Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Actions Speak Louder Than Words Series ❯ Touch of Consciousness ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Touch of Consciousness
Author: Mookie
Pairing: a breath of 1+3+1
Rating: PG
Warnings: teensiest hint of shounen-ai

Trowa wanted to shake his head as Heero walked up to Sylvia Noventa and gave her his handgun.

He wasn't sure if he should admire Heero, or curse him for throwing his life away. There weren't a lot of second chances in life.

The young woman was berating Heero, calling him a coward and accusing him of taking the easy way out. If only she knew that he'd already tried once and failed.

It had been impulse, picking up the lifeless body lying among the wreckage. Trowa hadn't figured out exactly why he'd done so. People died in battle every day.

There had been something about Heero, however, that Trowa had responded to.

He tried to convince himself it was out of respect for his fallen comrade, or a way of atoning for all those he'd slain without regret.

A month of tending to a comatose patient hadn't been part of his game plan, but then, discovering that there was a faint pulse in Heero's chilled body had ignited a spark of hope in him.

Trowa was wary of hoping for things. Life had shown him how useless it was to wish for things that were unattainable. He'd not wished nor hoped for Heero's survival or rapid recovery; he'd merely done what he could to make it a likely outcome.

Catherine had helped, and been good enough not to ask questions, although he'd have to be blind to miss them all, written on her face plain as day.

He admitted he was a bit disappointed that Catherine was the first person Heero saw when he regained consciousness. Heero could have been delirious, but it was impractical for Trowa to wait at his bedside.

It was just as likely that, despite their efforts, Heero might have died, but Trowa was beginning to think that his companion was far too stubborn to go quietly into that dark night.

Even if he was just as obstinate about offering his life as penance for his mistake.

Trowa understood that more than he wanted to admit. He'd been played a fool by a young girl who'd given him a gift.

He wondered if he trusted Heero. He supposed he must. They'd spent a good portion of time together, never mind that Heero had been unconscious for a good part of it. Trowa had talked to him quite often, after Catherine had gone to bed. He'd heard that patients often responded to conversation, even if they gave no outward sign of it.

And, although he knew that it was quite possible that Heero's subconscious might actually process what he was saying, he found himself chatting more and more with Heero's prone body.

The first week he'd paced as he talked. Topics included the war, Operation Meteor, Doktor S.

The second week, he had sat next to the bed Heero occupied, and mused about the other pilots, and their reasons for fighting.

The third week, he'd included his own.

The day before Heero woke up, Trowa had reached for Heero's hand and taken it in his.

He'd noted the calluses and scars without looking at it.

Even now, he had no idea what Heero's hands looked like.

But he knew what they felt like.

Trowa had tried telling Heero the very thing that Catherine had told him, about throwing his life away. He recognized the soldier in Heero, something Catherine couldn't relate to, and yet he wanted Heero to reconsider.

It had been an entire month between the time Heero uttered his famous last words before depressing that little red button and the first time he spoke after waking.

Raspy from disuse, Heero's voice had taken on a husky tone that had made Trowa feel flushed. He'd poured a glass of water and handed it to Heero, who'd merely nodded and then drank it in small sips, cautious of overindulging after a month of unintentional fasting.

For someone who'd been fed and hydrated intravenously, Heero's physique was still admirable. Trowa wouldn't have believed it if he'd not seen it himself.

He'd touched Heero a lot up until the day that Catherine told him that the other boy was awake. Checking the dressings, sponge bathing him, applying antibiotic ointment, and occasionally wiping bangs off a slightly sweaty forehead.

Yes, Trowa certainly knew what quite a bit of Heero felt like under his fingertips.

Heero returned to the truck, his mood morose. Trowa knew he was taking Sylvia Noventa's words to heart.

Later that night, the two of them sat in front of a fire, sipping the dregs of what some people might consider coffee.

The silence was both comfortable and companionable. It seemed as though Heero was lost in his own thoughts, perhaps wondering what to do with himself since death had been denied him so many times.

Trowa picked up a stick and prodded at the ashes. His bangs fell into his line of vision and he brushed at them tiredly. When he sat down next to Heero again, he tossed the stick aside, his bangs again obscuring his vision with the action.

Only it wasn't his hand this time that brushed them aside.

Heero's hand was just as warm as it had been the time Trowa clasped it in his own as it caressed the side of his face before withdrawing. In the light of the half moon, Heero's eyes gleamed with surprising brightness.

"Thanks."

Heero made a small grunt of acknowledgement. Trowa thought it might have been a laugh.

"What?" he asked tiredly.

The sound was repeated, and Heero leaned forward a tiny bit more, their breaths mingling.

"You talk too much," Heero murmured. "And you need a haircut."

Heero then leaned back and Trowa would swear he saw the gleam of Heero's teeth briefly.

Trowa flicked some of Heero's bangs with two of his fingers.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said wryly.

Heero nodded in response, then crossed his arms and dropped his chin to his chest.

"Heero," Trowa said suddenly.

The subtle change in Heero's posture assured Trowa that he was listening.

Trowa couldn't help smiling, just a little, before summarizing everything into two words. "You're welcome."

Heero nodded.

He'd never had any doubt.