Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Twelve ❯ Lascivious ( Chapter 4 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

Disclaimer: Don't sue. You'll receive an infestation of very cranky ladybugs, my illegally downloaded mp3s, and for one day only, you'll receive my vocal cords which can be used for 100% accurate goat, cat, pigeon, and duck imitations, a -$5.00 value for free! Call now! [Sorry, we do not accept Visa or MasterCard or credit cards or money of any sort.]



Pairings: 2+1, Rx1, 3x4, Sx5, CB+2, H+2, 2+1, 9x13, 1x2x1



Warnings for All Chapters: Relena, stupid humor, angst, minor violence, het, shounen-ai, yaoi, romance, language, suggestive dialogue, drugs, limey, NCS, suicide issues.



Chapter 4

"Lascivious"













"Duo, wait."

The American stopped like every cartoon Heero'd ever seen in his rare moments of childish pursuits, momentum still traveling forward through his body, and jerkily gained back his balance on the red and peach Oriental rug before he slipped and crashed to the floor. In a brown whiplash blur, his four-foot braid belted around like a chain, capable of probably taking out seven or eight consecutive lamps with a single blow. It amused Heero that he'd been told many times by his doctor that he looked too naïve, too young, and too innocent on the outside to be what he had been, a previously inhuman and malicious Gundam pilot, but little Duo could use his hair as a weapon. Heero couldn't help but giggle to himself about it, something Duo instantly picked up. He still wasn't accustomed to the sound of his laughter, though Heero didn't understand the reasoning why. He turned, staring curiously at the Japanese man for interrupting so strangely.

"Yeah, Hee-chan?"

"Duo, you don't know where the phone is," he stated with all sarcastic sympathy, clapping his hand on his shoulder where his neck met. His thin, smug, toothless smile flashed in his face, infuriating in its simple, flawless self-righteousness. Almost. Otherwise Duo approved it of being nothing short of dazzling.

"I would have found it... eventually." Duo's grin faced off against the slight of teeth on Heero's face, with absolute bravado. "Policeman Yuy need not tote me around like some young babe."

Heero snorted abruptly, thick eyebrows furrowing over his eyes. The expression melted into a giggle that seemed to occupy every atom of the room, most of all Duo's hearing, and quickly reddened the American's face. Cocking his lip to the side crossly, he folded his arms with a slap, glaring almost downward at the brown-framed Asian face laughing at him.

He cocked one eyebrow to parry Heero's and asked in a clipped voice, "You wanna fight or something? You're asking for it, Mister Policeman."

He drummed his fingers very clearly on his arm, violet eyes sighted only on Heero's amused face. Finally, the laughter died down and Heero finished by rubbing his nose, choosing to brush off the previous comments with another thin little grin.

Duo blinked in confusion as the Japanese man threw his arm around his shoulder in a very un-Heero way, slapping his unclothed shoulder like he was a inducting new fraternity pledge and ready to crack the fizzing tab of a beer and hand it to his wingman. His eyes instantly went to the carved profile beside him, twisting his face into an obvious look of confusion. "What?" Duo asked, as he was led toward the stairs, skimming around the rim of the furnished hollow in the den floor and stepping through warm yellow sunspots cast by the windows.

"What? Heero-" Duo jabbed his elbow into his comrade's rib, trying not to laugh away his seamless frown. "-What are you laughing at? What?"

Heero tilted his head back. "...Hmm, betsu ni."

"Chh. Bestu ni my ass."

Frown. Elbow jab. Puppy frown again. But still no success. It was fully maddening to realize that Duo Maxwell's polished, almost political retaliation methods were useless as yelling at a deaf horse to giddy up when dealing with Heero. That was the downside to being the personality kryptonite immune to the soldier's glares and hostility-Heero was his own, too. Every little annoying quirk he'd salvaged up during childhood to help survive by making the other orphaned street rats respond to him, like him, help him, were useless against Heero.

"It means 'Nothing,'" he explained. Heero's voice reverted to his established bass monotone, seemingly inches from Duo's ear and booming in all his senses. In apparent amusement, he brotherly slapped Duo again on his bicep and withdrew his arm from around his shoulders.

Duo flashed a glare at him from the side, scoffing in a sharper, clipped tone. "I know what it meant!"

"Sure."

"It means 'a pain in the ass' in Duo-nese," he commented brashly.

Heero kicked him in the leg, nudging his shoulder as well. "Up the stairs," he said, humor ghosting through. He distantly watched as the American obliged, putting a hand on the lacquered banister, and trekked up, the tattered edges of his blue jeans hanging around his heel. As he walked his braid would often slap the back of his legs, ragged tip dangling in the back of his knee. The Japanese man imagined that it must drive him nuts but the American did nothing about it. He shrugged vaguely in his brain, and then trotted up after him.


[---]



Heat clung to the back of her neck, drawing her long blonde hair to her skin almost magnetically, while the sudden hot wind caught her leg as she stuck it out of her black limousine. Outside the starkly air-conditioned confinement of her new automobile, the sky was a thick blue and blocked by the crowding heads of paparazzi, eagerly cramming around the narrow, roped off runway to the hotel. As soon as she saw them, Relena winced mentally, but knew that dropping a cultured expression was mutiny to the presses. Former royalty and highly publicized politicians weren't allowed to be anything but scholarly to the cameras. No sour words, no obscenely misplaced hair, no overly applied makeup, and definitely no frowning. It was a shame, though, because after what she just had survived through, giving a few of them a good bitch slap might feel than eating Turkish delights right then.

From behind her, she felt the subtle brush of starched suit fabric against her exposed arm and shoulder-her publicist Sam, equally distressed by the unfamiliar Indian humidity and flinching under the sudden barrage of cameras. On edge, obviously.

His hand clenched on the leather armrest between them as he was poised to follow her out, let her walk a few feet ahead, then quickly confront and batter back the shark pool that was the hungry New Delhi press, tracking them all the way from India. Bitterness was boiling in his chest and he wasn't going to let a single damned metal microphone even think about swinging toward Relena's mouth, not after this incident.

The sludge of heat and tension hovered over the world for that second, as the thin blonde's foot neared the white sidewalk, and paused. Then the shoe hit the pavement and the sky above her erupted in multiple, almost frenzied sparks of light-the ceremonial picture taking.

The only thing surpassing his bitter anger over the entire mortifying experience of the last was the plummeting anxiety that came from knowing the weight of making her look better and rebuffing her image was going to burdened onto him. His angular Italian-French face was deep set in stress and she could see it, glancing almost icily back at him once before she stepped out.

Voices. Calling. Many had thick Arabic or Indian accents; a few calling over the din sounded vaguely American and familiar. All around her people bellowed out to her, jabbing their metallic, intrusive lenses towards her, which she fended off with a hand raised to the side of her face. Acid white light bulb flashes came from every side and lit her pale face, discolored slightly under the cover-up around her left eye and temple, and immortalized the bruise in film. A sort of seething resentment returned to her senses again, something she'd dealt with less and less grace over the years, over the course of a decade surviving as an extremely prominent political figure. It was the paparazzi backlash that few in the spotlight couldn't help but feel sometimes.

She growled to herself in the roaring din, as she powered down the narrow carpeted strip with her bodyguards storming ahead, that she should have paid more attention in her self-defense classes instead of at a specific instructor of hers, otherwise this absolutely degrading situation might not have come about... Anger broiled in her thoughts and her teeth were tightly clenched against the world behind polite pink lips. This was so... argh!

"Miss Relena!"-"Which one was it?"-"Miss Relena, do you have any comments for the Pakistani officials? Miss!"

Demanding, leeching words bounced off her cold ears as she forced herself to adapt more of her fiancé's observed mannerisms, absorbed second-hand. Relena wanted to mimic the stone-faced Heero Yuy she had seen in the war and use his old abrasiveness to help her fend off the media. She allowed herself the mandatory frightened hand to the nearest, most boorish of the cameramen, knowing that it was something they expected from most celebrities, even political ones, especially after being shaken up. At that thought, she realized with a tiny sink in her angry, fluttery stomach that just a hand to the lens was like tossing pepples at a pride of starved lions. It wasn't going to be very much use.

The roar of the multiple accented voices had increased what seemed ten-fold when she had stepped out, all grappling verbally for her attention. They were hungry lions, definitely, Relena thought bitterly, as she was jolted in the shoulder when one of her burly security guards spotted a cameraman he apparently didn't like and stormed past her to deal with him. She would have instinctively straightened out her thick shirt strap, but the metallic white glare and pops of the cameras were only a few inches from her, and the media could twist any awkward picture to embarrass her.

Damn it, how long does this walkway go? Relena cursed in her mind, the only safe place for her opinions.

Most distinctive in the loud, clamoring din was Sam's familiar voice, hurriedly and radically dealing with all the notebook-toting reporters who questioned him in the wake of her brushing them off. As she was escorted down the walkway, quickly approaching the glass hotel doors, she smiled inwardly to herself, though barely noticeable on the outside. There was a forceful exchange of words, then Relena heard him blowing them off with a polite answer, something along the lines of 'No comment' or 'We'll be taking questions later' and thought she didn't' thank him quite enough for all that he did for her... In others, though, she was quite sure he knew she was thankful.

Relena was about ready to drop to her knees and pray when the bellhops finally opened the hotel doors and she stepped into the air-conditioned lobby, a path cleared in the dim lighting straight for the elevator that would take her to the suite on the top floor. "Thank God," she uttered, not caring if her faceless bodyguards heard her. She began to jog for it, just desperate enough to want to lie down and sleep, and quickly laced her arm around Sam's elbow as he trotted up beside her.

Relena glanced up at him sideways as they clamored into the elevator, irritably hooking her blonde hair behind her ear. "Remind me why we don't just nuke this place."

Sam chuckled as the doors squeezed shut. "You wouldn't want your hubby to croak trying to come to the rescue just yet."

"...Damn right," she muttered, straightening out her skirt with her free arm.


[---]



Four long, callused fingers and a hitchhiker thumb gripped around the doorknob of the last room to be explored, and the mahogany door was noiselessly opened out of curiosity, as carefully as if he was searching for the last of a species of extremely skittish birds. Duo peeked into the final second level room, braid sliding off his shoulder and undulating at his hip. The carroty 10:00 morning light barely sifted up through the rafters so it was too dark to see clearly. The American causally ran the pads of his fingers along the wall in his search for the light switch. After two consecutive sweeps along the wall, Duo growled in frustration and was about to ask where the hell the lights were in Heero's house when his comrade snorted in amusement, inches behind his head. Duo flickered his eyes backward, confusion blooming as Heero raised his hands and clapped them sharply next to his ear, dripping with smugness.

Duo's head whirled around again as the room instantaneously was lit, revealing the faintly Victorian decor of deep blood red and black trimmings. It was a simplistic room, with the only deviation from being a simple, airy square room a spruce-draped porch scattered with plump little pinecones. It faced the thick, dark green menagerie of trees blanketing the hillsides, shadowing out the sunlight. The dew-splattered glass doors were half concealed by thick, velvety Victorian red drapes that spilled out onto the floor. The walls were a darker shade of that seductive red and offset by a large, downy jet-black bed with tall canopy of dark, silk-thin fabric flowing down the sides in the corner. Besides the fundamental, mahogany-wood furniture pieces like a dresser and bed stand, the ruby-carpeted room was immaculately free of clutter.

Romantic... kinda, Duo thought while scratching at the light, scratchy stubble on his chin, not something I'd expect from Heero's bedroom. And no laptop, I see. Now, that really offsets me. Here I am, in the place I never thought I'd be, the Perfect Soldiers actual, factual, decorated bedroom, but no annoying computer to distract him from me. Man... He really is different.

"Wow, Heero. I never thought you'd live so... gothic. A little on the kinky side, if you ask me," Duo commented, smiling almost obscenely at the innuendo he'd cooked up. He snapped. "But, hey, I like it and it suits you. This is yours, right?"

Heero was hovering in the doorway, scratching an itch on his collarbone absently. "Yeah. Glad you like it," he grunted dully, kicking off his polished brown loafers so they connected with the bed stand with a thud and laid in a pile. Judging from the slobbish display of domicile comfort, Duo knew that he must have spent a substantial chunk of time in here. The immaculate, steel-trapped-mind of Heero Yuy would have to be pretty fucking comfy in a room to literally kick his shoes off randomly when during his war and teenage years he always put them precisely three inches from the side of the bed he was sleeping in. It also practically dripped with his smell reminiscent of gunpowder. That was a hint, too.

Duo secretively sucked in another deep breath... and seconds later his face snarled up sourly, luckily facing away from Heero. Another smell mingled in with the gunpowder and generic shampoo smell that he had associated with him for years, and in his opinion, defiled it. A spike of anger and unadulterated jealously spiked in his stomach. He wasn't afraid to admit it to himself. He was suddenly ragingly jealous... he could smell the haughty, almost hideously sweet perfume that could only possibly be courtesy of his best friend's fiancé, Relena.

An image of blonde hair and imploring, obsessed whines flickered in his brain until a low sound snapped him out of it.

"Duo."

"What?" The American flinched, his nerves still edged from the inerasable memories of war and an urchin childhood. Turning slightly calmer, two Prussian eyes were staring at him, flat and as Heero as ever.

"Phone?" Heero reminded him flatly and lifted a masculine eyebrow. "It's by the closet, on the wall." The Japanese man shrugged it off, and sauntered around the bed.

Nervous grins were a bitch, Duo thought, as one flashed across his face faster than his old Deathscythe with freshly jacked boosters. "Right."

He clapped his hands and rubbed them conspiringly as he trotted over to the digital console that glittered as hints of buttery orange sunlight filtered through the thick, green carpet of Norwegian spruces and white pines and oaks surrounding the glass doors. A mischievous glint caught in his eyes, and even Heero was surprised to see an impish limp pucker as the American lifted the phone from the socket with a click and licked his lips in anticipation. Skinny fingers fluttered at the glowing rubber digits and Duo grinned as he cradled speaker against his neck, shoving his braid off his shoulder. Suddenly, he clenched something on the console and the hatch to the control panel lifted up with a furtive click.

Heero stopped peeling the socks off his feet and stared. While leaning against his ridiculously fluffy and feather-packed covers and pillow that he'd obsessed over during his depression days, he had decided to walk barefoot and had stuffed a sock in the drawer. Now Heero had froze, war-scarred mind curious as to what his comrade was doing. It was inbred in him to be at least a little suspicious. Prussian eyes locked curiously on Duo's profile as the other man squinted, focusing acutely, and bit his tongue, a snippet of pink peeking out the side of his mouth. Heero, engorged with curious, twitched when he saw that, and accidentally jerked his foot. Something hitting his bare ankle brought his eyes down.

A cardboard box ripped at the edges, sitting on the floor. The object was poking into his foot, hidden under the bed all but a corner. Heero instantly recognized the faint menagerie of slabs of dried paint chipped along the side, with a widening of his marbled-blue eyes. His box of paintings. Quatre had hidden them.

Lopped out the side were some of the unfinished paintings. The pasty tope-colored papers were dashed with tiny pencil lines that swerved together to mark shadow and light on the figures themselves. Half of them were partially painted; they were half-hour bursts of insecurity or inspiration that had bred a need for painting. Underneath the rough drafts of half-forgotten images were his secretly dubbed 'masterpieces', the most personal and candid, undisguised thoughts he'd ever put into tangible existence. In a warped way, his children. Born of insecurity and depression. Heero caught a glimpse of his favorite, and for a spilt second, a smile ghosted across his face.

Heero nudged his sacred, paint-splattered box safely under the bed and glanced back over his shoulder to the slim brunette lounging cattily against the wall, fiddling devilishly with the cord that connect the old-fashioned speaker. Violet eyes focused on Heero's face for a second and smiled at him with their old Shinigami spirit shining before he stylishly snapped the control panel shut. He'd done something, Heero knew, and was just opening his mouth to sourly inquire what, when the American picked up on it and brought his index finger sharply to his lips, grinning as naughtily as ever.

The Japanese man snorted, but his dark blue eyes never wavered, hand still stuffed with a crumpled sock. He grudgingly held his mouth shut and silent. He knew he could definitely trust Duo, even when he swore his horns were poking out off his bangs.

A faint, computerized trill came from the phone, and Duo twirled around with the coiled phone line wrapping around his shoulders and leaned against the wall. Heero cocked an eyebrow and listened. A mechanical click... then a warm perfunctorily scripted secretary voice.

"Hello, Preventers' office."

Duo's lopsided grin broadened and he flickered his eyes from Heero's to the screen, indicating him to look. Where there normally would have been an electronic, blue-tinted image of the other person was an intentional 'no image' screen of black. The American lifted his mouth from the speaker cradled between his neck and shoulder and imperially cleared his throat, adapting his old notorious theatrics that he'd used to slowly grind a sense for humor into Heero. The smile was inexpressibly wide now and inflicted a little yellow glow on Heero's face.

"Hello?" the young woman repeated on the other line. "Hello?"

"Oh, hello, sorry 'bout that!" Duo answered, jolting Heero when he used some sort of jumbled accent and disguised his voice. A drawling, sort of brainless tone suggestive of Americans from the Deep South melded flawlessly into his baritone voice like Shinigami into its precious dark. "These new-fangled phones still catch me off guard once and a while. Heh, yah know?"

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"Hm, Preventers, right?" Duo melodramatically scratched at his stubbled chin and squinted one of his eyes shut just to ham the performance up.

Although, the Japanese man thought, it did help with the accent.

The secretary's voice echoed through the dark red room as she sighed, voice tinged with tired aggravation, "Yes, sir, this is the Preventers' office. Is there anyone you were trying to reach in particular?"

"Yep, madam, I need the office of... guldurnit, I can't remember now," Duo growled crossly. Lanky fingers dug roughly into his skin. His eyes narrowed, feigning irritation, and his clear forehead and chin scrunched up as he scanned furiously over the floor for a nameless item. The American lithely hunkered down onto his toned haunches and dug through the pile of miscellaneous scrap papers stuffed in the nearby wastebasket with a displeased little huff. "Some 'ching chang ling pang dang' name I'm supposed to 'member for me security com'any, but by horse buckets! -Can I put those damned Or-ry-ental names through me skull? Damned if I could! Damned if I could!"

Heero stifled a laugh.

"Sir-"

The American suddenly let out a triumphant gasp reminiscent of a jubilant schoolboy with a Southern drawl as he snatched a random crumpled printout from the wastebasket, shaking it viciously with a blatant crackle into the speaker. The very essence of it was ridiculous, but the way Duo's eyes lit up in the lighting of the dim red room made it so that the single member of the audience was buying every hammed-up second of it and fighting off the dull ache in his stomach.

Duo let off the most flamboyant, most obnoxious sounding off-key "yee-haw" shriek that his body could muster without waking the dead, nudging the phone intentionally closer to burst as many blood vessels in the poor woman's ear as possible. And they were snapping.

"I found it! Crappin' flies in me ramen noodles, Missy, I found it!"

Fighting a moan of auditory pain/absolute revulsion, the secretary fumbled audibly with the phone. The snippets of office noises, ones Heero was rather acquainted with, sifted through behind her voice. Distant chirps of cell phones, pens clicking, papers ruffling like leaves remotely, courteous female voices answering calls. Heero managed to smoother another chuckle by turning his head slightly and covering his mouth.

"Ugh... uh, yes sir? Who is it?"

"Chang Wufei," Duo chirped proudly, locking his free arm akimbo against his hipbone and crackling the disheveled paper. His lips slighted upward, and he began to singsong ridiculously, bopping up and down on the balls of his feet to lay it on thick. "Ch-Ch-Chaaaang Wuffers!"

"Okay, sir... that's quiet enough." The American was fully pissing this poor woman off. She stuffily cleared her throat, and continued as serenely as her bleeding ears would allow.

"And may I ask who's calling?"

"Tell 'im," Duo said, ravishing every word like Turkish delights melting on his tongue, "it's the Maxwell asshole calling."

Heero stifled a burst of laugher, the secretary coughed, and Duo grinned. "Got dat?" he emphasized, waving a finger at the blank, blackened screen glittering in the sunlight. "The. Max-well. Ass-hole."

Visible snickers were boiling up to dangerous levels in Heero's American friend's throat.

"Are-are you sure that's what you want to send to Mr. Chang?" the secretary asked. The polish on her professionalism was chipping off.

"Mr. Chang will know exactly who I am, so don't worry. And thank you, Ma'am. I've really enjoyed your time," Duo cooed with utmost chivalrous courtesy in his normal voice, edged with a seductive tenor during his smooth finish. "Have a great day."

"Uh... right away sir."

The line droned off as he was transferred and a vivacious light of conquest flashed in Duo's eyes as the buzzing continued. The devilish grin returned, as slinky as it ever was, and for an instant the memory of the fifteen-year-old Duo Maxwell stood there, face lit from the opposite side from the motorized flare he held in his right hand, gun clasped faithfully in the other. Heero could see it replaying as flawlessly as if he were witnessing it on a movie screen. The acid throb of his muscles straining around the lodged bullet and graze wound, the blur of choppy violet-blue water under him, the defensive bark Duo had let out, the furious crack of the gun as the white flare faded. The memories were dimmed, but still there. That might make a good silhouette painting, he mused vaguely, as his attention refocused on the present, a decade separated from his memories.

Duo's agile fingers again had flicked the control panel open and descended on the assorted switches and buttons. He paused and rested his index finger on one in particular; the image control, currently shut off. In preparation, he brushed his fingers through his bangs, hooking stray locks of hair behind his ear. Again the American cleared his throat and took a deep breath as Wufei answered and impatiently snatched up the phone. Heero could see the violet eyes flickering, a character breeding behind them.

What now? Heero thought, cynicism tinted with amusement. Or who, more like it.

The click of Wufei's phone snapped off Heero's short train of thought and he stared intently at the side of Duo's face. The slinky grin spread across his face demonically, fed by the flames of an imp's revenge. And even scarier, the soldier noted, was that it didn't show any signs of ever leaving, either.

"Hello?" Wufei recited flatly into the phone. He paused audibly, and then edged his voice with caution as he continued. "Maxwell?"

The American had apparently vanished, and in his place, with the finesse of a brilliant old-fashioned actor, stood someone seemingly decades older. Hooking stray bangs behind his ear, Duo grandly cleared his throat and produced an old, chivalrous British-sounding businessman from his vocal cords. Had he been a man Heero saw at a business conference with that voice, he probably could have smiled and socialized his way into buying empires without so much as breaking a sweat.

"Sorry, Mr. Chang, but I am calling on behalf of your old friend, since he's incapable of making the call himself," Duo explained, voice melding into a soothing, almost melodic rhythm. His expression, however, was still as rascally as a smug Mother Goose fox raiding a noisy chicken coop, betraying the calm sound of his character voice. To clinch it, he threw in a short chuckle. "I apologize again, my good man, for the harm I must have caused to your dear secretary. I'd like to say in my defense that Mr. Maxwell requested that we specifically prank your secretary."

"Oh, really," Wufei said from the empty, black screen. "I would suspect some clever trick from him. Why did he ask that you make the call for him, mister...uh...?"

The grin slighted larger and Duo's finger toyed with the stray locks on his neck from his insanely long braid.

"Buckingheimer, Albert Buckingheimer," Duo replied without missing a beat. "I'm your old friend's lawyer."

"Hm. I'm surprised. I didn't think Maxwell would ever get himself a lawyer, Mr. Buckingheirmer," the Asian man mused, noticeably tapping a pen in the milieu.

Heero was still riveted with the performance as a minute flash of skin moving pulled his attention to the American's thin, work-toughened hands slyly running along the rubber buttons of the control panel. He laughed demurely while his grin turned devious, unbeknownst to the poor, hoodwinked Wufei.

"Well..." Duo paused professionally, smiling down at the switch where his finger lay in hungry waiting. "I also knew Mr. Maxwell very well, and it even perplexed me why such a young little spitfire wasn't out seducing girls instead of signing papers in my office."

Amazingly, he'd managed to draw an elusive, sinuous laugh out of the Chinese pilot. It was one of the few times he'd ever heard him even chuckle.

"That would be Maxwell," Wufei said, and incredibly, with a nostalgic tone. "So, Mr. Buckingheimer, what business does Duo have for me that he couldn't do himself?"

"Business?" Duo said in mild surprise, chuckling. "Why, my good man, Mr. Maxwell doesn't have any business for you. He died two weeks ago and I'm here carrying out the wishes of his last will and testament."

Heero dropped his sock.

Laughing congenially again, it smothered the stunned silence buzzing back over the line. Duo's finger circled the video switch, itching hungrily at it. He swooped in for the kill, cradling the speaker against his neck arrogantly. "He's probably hole-pocked worm food by now... business... ha ha ... that's a good one!" His voice never leaked an ounce of its British bred charm, remaining as poised as ever. Heero now knew the exact cause of his devilish grin, and he had to say, it was really quite witty.

Wufei vocally gaped, and if it were physically possible, he would have heard his jaw smack his desk.

"...How... how did Duo die?"

Solemnity seeped slowly into Duo's fashioned voice, like rain seeping into the frozen ground, as he answered slowly, cautiously, sadly. He even adopted a grave, darkened look of a black-veiled mourner.

"It was... very tragic, to say the least... there were dog biscuits scattered everywhere. I arrived at Mr. Maxwell's apartment a few hours after the police had contacted me and they informed me that he had died during..." Duo huffed a dramatic, pained breath, sharply turning his face in a masculine but anguished manner envied by any soap star. He stifled an artificial sob. "...He had... he had died... fucking a dog."

Sniffle, sniffle, sigh. Game, set, match.

Duo could almost hear the furious nosebleed ensuing. Like a child throwing the light switch at a darkened surprise birthday party, the American snapped the video switch to on, causing the glittery darkened screen to hiss and pop fiercely two times before the image of a dumbfounded Wufei came on. The Chinese pilot looked really good, he noted, in a dark suit coupled with a dark tie typical of the Preventers and his shoulder-length jet-black hair tied back in a high samurai-reminiscent ponytail and stray black strands floating over his almond shaped eyes. Duo smiled impudently at the screen, at the shocked obsidian-colored eyes staring at him in a numbed state then flashing fury over a fiery river of blush, and proceeded to 'laugh his balls off.'

"M-M-Maxwell!" Wufei roared, slamming his fist. Pens rattled and fell, casualties, to gleaming polish of his desk. His dark eyes were furious at the American as he began to half-shriek in his laugh, staggering into the wall because he ached so. "You...you asshole!"

Heero smiled, rolling his eyes warmly, as Duo answered, between gasps for breath.

"That's my name! ...Oh my GOD, you SO should have seen your face, Wufei! Ha ha HA! You're as fucking red as a cherry! Your nose is bleeding! Your nose is bleeding!"

The American dropped the receiver limply, letting it swing on the curled wire and smack the wall with an irreverent plastic thud. His face was flushing red from laughter. Not as red as Wufei was, though, after being plagued with images of his comrade's fabricated last moments.

"It is not, Maxwell!" he snapped, clamping his hand over his nose. The gothic red serenity of Heero's bedroom soon rang with the harsh gnashing of various Chinese curses, most of which the Japanese pilot understood as clear as a bell.

Duo hit the wall as he clamped his arms around his stomach and started to roll.


[---]



"Oh my god, Wufei, she's gorgeous," Duo said, awestruck as he brushed the screen with his fingers. His violet eyes shone over a proud grin, saturated with undistilled delight. "She looks just like you!"

"No, she looks more like her mother," he said. The Chinese man flickered the glossy wallet photo to glance at it. "She's got Sally's smile and face."

"But she's got your eyes," Duo declared happily. The American playfully pinched at Wufei's cheek on the screen. "Come on, admit it, she does! You don't have be embarrassed about it."

"True, Maxwell," he murmured back, "she does." The dark-haired man leaned back against his blue cushioned office chair, smiling faintly to himself. His leather wallet was gutted on the polished desk surface; the scathed edges of old, worn pictures were poking out. His obsidian colored eyes flickered back to the American's face grinning at him from the blue-tinted videophone screen. "Worse of all," Wufei said, running his thumb over the picture of a skinny girl in a loose black dress laughing at the camera as the Chinese pilot wrapped his arms around her rail thin waist and lifted her up, tickling her with a warm grin. "...She somehow inherited your personality, Duo."

"Hey," the American laughed, "lucky girl! What's her name?"

"Meiran."

"That's beautiful! Did you pick it out?"

"Yeah, Meiran's a special name for me."

"Oh really? Your mother?"

"My first wife. She died when we were really young."

"Oh, hey...I'm sorry." Duo scratched at the back of his head.

"You have no reason to be," Wufei answered flatly.

"Well, hey, do I get to see your beautiful little daughter soon? Hopefully, she's got some of her father's golden sense of justice in her!" Duo laughed as Wufei lifted his eyebrow and let a tiny smile float to the surface.

"Oh shut up, Maxwell."

"There you go again, giving me the cold shoulder again," he replied dramatically, feigning hurt, pressing the back of his hand against his spiky brown bangs.

"She'll be coming to the wedding. Meiran's the flower girl."

"Really?" Duo asked happily.

Wufei clattered around in his collection of uselessly fancy fountain ink pens idly, brushing his fingers along the porcelain rim. His dark eyes skimmed around his polished desk, a little smile tugging at his mouth to escape. "You know, she really wants to meet you." Suddenly, his eyes flickered up to the American's face almost mischievously, a delicious little secret seething in his gaze. "Meiran calls you the Heidi-man because of your braid. She thinks you live in the mountains eating cottage cheese."

"What?" Duo squeaked. In the background, the American heard Heero chuckle and his face twitched. With fingers gritted around the phone, he flashed a sassy glare back to the other pilot, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of his downy, black bed. He temporarily detached from his conversation with Wufei.

"It's cruel to laugh at people, Hee-chan," he said, glaring. The imitation of his own blue-eyed glare was quite fierce, if would say so himself, but nothing compared to the hateful, bloodthirsty looks of an enemy soldier, which Heero had become quite immune to.

"I'm not laughing," Heero said flatly, voice warbling on the pseudo-innocent side.

Duo retorted with a splattering raspberry.

The Preventer lifted his head slightly to look beyond the American's turned head. "Good to see you again, Heero," Wufei said.

The Japanese pilot folded his steel-snapping arms and nodded slightly in response. "Wufei." His voice sunk back into its signature monotone drone. "So Sally is doing fine?"

A slight smile crawled over the Chinese pilot's face. "The Preventer work is slow, but that's good news," he said. "Sally's doing well."

"Hey, if I didn't know better," Duo drawled, peeping his eyes back and forth comically, "I'd say that you two were plotting to boot me out of this conversation!"

"Is Duo ready for the wedding?" Wufei asked, purposely excluding the presence of the fuming American from his mind.

"No, Duo needs his suit," Heero answered flatly.

"Are you sure Duo can handle being the best man?"

"If Duo can keep his large American mouth shut."

"Ah, shut up!" the aforementioned snapped.

"...No suit yet, huh? When are you going to get him fitted?" Wufei asked, focusing on Duo's blue-tinted, slightly razzed face.

"Right now," Heero cut in, still complacent to lounge on his bed, like an omniscient professor controlling the revolution of the American's universe. "Rosy won't take unscheduled customers after lunch."

"Well," the Chinese man said, voice suddenly dripping with amused complacency-the creepy kind, Duo thought, like some Dracula easily luring fresh, unknowing blood into his lair-and smiled at him. He snorted. "Have fun with your suit, Maxwell. I need to be going now anyway."

The American unleashed a youthful grin as he repositioned his fingers around the receiver and prepared to hang up. "Alright, Wufei. Can't wait to meet you in Cancun."

"It's really good to see you again, Duo. We've all missed you a lot," he said suddenly, surprising his friend.

As if he was a slim, homegrown, small town South country girl parading up in a white sleek dress to accept the Miss America award, Duo's face contorted into a flattered, enthralled look brimming on the edge of happy tears, lip clamped down, eyebrows drawn upward, and violet eyes widening dramatically. A smile tore at the edges of his lips, fighting to break through. "You really mean it, Wuffers?" he asked. A squeaking pitch was thrown in as artistic fodder, like the masterful actor he was. Duo clamped both hands on the receiver, wedging it against his face, half-sniffling. "That's so nice of you! I didn't think you cared, after being so crusty and crotchety and callous and nasty to me!" He faked a happy sob and ran a finger across his high cheekbone and pretended to flick a tear away.

"Alright, I understand, Maxwell." He smiled despite the annoyed, flat tone he put on as he reached up to his keyboard to turn it off. "I'll see you there."

By now, Duo's tearful charade had blossomed into a roaring rendition of a happy Old Yeller tear-fest. He was babbling about how touched he was, to finally have a cantankerous bastard like Wufei finally say he cared about him even a little-complete with a flushing face, a hand rapidly fanning his neck, and incoherent little sobs that came textbook from every girl winning an award he'd ever seen. Thin brows drawn together, Duo began to quiver the receiver in his hands intentionally, trying to suck every moment he could out of the opportunity, even as a firm hand clamped on his shoulder, which had humped around his chin in a feminine fashion as he feigned happy tears like a satirical Monty Python moment.

"Come on, Duo," Heero said in a parental tone, slowly pulling the psuedo-hysterical American away and prying the receiver from his face and clawing fingers. As soon as he had lost it, the actor tore at his braid around its moderately thick mid-section, flapping it dramatically and wiping his eyes, babbling vaguely something like 'I'm so relieved, you like me, you really like me!' as Heero spoke to the slightly amused Asian man on the other line. His arm shook and twitched out of the frame of the screen as he tried to restrain an over-exuberant man.

"He's happy to see you, too."

"I know."

"Talk to you later, then."

"Yeah. Goodbye, Yuy."

And the Japanese man hung up, dragging his best man, sobbing like a half-wretched teenage pageant queen and waving to the blackened screen, behind him.


[---]



By late-morning, Heero would have never anticipated such a whirlwind of activity that he had had if someone had asked him this morning, when he crawled out of the fluffy black comforter looking like an unpleasant, disheveled derelict. First, the roving Angel of Death had meandered so fatefully into his pristine little police station on the only day he was ever in the reception area and could have very well wandered off again in true rolling stone fashion and disappeared possibly forever, with him oblivious to it all. And he had nearly bashed his teeth out. Then that longhaired, imp-grinned Angel of Death had, respectively, jumped him from his coat closet, eaten his food, tackled him, interrogated and threatened him, and then proceeded to terrorize his poor unsuspecting friend in an even more mischievous craze. Now, as chilly wind whistled along the sleek black exterior of his car and the engine purred and hummed beneath him faithfully, that Angel of Death was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat beside him, salivating and fondling the dark leather interior like a candy girl as they crept down the shadowed driveway toward the gate. Jaw lolling, sugarplums dancing in his brain, verbally purring, the American admired the car, free hand clawing anxiously down his braid curled over his shoulder like a kid locked inside an empty candy store. Not quite the violent, Shinigami antics he'd pulled during the war, slashing mobile suits like coma-prone bunnies, but still his characteristic little antics nonetheless. Glancing away under ruffled chocolate bangs, Heero concentrated on the imposing black gates creeping closer in the frosty windshield. A chunky green branch knocked uselessly at the side-view mirror and a few old, brittle pinecones scattered to the ground.

"Buckle up," Heero said flatly, noticing that Duo had failed to do so when confronted by the idea he'd be inside a 'delicious' piece of black metal, as he had dubbed it.

"Uhgh..."

He was too busy dreaming of how he could jack up the engine.

Inexplicably, Duo hadn't drooled yet on the carpet, seeming drifting out of his loving haze just long enough to civilly lap it up before it hit the leather seat. Violet eyes scanned around the polished silver metal trimmings as a hungry grin consumed his face, toothy and wide. The American let out a low whistle as he admired the very very American car and Heero causally reached up and flipped the gate switch, hidden behind the sun visor. Clanking loudly, they mechanically separated and, mischievously revving the engine, the Wing pilot tore out on to the gravel road, shrapnel hissing out angrily from the rubber tires as they spun for traction, knocking a certain loose brunette against the car door before his Shinigami, feline nerves could jolt free of the haze and react. Releasing an eep, two narrow eyes locked on Heero over a half-scowl.

"Buckle up," Heero said flatly, reining in his smugness.

A playful sneer was his reward. "Yeah, yeah," Duo said, snatching at the seat belt. He clipped it defiantly and grinned over to Heero, arching his lip as he did so. "Yes, Mother."

Heero simply tilted his lips in a smile and turned his head, focusing on the snowy gravel road that would lead them into the city.


[---]


It was an ambitious shop stuck in a very modestly sized, brick-laden body, that was for sure, Duo thought, glancing out the passenger window curiously as the sleek black car glided out of traffic and into an open space just in front of their destination. Like, he mused as he mechanically unbuckled and let the belt lash into its appointed place with a whir, its soul was itching to break free of it's constraining body. Although he felt strange giving such a fully inanimate thing a personality, it seemed to fit. Something energetic and warm seemed to just draw at him and draw up a little smile simultaneously. Duo opened the door and quickly hopped out, his braid swinging weightily behind him from the sudden movement, and slammed it shut with a hand as he trotted up to follow Heero. The American's bright violet eyes trailed down to the right and left of the snow-mounded sidewalk, with the powder snow compacting beneath his foot with a dry crunch. It was mostly empty because of the time and weather in general but he still managed to catch a glimpse of a few, Eskimo-looking children waddling along the sidewalk and playfully shoving each other into the bank of snow.

Heero opened the glass door and held it for Duo, who quickly turned back to the shop and leapt up the small steps and into the shop. Another wave of heat struck at his face and he grinned at Heero as he fell in step beside the Japanese pilot, hands snugly pocketed into his jacket. "Oh, a gentleman, too? What kind of terrorist are you becoming now?" Duo asked, as they traveled through the small lobby with slush-encrusted welcome mats underfoot and brilliantly lit gold Christmas tinsel strung overhead in graceful arches. His eyes flickered to Heero's hand turned pink from the cold gripping around the metal handle of the second glass door and pulling it back civilly for him.

Heero paused for a moment, letting Duo walk ahead for a split-second, then took a liberty to slyly grin behind his back like he held the perfect hand of poker and follow the other pilot inside. "A better one," he said.

He flipped his head back, innocent and unwary eyes nice and round, and barely got to open his mouth past a little 'o' to ask "Huh?" when a little blonde blur of woman, clicking heels, and groomed black dress seem to fly out of nowhere with such speed that when it peeled the very jacket off of his shoulders and expertly tossed it back into Heero's expectant arms, Duo didn't even know what had hit him. The American could only be swept along to the fierce and industrial tattoo of heels clicking behind him and the pressure of tiny hands on his back. A little honey sweet voice rang out behind him, in the proximity of the attacking black dress, and called out to his companion.

"Finally, Heero. I didn't ever think you'd get this wedding started!"

In the doorway still, unharmed by whatever was sweeping Duo like a stray newspaper strung along by the wind back toward the mirrored and richly decorated fitting area, Heero calmly unrumpled the pile of leather jacket and hooked it on a large brass hook curving off the wall next to his. The Japanese pilot glanced over to his friend momentarily with more a touch than amusement trying to escape his little smile, then addressed the little spitfire behind him.

"Rosy, nice to see you again. Thanks for taking me unscheduled. I had no idea that Duo would be coming today," he said, gracefully nicking his boots against the rug and dislodging all the snow before he followed the two down a short, deep green and mahogany-trimmed hallway into a room lined with mirrors and clothing hung along the wall.

"I'm sorry if I've inconvenienced you in anyway," he said, turning the corner and stopping in the doorway, dark Prussian eyes dancing between each of the two's images reflected on the series of tall mirrors. "But I needed to finish suiting first of all."

"That's fine, Heero. It's no problem at all."

"Hey, you could at least have warned me! Where's your common courtesy?" Duo snapped back to Heero as he was finally let relax and the little woman behind him who had been hurriedly escorting him clicked around in front of him, her attractive dark-amber eyes quickly examining him and scoping out the suit that she could see in her head sliding effortlessly onto Duo. She was a relatively short woman, with a clean, golden yellow head of hair floating around her shoulders. A tape measure of the exact same bright and cheery yellow color was draped around her neck like a seasonal scarf over the simple black dress and she held a precise looking clip board in her hand, the white paper scribbled with thousands of indiscriminate notes and figures.

"Hello," Duo said, blinking innocently down at her. The American, although being thoroughly jolted by now, managed a warm smile for his company's sake and reached out his hand. "I don't think we've met, but you seem kind of familiar, miss. What's your name?"

The hauntingly familiar amber-tinted hazel eyes seemed to offer some sort of warm and in depth greeting and explanation, but the face and the agenda did not hold that same offer. The little tailor woman pulled a smile out in return, but only pressed the clipboard beneath her arm and casually flipped her hair to the side as she reached around the unexpecting American in his jeans and dark blue tank-top to give him a little smack of encouragement. Which, of course, caused the longhaired man to let out a startled cheep and defensively arch his back and caused the Japanese pilot to smile almost mischievously behind him, unbeknownst.

"Sith, honey. Rosy Sith. Now let's get going! There are only twenty-four hours in a day you know and I'd like to sleeping for a third of that!" the blonde woman said cunningly, but sweetly, as she swiftly struck again. This time, her meticulously manicured nails seized around the metal of the American's zipper and authoritatively, but still sweetly, yanked it down and once again caused him to yelp like a branded lamb. "Come on, let's see those cute boxers of yours."