26-Dec-2000
Title: Brother Maxwell 5/?
Author: TB
Archive: yes please
Category: adventure
Pairing: 2xH
Rating: R
Warnings: drug-use, swearing
Spoilers: some
Notes: My original characters are transferred in from an uncompleted novel I've never gotten around to finishing. This fic takes place when Duo is approximately 25, whatever AC # that is [215]. This is not an AU, so everything stands as it happened in the series and in EW. Duo has been living with Hirde during that time, apparently in the same fashion he always has (I imagine he's well-fed ^_~) He does occasional under-ground work for an organisation kind of like the Preventers, spying, stealing, etc (which is how he can work in a scrap yard on L2 and still buy expensive, durable, bullet-proof clothing :P, in addition to keeping a nice apartment!)
Feedback: please ^_^
Disclaimers: This is the sad and woeful tale of a girl who came, who saw, who desperately wanted Gundam Wing--but respected the law enough to put a cheesy disclaimer on her technically not-too-legal fan fiction in order to keep from being sued (assuming any lawyer would care). The end.
"Who's that, monsieur?"
Bruce followed the pointing finger to a man in the centre of the smoky room. Tall and thin, with long hair mussed and wild around his gaunt face, he was holding court among the richer and more attractive clientele of the club. Bruce watched as he leaned over a barely-clad woman, laughing, to accept the cigarette she offered.
"Him?" he replied after a moment. "That's Duo Maxwell. A regular celebrity."
"Maxwell?" Bruce's companion frowned, trying to puzzle out the name. "Maxwell--"
"Pilot. From the colonies."
The young woman's expression cleared. "So he's famous, then!" Her heavily made-up eyes lingered on the man who was blowing a ring of smoke toward his lady-friend. "And so handsome."
Bruce gave her up for lost and simply wandered toward the bar, nodding here and there at people he recognised. It promised to be another long night.
A hand came down on his shoulder, and Bruce turned. He relaxed when he was embraced enthusiastically by Duo, who pounded him on the back and kissed him, then slung an arm around his waist.
"Fag?" Duo laughed, and produced a pair of cigarettes, and a lighter. "How are you, Bruce? Haven't seen you lately."
"Keeping myself busy." Bruce plucked one of the slender joints from Duo's lips and put it to his own, inhaling. "Who's the girl?"
"Jeanette." Smoke dribbled from his nostrils as Duo glanced back at his table. "She's interested. I'm thinking of just sending her home."
"Interested in you, or your goods?"
Duo sniggered. "My personality, charming as it may be, is most certainly not what Jeanette is looking forward to engaging."
Bruce found himself smiling, drawn in as always. Duo *was* charming--when he chose to be. "I meant something else, my friend, and you know it."
"You wound me," Duo retorted, in his halting French. "My heart bleeds, I think I'll die. You don't think she'd flirt with me if I wasn't a dealer?"
"If 'Jeanette' is cruising for a piece of ass, I'm positive she could find it cheaper," was the quick tease. "You think highly of yourself, Monsieur Maxwell. Any rate, you're losing weight again, you know. You won't be a handsome devil with your bones sticking out."
Duo lost his smile. He didn't remove his arm from around Bruce, but a darkness had entered his violet eyes, and the fingers that flicked away the burnt-out butt of his cigarette fidgeted angrily.
Bruce sighed. "Buy me a drink," he said, "and tell me more about Jeanette."
"Ah, leave her be. She's just young and stupid." Duo grabbed the attention of the bartender and sent him after something strong. "I give her sixteen, eighteen at most, but she claims to be twenty-five. Wearing Mommy's pearls and too much make-up and so sloshed she'll try anything. Don't take her in, Bruce. She's not one of your blowzy junkies, she's a high-school brat who thinks the world can't touch her."
Scotch appeared; Bruce sipped. "Duo, do yourself a favour. Go home. Get some sleep."
"Don't baby me." Duo turned around, facing his table, leaning back against the bar. "I need more. When can I see Josephe?"
"Already?" Bruce frowned. "Duo, you just--"
"I made a deal with a friend, okay? And now I'm low. I need more."
"Which friend?"
"Your favourite and mine--that Catalonia bitch." Duo sighed and tossed back his hair. "It is a distinct pleasure to watch her sink with me. Every time I see her shit-faced I get this warm little glow of accomplishment."
Bruce ignored that. "Do you have enough credit?"
"I'll pay cash."
Knowing it was useless to argue, he nodded, but mentally reminded himself to ask Julian to transfer more money into the black hole that was Duo Maxwell's bank account. "I'll try to get you in. Do you have enough for the rest of the week?"
"It's a stretch, but I'll make a go at it." Duo waved halfheartedly at something beyond Bruce's line of vision. "Order another round. You've ruined my evening."
Bruce surprised himself by actually meaning his apology. "I'm sorry." He hesitated. "Listen, surely it isn't as bad as all that, now? You still have the lovely Jeanette--or any other body in the place you lay eyes on. There's not a soul here who wouldn't sell their own flesh and blood for a night with you."
"I have a girlfriend, remember. I may do a lot of wrong, but I will never, ever do that."
"She's lucky, your girl."
"I'm the lucky one." Duo regained his grin in a sudden burst of sunny cheer. "You gonna order that drink, Bruce? I'm getting dry over here."
Dorothy Catalonia watched Duo talk to the dark little man at the bar. Bruce was a familiar face to her--she knew, though she was not supposed to, that the Frenchman supplied Duo with his drugs. That was the only reason stopping her from eliminating him; she hadn't found a way, not yet, at least, to connect with someone higher on the food chain. Until she did, she needed Duo Maxwell, and thus she needed Bruce.
It had been a blessing, though, finding Duo. She cordially loathed the man who took so much pleasure in feeding her addiction--and she took a vicious pleasure in the knowledge that Duo was no better than her. Once upon a time, Dorothy had been a wretched creature wallowing in her own imagined inadequacy. Quatre Winner had destroyed her carefully crafted illusions about her own superiority--intellectual, moral, even spiritual superiority; meeting Duo Maxwell had cured her quickly.
No one superior would have let himself get addicted to Cloud Nine. If she was going to be inferior, she was going to be so in damned good company. No lady of breeding would do otherwise.
Duo looked her way eventually, and Dorothy smiled grimly. She wondered how the young Jeanette saw the American, if the beautiful Jeanette was too dazzled by the smile to see the rotting on the inside. Dorothy had witnessed it a thousand times before: Duo Maxwell never failed to impress. He was like some god to the pathetic, hungry nobodies who flocked to his glamourous image. They worshiped him for his looks, for his money, for his access to the dark underworld that he, as only a god could, effortlessly used to hook them or cut them off from his damned drugs whenever it pleased him to. No, the Maxwell charm never failed, except with her. But Dorothy was a cut above the Jeanettes of the world. She knew the looks would disappear, as hers were beginning to, with the extensive abuse of needles filled with his chosen magic. She knew the money would disappear, too, as he spent larger and larger sums to buy his supply, never realising his suppliers were cheating him until he ran out. And if she admired and envied his connections, she was not afraid of them.
She stood suddenly, and left the table, ignored by the many others that sat there. She saw Duo watching her suspiciously as she headed out the back, and let herself smile. Sometimes it was almost too easy to bait him.
Hirde nervously clasped her hands inside her sleeves, keeping her eyes on the dirt floor. The room was stifling hot, but frost practically radiated from the wizened old woman sitting before her.
"Sister Helen," the tiny woman wheezed finally. "Do you know why you are here?"
"No, Headmistress." Hirde fought the urge to look up.
"You look guilty, Sister. Is there something you would like to tell me?"
Hirde stiffened. No--there was no way the old bitch could know about Hirde's secret--Julian had sworn up and down that there was no way anyone could find her out--
The Headmistress took Hirde's silence for subservience. "Very well, then. You are not in trouble, Sister Helen." Yet, she all but added. Sharp brown eyes, glaring out from behind a hundred wrinkles of leathery skin, promised a future visit. "A letter came for you. On the table there. Take it. You may read it when you have finished your chores."
Hirde bent her knees quickly and snatched the envelope from the table. "Thank you, Headmistress." She backed out of the room, and let the door swing shut behind her. She sighed deeply, and leaned against the door for a minute, clutching the letter to her breast.
"It gets better, I promise," a kind voice said. Hirde looked up; it was Sister Maria, a nun not too much older than Hirde, and the only friend she'd found in two months in the convent.
Maria smiled at her. "The Headmistress is just testing you. It's just her way. You're a good woman, Sister Helen, just spirited. The Headmistress is old and things were different, in her day... it's just something you get used to. And a little discipline doesn't really hurt, after all."
Hirde smiled. "I know. Maria, can I ask for a favour?"
Her friend nodded immediately. "Let me guess--window washing? Dishes?"
"Gardening, actually. I'll do your mopping after dinner, to be fair. Please?"
"Think nothing of it. Enjoy your letter, Sister." Maria fondly squeezed her shoulder, and placidly left her.
Hirde flew back to her own tiny cell, and worked a chair under the handle to serve as a lock for the door. Then she lay back on the bed, kicking off her sandals and ripping open the travel-stained envelop. Her eyes devoured the letter eagerly.
*Dearest Helen,
I hope this finds you well. Forgive me, Helen, for not writing you sooner--but you know business here in the city. Routine, routine. You remember the deal I'm working on, of course? Shows absolutely no sign of closing any time soon. I was hoping for word by Christmas, but beggars can't be choosers, as they say. It looks like I'll be here through December, definitely, and probably January and February as well. I'll let you know when anything new comes up.
How do you like convent life in India? Have they let you off the grounds yet? I know you wanted to work with the children and all. If you haven't started to already, do you know when you will? Don't stint me on details, cousin dearest. I have to have something to tell our family this holiday about you.
Well, I've never been much of a man for letters, so I'll end here. Just wanted to drop you a line and let you know all is well. Write back soon. Don't forget about us secular types now that you've taken up the holy life.
At your beck and call, Julian*
Slowly, Hirde puzzled out the true message of the letter, knowing Julian would never have written her such nonsense. Business was routine--that meant nothing had changed, but Duo was well. Part of her relaxed as she realised this. Duo was a constant worry in the back of her mind, and Julian's infrequent, vague comments were poor appeasement. But infrequent and vague was all she had, and she had come to rely on it.
The city was Paris, of course--and Julian had let her known that he was there, which eased her worries a little tiny bit more. The red-haired agent would be in Paris with her beloved at least through December, and maybe through February--that was good. Julian would watch Duo's back, even if the braided idiot didn't want him to.
The second paragraph was Julian's way of reminding her that her own reports were fewer and farther between than they could have been. If she was reading it right, by "family" Julian meant his higher-ups; maybe he needed to show them some progress, or maybe he was just prodding wherever he thought he could score points with her. But there was little enough to report--in two months, Hirde had seen nothing more suspicious than an old woman who ran the convent like boot camp. She sighed, and folded the letter back into the envelope, to be put in her chest at the foot of her cot with the others Julian had written to her.
"At your beck and call," he signed. Hirde could only hope. Whatever he'd said about trust in this sordid business, Hirde didn't trust the agent farther than she could throw him. She believed him when he said he would watch over Duo--he had a stake in her lover, Hirde had realised that some time ago, though she did not yet know what exactly it was--but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was something Julian was hiding, something important--something dangerous to her and her Duo.
The bell rang, signaling dinner. Her entire room--situated far too close to the antiquated bell tower--shook as if an earthquake gripped it.
Hirde gritted her teeth. "For the rest of my life," she vowed as she got to her feet and gathered up her sandals, "I will *hate* bells!"
End Part 5
(:./erin/brother5)
