Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Hush ❯ Chapter 3

Hush

By Xero Sky

Pairing: 1x2, maybe others, maybe not

Warnings: (For the whole story) NC-17, AU, lemon, angst, violence, mention of NCS, and OOC with reasons for it. Lots of profanity. Duo POV.

Summary: In an alternate timeline, Treize Kushrenada's New Alliance has won the day: the earth and the colonies enjoy an uneasy peace. And one Duo Maxwell, terrorist, Gundam pilot, and general pain in the ass, is unexpectedly out of prison. Now he only has to confront his future… and his past.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective copyright holders. No profit is intended from this work of fan fiction.

Chapter 3

I was leaning back in my chair, feeling full for first time in forever, as I listened to Quatre talk. He had his boots propped up on the bed and was telling me about things and people we both knew. Like one Chang Wufei, relentless pain in the ass, and his recent visit to a certain country estate with inadequate defenses. Once the fighting had stopped, Wufei had had the place at his mercy.

"What did he do?" I asked.

"Had fun," Quatre said, trying not to grin. "He peeled open the garages and squashed every one of the antique cars and planes. He set the gardens on fire and blew up the lake. Pretty much destroyed everything. He left the main house intact, but he vented coolant all over the front steps before he left."

I blinked and then cracked up. If Shenlong's coolant system was the same as Deathscythe's, the primary release valves were in the lower torso: Wufei had symbolically pissed all over the front of Treize Kushrenada's house.

"Jesus Christ!" I said, laughing. "What was Wufei thinking?"

As highly insulting - and funny - as all of that was, it was also reckless and probably not the best idea. And it was a lot like something I would have done, back in the old days. The image of Wufei smirking like a naughty boy stuck in my head and wouldn't go away, no matter how wrong it was. The Wufei I'd known hadn't had a functional sense of humor.

"Zechs called it 'ritualized courting behavior'," Quatre said, smirking.

"But not to Treize's face," I guessed. "He'll know better than to let Wufei escape again."

Quatre just laughed.

We were quiet together for a couple of minutes after that. It was a comfortable sort of silence, really. Quatre had started talking, and making me laugh, while I was still stuffing myself. He hadn't spilled anything confidential, anything that would betray Zechs, but nothing like that really came up, either.

I had always had problems staying mad at him. Damn it. I wasn't entirely happy with the situation, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it. Plus, I'd missed him.

Other than Wufei, he told me all about Howard, Hilde, and Zechs' poor sister Relena, who was pregnant with another Kushrenada heir. He also told me about his family and how Iria had begun supporting the Manguanac villagers while most of his other sisters, trying to preserve the family holdings, had negotiated contracts with the New Alliance. He seemed to be an embarrassment to both sides. He was still going to inherit everything when he turned 21: his father's will had proved unbreakable. A family lawyer had been his only visitor, asking him to waive the inheritance because of "his dedication to military service."

Quatre hadn't signed. I could see the flash of anger in his eyes when he talked about it, and I silently applauded him. I didn't know if I trusted him any more than they did, but family shouldn't treat each other like that. Not having a family of my own hadn't kept me from having opinions on how they should be.

After that, we'd even talked about Trowa a little, and I was almost relieved to see the familiar sadness in Quatre's expression. It had been a long time, but some things hadn't changed. Trowa had died too young, and Quatre still missed him.

I did too. I hadn't known him that well, but he'd been a good guy, someone I trusted. I hadn't been able to save him, and though that wasn't my fault, it still hurt.

The talk wound down, punctuated by my yawns. I watched him, waiting for what had to come next. He looked down, picking at invisible threads on his sleeves.

Wufei, Quatre, Trowa, Duo… There was one missing, and despite my being flat-out exhausted, it was time for Quatre to tell me what he knew. He knew something, that was for sure, because the whole time he hadn't so much as mentioned Heero's name.

Heero… I'd sworn to kill him the next time I saw him.

Some things I already knew. Heero and Wufei had been captured at the same time, about two years before I finally got caught. Wufei had escaped, with Sally Po's help, a few weeks afterwards. He was a Gundam pilot and a confirmed terrorist, but war had made him that way. He had been a scholar and a warrior, but without OZ, he would have lived a normal life.

Heero, on the other hand, seemed to have been made for war. Heero was special in ways I couldn't even guess at. But it seems like someone else could.

Howard had told me some of it, the last time I saw him. I don't know how he knew, but he had his sources. Heero wasn't even technically human by some standards, I guess, but it took Treize Kushrenada less than a month to determine where his weakness was. It wasn't anything physical, from what I heard. It was his conditioning, all that wonderful fucking around J did in Heero's skull to make him fight for and protect the colonies.

Treize figured out some way to break it.

And Heero Yuy, Gundam pilot 01, went over to the enemy.

Just like that.

If anyone doubted Heero's strength and skill, his significance as a soldier, all they had to do was look at the way things had turned out since then. Treize rules whatever he wants to now.

Any chance Wufei, Quatre, or I had of stopping the inevitable disappeared right after Wing smashed the Maguanac corps. My stash of supplies on L2 went next, and after that I couldn't even find enough hydraulic fluid to keep Deathscythe moving, much less get ammo reloads or fuel.

Wufei never bothered joining back up with us, and it was just as well. I don't know how he managed to keep Shenlong going. Maybe he's just a better scrounger than I am. But he was still fighting. He's the last of us out there. Quatre and I had folded.

Within six months of Heero's betrayal, I had to sink Deathscythe in the sea off the Marianas. I almost let myself go down with him, and when I didn't do that, I still cried. I don't know if he's still there. When I was interrogated, I told them I'd detonated him underwater. With the stealth mode on, I don't know if anyone can find him that far down. I never asked what Quatre did with Sandrock, but that suit disappeared not long after I splashed 'Scythe. He and I were done with being Gundam pilots.

About ninety percent of the resistance went down with us. It didn't take long for OZ and the New Alliance to seize control.

After that, I was just another terrorist. And then just another prisoner.

What am I now? I thought, and then dismissed that train of thought as useless. I was whatever I was in the moment. Adapt and survive.

"Where is he, Quatre?" I asked slowly, feeling too tired to relive all this. "Have you seen Heero?"

"Yes."

In the silence that followed, I saw the doubt flickering over Quatre's face, and I wondered what secrets could possibly be worth keeping from me. Even if he gave me the pass code to Zechs' private quarters, there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe later, after a shitload more good meals, but not now. Quat should know that.

"You gonna tell me?" I asked him finally. A yawn took the edge off my would-be growl, and probably made his decision easier for him. I wanted to know, but, Jesus, it had been a long day.

"No, I'm not," Quatre said, standing up. "You're about to fall asleep, and frankly, I'm not sure what I can say right now. I will tell you one thing, though. What happened was a disaster for us, but as for Heero… I don't know if he would have survived any other way."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I asked, pulling myself up in the chair. Anger tried to wash through my sluggish system, and wake me up to outrage, but it was too familiar a story. I'd already gone through enough rage, pain, and betrayal over Heero to last me a lifetime.

"You'll see. You may not agree with me, but you'll see for yourself. Then you can tell me."

"He's here?"

"I don't know. But if not, he will be soon. He'll want to see you."

"Is he my 'benefactor'?" I asked, sarcasm heavy in my voice. "Do I have him to thank for all this?"

Meaning the bedroom, the meal, the shower, and the basics of human dignity I'd been allowed. And also meaning the way I was stripped of them before.

"I don't know," Quatre said. He went to the door and paused to look back at me, his hand already on the doorknob. "Get some sleep. You're safe here, safer than anywhere else."

"Sure, ya Ozzie bastard," I said sullenly. The effect was pretty much ruined by another giant yawn, damn it. Besides which, Quatre knew exactly how I'd meant that.

"I missed you too, Duo," he said earnestly.

There was a click as the door closed behind him, but it was only the sound of a normal latch sliding into place. There was no buzz or thud of electronic locks activating, and no sound of guards taking up their stations outside.

It was just a normal door to a normal bedroom, in a normal royal palace that happened to be a normal OZ stronghold.

Perfectly normal.

"Fuck," I said quietly. Then I made myself comfortable on the perfectly normal, ornate and over-stuffed bed and closed my eyes. Orphans, soldiers, and prisoners all know better than to pass up sleep. Especially if there's nothing else to do.

If I dreamed, my nightmares went too deep to remember.

*****

The phone rang.

I wasn't used to phones ringing these days, but I sure as Hell knew what an alarm was, and I jumped out of bed and stood at attention before I realized that I was awake. It took several more seconds before I realized where I was, and that the rather harmless buzzing noise was coming from a phone on the dresser.

Shit.

I yawned, smoothed my braid down, and went over to answer it, suddenly happy that I'd fallen asleep in all my clothes. It was probably another general and his adjutant anxious to see me, star attraction that I was. Maybe someone wanted my autograph. Or maybe the warden was pining for me. I hit the switch.

You could say I was unprepared to see Treize Kushrenada's face on the phone. I'd put it a little differently: I nearly pissed myself. I wouldn't still be here, though, if I hadn't learned not to show weakness in front of the enemy, and as far as enemies went, this was the Devil Himself.

Even though my first urge was to hang my head so that I couldn't look him in the eye (and get beaten for it), I forced myself to look at him. I'd never really seen him except on the news, or in briefing photos. I was kind of shocked to realize that he was handsome. He had the same sleek, dangerous look as Zechs. It was like good grooming and mass murder went together or something. Funny that I'd notice that.

"Good morning," he said politely. "I trust you're feeling better."

I didn't really know what to say. Or if I could say anything at all.

"Mr. Maxwell?" he said after a moment, raising an elegant eyebrow at me. I opened my mouth and shut it again before the past came my rescue.

Speak when you're spoken to, boy!

The memory was so clear that I nearly jumped, even though the asshole guard who'd shouted that at me was as different from Treize as it was possible to be. Or maybe not so different, considering that I couldn't fight back against either one. The rule still held, though.

"Yeah," I said, taking a big breath. "Yeah. Food will do that for a guy."

Yeah, great idea, Duo. Piss him off first thing. You usually save that for later. I told my traitorous brain to fuck off, and tried to look like I had this kind of conversation every other day.

He smiled at me. "Then I imagine you'll have no objections to joining me for breakfast."

What was I supposed to say to that? No, thanks, I'd rather be sent back to my cell because you creep me the hell out. That'd be good.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Excellent. I'll send an escort for you in, shall we say, 20 minutes?"

"Fine."

Another smile, and a quirk of one of those aristocratic eyebrows. "Until then, Mr. Maxwell."

The screen went blank.

I sat down on the end of the bed and scrubbed my fingers through my hair, sighing. Jesus Christ, how much weirder was my life going to get? Yesterday I woke up on a prison cot and had to hustle my ass so I wouldn't be late for roll call and inspection. This morning I was having breakfast with Satan.

I blinked and noticed that it really was morning. I guess I'd slept the whole afternoon and night away. Couldn't say I didn't need it, but I wasn't used to getting that much sleep all at once. Paranoia usually made me a light sleeper, and yet I didn't remember waking up even once last night.

Twenty minutes, huh?

It took me 15, because for once I had a decent hairbrush to work with. Clothes were easy enough: the closet was full of things in great colors and the right sizes. Even the boots fit perfectly, which was weird, because my feet aren't exactly the same size. I broke a bone in my right foot years ago, and it didn't heal right, so that foot is wider across the ball. Not a lot, but enough to make finding shoes that really fit a pain in the ass.

Dressed all in black, because I could, I sat down and contemplated the shiny tops of the boots for a moment while I waited for the escort.

They really were sized differently. I could see the difference when I held them up together. The damned things had been made for me. And while I had made a trademark out of wearing black back in the old days, the closet had been full of my other favorite colors too.

Someone knew me very well. Logically it must have been Quatre, but I couldn't have said what his favorite colors were, and damned if I knew anything at all about his feet. We had been friends, sure, but not under the kind of circumstances where guys spent a lot of time telling each other stuff like that. I knew his blood type, what kind of sidearm he liked, and what he could and couldn't cook from OZ military rations. I know his father wouldn't let him play rugby as a boy because he was too delicate, and that Quatre had hated him for it. But I sure as hell couldn't tell you whether he liked boxers or briefs.

Which was something else about me that they'd gotten right, I realized.

It could be coincidence, I guessed. Or it could be that someone had spent a lot of time observing me very closely, and remembered the smallest details.

While I was turning those unpleasant thoughts over in my head, I heard a knock at the door and went to answer it, just as if I lived there. There was a full-length mirror on the way, in a wooden frame, and I paused to look at myself.

For a second, I could have mistaken myself for the old Duo Maxwell. Black clothes, unreasonable hair, and wide blue eyes. Just like a ghost.

Then I saw how skinny I was. The scars on my forearms from cuffs left on till sores festered were shiny in the light, and I rolled my sleeves back down to cover them. I couldn't help but note the intensely wary look in my eyes as I peered at myself.

Jesus, was that all that was left of me?

There was another knock, and I opened the door, feeling a hundred years older.

~tbc~