the pistol into his belt and retrieved the room key from his pocket. The turned key offered a click, the knob turned in his hand. "Stay here." he instructed raising his hand to tell Duo to hold his position. Duo swayed against the wall, braced his shoulder and gave no reply except to hold his place.
Drawing out the pistol, Heero cautiously nudged the door back with the toe of his boot, holding the weapon at the ready should he encounter any unauthorized persons inside. The room was vacant as far as he could see. One prudent step carried him through the doorframe. Keeping his eyes moving and ear straining to pick up any betraying sounds, he moved steadily ahead. Checking out the bathroom, he was finally satisfied the room was void of any intruders.
Returning to the hall he was not at all surprise to find Duo waiting. The thought that the Boy would take the opportunity to flee in his temporary absence never crossed Heero's mind. He didn't know why exactly. Maybe it was the Boy's surprisingly easy-going attitude, despite what he had seem Heero do, that told him Duo would still be there. An odd mixture of fear an fascination seemed to hold a mysterious attraction between the Assassin and the Street Kid.
"Come on." Heero said gesturing towards the opened door.
Duo pushed off the wall with a good deal of effort. He took two wobbly steps, faltered, then with a low moan and an acute cold-sweat breading on his flushed face, Duo pitched over. With cat-like reflexes, Heero shoved the gun back into his belt and reached out just in time to intercept Duo's slumping body.
"HEY!" he declared as his arm slid under Duo's chest to keep him from hitting the floor face first.
In one fluid motion, Heero turned Duo over on his arm centering it under his shoulders. The other arm slipped beneath Duo's knees. Without any strain at all, Heero scooped up Maxwell's limp form and carried him to the bed laying him gently on the bedcovers. He then shut the door and locked it against any outside intervention.
Laying the pistol on the bedside table, Heero stood above the sweat soaked figure shivering and panting in short, shallow intakes of breath. He removed his jacket dropping it onto the faded fabric of a nearby chair.
Heero sighed out loud returning his attention to the bed, "Might as well get you comfortable. Something tells me this is going to be a long night." he declared pulling off Duo's street-grimy boots.
Sitting on the bed's edge the hardened assassin, who believed himself to be completely immune to any brand of pain and suffering, felt a odd, stabbing pang in his chest. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand rested lightly on Duo's fever-struck forehead. Carefully he moped back moisture laden bangs, pausing to study the Boy's oval face.
Taking a unusually long moment to survey the curve of Duo's jaw line, the ridge of his cheekbones, everything that made the Boy hauntingly beautiful, Heero sighed again.
Duo moaned as Heero's hand felt cold on his burning brow. "Shit, he burning up." Heero swore under his breath, "Why did you have to do this to me, damn it!" he growled even though he knew being sick was not Duo's fault.
It was just that Heero didn't need this now. He had finished his assignment. The job had been done with his usual impassive detachment. Without any emotion whatsoever.
He needed to leave, to put the city and the impending investigation his murderous act would spawn behind him. To put as much distance between himself and his actions as it would take to keep any intruding feelings at bay.
Black out the memories. Concentrate on the next hellish mission the Organization that owned his soul would require him to do. No time to feel. No time to care. Just get the next assignment and move on.
Heero's anger was now directed at himself. Anger at not being able to follow through. Rage that he let a moment's hesitation, one falter in discipline, cause him to spare the beautiful Boy who now had him trapped unable to break free from this mystic thread that held him so tightly. Angry at the exposure of his frailty, Heero cursed the liberation of the single speck of his humanity he had, until then, kept caged in the deepest regions of his being.
"Damn it!" he hissed as Duo struggled to open his weakness heavy eyelids.
"No! Please!" Duo pleaded no doubt remembering the sight of the targeted man going down before his eyes. The shudder and jerk of his body. The wrenching flinch as the Assassin's bullet bored into his gut and snuffed out his life in one brief, but lethal, span of time.
Or perhaps Duo was recalling his own soul gripping panic as he faced what he believed to be his own certain death. Felt the overwhelming emotion and tasted the fear turning rancid in his mouth. How his heart pounded and how each breath became a painful struggle.
Recalled the vacancy in the Killer's eyes boring into his mind. That face, void of any human compassion. Felt the same icy fingers claw through his body as surely as if the trigger had been pulled and the fatal shot had been delivered.
Duo felt himself falling. Tumbling into a black tunnel as pain and fear and loss pushed him down until he could no longer see any light. A dark gulf swallowed him. A suffocating wave washed over swamping his last sight of the saving brilliance. "NO!" he screamed grabbing fitfully into thin air.
Heero slid his arm under Duo's thrashing torso carefully avoiding the flinging arms and hands. Pinning the flying appendages to Duo's sides, Heero shored up his embrace to protect and comfort the suffering Boy.
"This isn't like you." something in Heero's mind declared.
"I know." he answered back loudly startled by the sound of his own voice.
"NO!" Duo screamed once more, jerking awake with a forceful start.
"Shhhh." Heero whispered gently rocking the quivering youth in a soothing motion. "Not like you at all." the inner voice repeated with a scornful hiss.
Duo bucked against Heero enfolding arms, "Let me go!" he yelled fighting with an adrenalin surge that almost broke Heero's hold. "I said let go you bastard! You murderer!"
Duo's words cut through Heero's heart as if he had plunged a double edged knife into the vital organ. Pain, as real as if his soul's center had been pierced, stuck with blinding force. The anguish multiplied as if Duo twisted the blade until Heero's life was drained away by his bleeding conscious. Heero let go drawing back in shock at his own unexpected reaction to Duo's cutting words.
Duo curled up in a totally defensive posture, arms and legs clutched to his sweltering body. His breathing came in catching gasps for air. Unable to stop the hyperventilation robbing his body of much needed oxygen, Duo floated on the brink of fainting.
Ignoring Duo's hatred lanced declarations and rage induced withdrawal, Heero again moved to help ease the debilitating suffocation. And again Duo resisted Heero's touch. But this time he was to far gone to fight back.
Heero straightened Duo body as best he could, using enough force to do what had to be done without hurting him. Duo waning strength was no match for Heero as he pulled the breathless Boy upright. "Now breath!" Heero ordered with a firm but gentle shaking movement.
All at once Duo sucked in with a jarring rattle deep in his lungs. The suddenly restored respirations convulsed over Duo's entire body threatening to wretch every joint and muscle. Heero tightened his grasp to support Duo's twitching frame. Soon regular breaths replaced the wheezing gasps and Duo settled down into an exhausted, almost lethargic, state.
Heero drew in and slowly exhaled a tension releasing sigh. Duo laid in his arms, eyes half closed, sweat running down his cheeks. Feebly Duo opened his eyes finding Heero's liquid blue depths looking back. Despite his depleted energy, Duo tensed as he realized Heero was holding him.
"Look," Heero whispered close to Duo's ear, "you are sick. If you keep going on like this you are going to hurt yourself. You have to trust me. Please."
"I can't believe you just said please." the nagging inner voice chided Heero once more.
This time, however, Heero didn't respond to its ridicule. He didn't answer or even acknowledge its mockery.
Duo conveyed through a bleary gaze and a slight nodding of his head that he would, for then anyway, let Heero do what he needed to do to help him recover.
"After all," Duo's own inner voice confessed, "you can't do much to help yourself."
But Duo giving over the last of his control to the man who, hours before, had cold-heartedly took another life, was an act of extreme faith. One he hoped he would not regret. The giving up also left him with no reserves, nothing left to throw up a battlement against any assault this callous Killer might wish to inflict.
With a surrendering sigh, Duo Maxwell left himself open and unarmed.
TBC...
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