07-Oct-2004

Title: Galileo
Author: CleverYoungThief
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Reference to violence, language, yaoi
Pairings: 4x1, ref. to past 3x4 and 1x2
Archive: GWA
Genre: Quatre POV
Timeline: Post-war
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't sue. College kids are like L2 kids; we got nothin'.
Feedback: Please? ^_^
Notes: Yet another song-induced one-shot I felt necessary to exorcise. Weird little one-shot. Also poses a question: Can just sleeping with someone (as opposed to having sex with them) be just as intimate? And is it still an infidelity?
Sort of a companion piece to 'Foolish Games'.
Dedicated to: Andrea, who wanted some Quatre stuff. ^_^

"Galileo's head was on the block
The crime was looking up the truth
And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode
I try to trace them to my youth...

And then you had to bring up reincarnation
Over a couple of beers the other night
And now I'm serving time for mistakes
Made by another in another lifetime... "
     --- Galileo

Galileo by CleverYoungThief

"You can sit down, Heero."

I heard a soft hiss behind me, the intake of breath. I could almost feel his muscles relax, like guitar strings being loosened to tune. He walked up and around the table, and I could tell by the barely-there expression on his face that his pride was hurt by the fact I heard him coming.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You were following me on Monday, too. You were three subway cars down from me, but I saw you in the crowd before I got on."

I motioned for a waiter, and I was aware of how imperious it seemed, one hand lifted in a come-hither gesture. A waiter was almost by the table immediately, and I requested another glass. I smiled at Heero, motioning to flask of whiskey in the center of the table. Contrail whiskey. And a contrail is exactly what feels like down the back of your throat when you take a shot.

I didn't even bother buying it in shots, either; I know a real Winner wouldn't bother. I just bought the entire bottle, no matter how expensive.

They were playing some kind of honky-tonk music, something about tears in beer, and I ignored the urge to walk over and kick the jukebox as hard as I could.

"You saw me?"

His surprise made me a little angry. It's as if he never expects me to be as observant a soldier as the rest of them. As good a warrior.

Maybe not, I admitted to myself. I was never the kind of intuitive killer Heero and Wufei were, back then. But I was just as good at it in other ways. I wince at that and grab my own well-used shot-glass, refilling it. "Help yourself, Heero."

"I thought Muslims didn't drink."

I laughed, then raised my full shot-glass at him, almost mocking. I knocked it back fluidly with a flick of my wrist, making the liquor disappear like a magic trick, and grimaced. My words almost came out as a cough. "Who said I was Muslim?"

His eyebrows flickered, almost imperceptibly. Point for me. Although I hate to think of it that way, even now. It's just that me and Heero have always had this... thing. Both of us have to be the best. He's the leader, the charismatic one. I'm just the strategist. But I always admired that in Heero.

"Your family-"

"I was being contrary, Heero. I am a Muslim, like my father before me. Though I don't know why you brought it up. Sit down already."

Cautiously, he did. I looked across the table at him in the dim light of the bar. He didn't seem that much different to me than he had back during the war. His hair looked a little more shaped; not quite a military buzz, but shorter. Cleaner. But even though I couldn't see it on him, I could still feel it, like a lead blanket.

He's been a soldier for a thousand years.

I guess he was doing Preventer work now. There was a deep bruise across his cheekbone, like the ghost of a raven's wing. I wondered how he got it. But seeing that one flaw brought the rest of his face into perspective for me. I could see faint scars, hair that was already beginning to be peppered with gray, lines of worry between his eyes.

He did look older.

"You still soldiering, Heero?" Like Trowa? You couldn't leave it behind either, could you? Of course not. What else would the perfect soldier do?

I felt a rush of something at that. Trowa. Trowa, who would not be content to stalk the alabaster hallways of my mansions like some collared wild cat. Trowa Barton, who was probably in the depths of Central America as we spoke, with an automatic rifle cradled across his lap and headphones piping classical music into his ears, staring out into jungle shadows.

Damn you.

Heero flinched, barely, as if he wasn't anticipating the question. Or maybe some deep part of him had felt what I felt. We had a connection that way, even back then.

He was silent for a moment, carefully pouring himself a shot of whiskey, then he downed it. The shudder that shook his frame as he swallowed told me he wasn't a very experienced drinker.

"Yes."

I stretched slightly, trying to make my voice light, even though it didn't want to be. I didn't want to be a maudlin drunk, not in front of Heero Yuy. I probably wouldn't get anything but a sneer of contempt in sympathy. "And they've still got you in units?" I set up another shot, watching my hands. They weren't as steady as before.

"No, terrorist advisory. There's still some hard units around, but... no guys like us."

"Do you enjoy it?" I tried not to sound bitter, but it came out that way anyway. The whiskey was getting to me. Trowa said I get a cynical streak when I drink. But then again, what would he know about it? Trowa never drank.

"Not particularly." Heero took another shot. Shuddered. There was a period of silence. We didn't take shots together, or toast with them; we took them in turns. The silence wasn't either particularly comfortable or uncomfortable. There was plenty that the two of us could have said, but neither of us knew where to start.

"Quatre... do you believe in reincarnation?"

I lost concentration as I was taking another shot, and some of the whiskey dripped down my chin. Sputtering, I fumbled for a napkin and almost knocked the flask onto the floor. Heero grabbed the neck of it, staring across the table at me as I wiped my face.

"You're not nearly drunk enough to be starting in on something as philosophical as that, Heero." But as I took a second look at him, I realized he was drunk. It was so sudden that I hadn't even seen him falter. But once I saw it, I couldn't unsee it; it was like one of those optical puzzles where once you saw the solution, you always knew where to find it.

Heero was just as miserable as I was.

His elbows were heavy on the table, and his eyes were dark and dilated with alcohol. His hair was falling in his face, making him look broken somehow... dejected. I longed to brush it away.

I guess that made me drunk, too.

"Couldn't you do something else for a living, if you're unhappy, Heero?" I reached for the bottle again, but Heero grabbed the neck of it in a sweep, keeping me from picking it up. His piercing cobalt eyes speared me. "Answer my question, and I'll answer yours."

"Muslims don't believe in reincarnation, Heero." I smiled, bitterly. "We believe in a heaven full of beautiful virgins."

Heero's head leaned closer to the table; I was afraid in a few moments, it was going to hit. "Wufei believes in reincarnation. Duo says that it's bullshit, and that it's a copout, because there are no do-overs. Just like in war. Once you kill someone-" He made another wide sweeping motion, almost knocking over the bottle himself, "-gone."

"What are you doing, taking a religious census?" I took the bottle from him and poured myself another shot. My hand was even less steady, now. "Why are you following me around, Heero? And why don't you quit killing, if you hate it so much?"

"Who said I hated it?"

"You didn't have to say it."

We just stared at each other from across the table again, like predators over the same kill. Neither of us was willing to look away, even as we drank.

He made an exasperated snorting noise that was so unexpected, it made me grin. "Hell, Quatre, what else are we qualified to do?"

I laughed, softly. "I don't know. We could join the mafia."

Heero didn't smile, but his lips twitched, which was as close as he was going to come, I guess. "Where do we apply?"

We took more shots, silently, almost like punishment. When Heero spoke again, his voice slurred, I was almost too drunk to understand him, but even though the words were fuzzy to me... he wasn't. His feelings. The words he didn't have to say.

"I just thought... You're the tactician. I thought you would know. And reincarnation... I would have a chance. To get it right. To pay them back. I can't do it this way. Not in this lifetime. It'll never be enough to make it up to them. Or him. I didn't mean to... " He blinked, rapidly, and I realized with rising horror that he was fighting back tears.

Oh, Heero.

By the time I emptied the bottle into one last drink, Heero was done. I just had time to knock my full shot-glass aside, lean forward, and grab him by the shoulder before he slid completely out of his chair.

"Fuck," I muttered, dismayed. I kept a hand on his shoulder as I slid out of my own chair, then moved over to throw his limp arm around my neck. It was like trying to move a dead body, but I could tell he was still conscious. Barely. He stiffened slightly as I lifted him up.

"Is your friend all right, sir?" the waiter asked, hesitantly. He was afraid of me. Afraid of both of us.

Not my friend.

"He's fine. Just had too much to drink. I'll take him home. Could you call me a cab, please?"

Whatever home we have.

I threw Heero over my shoulder in a fireman's carry; it was too awkward to drag him, and I could only hope he wouldn't throw up across my back. I was almost too drunk to carry him in any fashion at all. When we were outside, in the cool air of the night street, I set him down gently against the building, then sat beside him, leaning my head up against the harsh brick.

"Where is Duo, Heero?"

"None... of your fucking business."

--Kitchenette. Standing across from Shinigami. Shinigami with a shiner and a split lip. There was screaming. No words. Duo grabbed an ashtray off the table and threw it at him. It hit him in the face. Blood on linoleum in dime-sized drops. There was nothing else on the table to throw. So Duo threw the table--

He got out.--

I'm sorry, Heero. I put my hand on his forehead, tentatively. He grabbed my wrist for a moment, even in his drunken stupor, his grip almost bone-crushing. I could almost hear his thoughts as he assessed the threat I posed to him, and the hand loosened, falling away to rest on cold concrete. I pulled him closer to me, letting him rest his head in my lap, and he didn't struggle. I whispered down into his relaxed face, his closed eyes. Tears leaked from beneath his eyelashes. I could feel his pain like a brand.

"He still loves you, you know," I whispered, giving in to the urge to brush the hair out of his face. He let me. "And I know you still love him. It was five years ago. You could call him-"

Heero let out a choked sound that was halfway between a bitter bark of laughter and a sob. I dropped the subject.

The cab pulled up. I moved Heero out of my lap and helped him to the car, holding open the door and pushing him across the seats. He went willingly enough, leaning heavily against the further car door, his breath fogging the glass.

"He better not throw up in the back of my cab, buddy," the cabbie muttered. I moved in beside Heero, closing the door firmly behind me.

I looked at the cabbie in the rearview mirror, and let the cool disdain of a Winner and the cool disdain of the soldier mix in my eyes. The cabbie double-checked my expression and looked away quickly.

"The Plaza Hotel at 4th and Martin Luther. Just drive."

"Yessir."

When we got to the hotel, I paid and tipped the cabbie, then went about trying to get Heero out of the backseat. He was barely conscious, so he wasn't much help. Grunting, I finally got him into something of a standing position and closed the cab door behind me. I was considering just throwing him over my shoulder again when I heard him speak, his flat monotone weary and almost too quiet to hear.

"Let me go, Quatre. I can walk."

Cautiously, I backed off a little, ready to grab him if he looked like he was going to fall. He staggered a little, wavering, before his head came up in that willful posture I recognized even now, after so many years. I shouldn't have worried.

Heero would never fall. Not really.

I walked alongside him as we walked into the lobby and headed for the elevator. The lobby was almost deserted except for a single security guard sitting behind the main desk, feet propped up, a magazine across his lap. The fact that there was only one guard disturbed me in a distant sort of way, and I had to remind myself that it was peace-time now. One guard at three in the morning was more than enough.

We didn't speak, not even in the elevator. Heero wasn't crying anymore, and I was glad. It was disconcerting. We got to the floor I was staying on, and I walked Heero to my room. He stumbled in the hallway, one hand going out to the wall in an almost desperate gesture, but I was there to keep him from falling. I just wished I'd been there before.

Trowa had never been here, either, to the room I kept paid up at the Plaza for my business on L1, and I was glad for that, too.

When I let him into the room, he went over to the bay window that looked out onto the hotel balcony. He stared out into the thousands of lights that made up the colony streets, stared out into the stars beyond, and in the dim light of the lamp next to the king-sized bed, I thought I saw his eyes start to fill up again.

And I was worried about him thinking I was a melancholy drunk, I thought.

"Heero, I'm getting into bed. Come with me. Please." My throat felt tight. "Let... let me help you. I just want to touch you. That's all I want."

He turned back to look at me, and his eyes were deep, drowning. Trowa's eyes. But I didn't want to think about that.

I laid down on the bed without taking off anything but my shoes, feeling the tension in the room sink away into that hard-soft mattress that is so popular in hotel rooms. I reached up to the switch beside the bed and dimmed the lights even further, until Heero was nothing but a shadow. I heard him walk over to the bed, bending down to slip off his boots before he slid onto the mattress cautiously, not touching me.

I turned to him. He was watching me with wide eyes. Scared, little kid eyes. He looked fifteen again. Even if I didn't have the gift, I knew I could have felt his heart. He wasn't like the rest of us; he didn't have any masks, no ulterior motives, no dim ideals or any place to hide.

He wore it on his sleeve.

I ran my fingers down his jaw, gently, along his neck. I carefully unzipped the military jacket he was wearing, pulling it off. He lifted up slightly to help me, and that's how I knew he wasn't against it. I pulled my fingertips across his chest, tracing scars, palming the warm expanse of flesh over his heart. I could feel it beating.

I moved my hand down across the sculpted muscles of his abdomen, feeling his muscles twitch involuntarily under my touch. As I touched him, I could feel every kill, every laugh he ever held back from us, every smile. I'm sure it hurt me more than it hurt him. But he needed someone to see it, and none of the others ever could.

He closed his eyes, lips parted slightly, chest heaving with a silent sigh as my fingertips brushed his groin lightly, sliding down his powerful thigh to his knee. He reached up, hooking one finger inside the waist of my slacks, fumbling for a moment because his eyes never opened. He pulled me to him.

I laid down on my back next to him. Wordlessly, Heero rolled against me and laid his head on my chest, his cheek against the starched white cotton of my dress shirt, the soft blue silk of my tie almost the same shade as his eyes.

When I put my hand across his shoulderblades, he didn't even flinch. Maybe it was just because he was drunk, and he didn't know any better. Or maybe it was because he knew I was drunk, and he didn't want to hurt me just because I didn't know what I was doing. Or maybe... just maybe... he felt me the same way I felt him.

I closed my eyes and followed him into sleep. But not before saying a prayer for Trowa, in whatever jungle he decided to grace with his presence, his Bach tapes and his silenced pistol. Because even though no one hurts me as badly as he does, I love him. I love the way the first two fingers of his right hand smell like tobacco, and the way wild birds won't fly away even when he approaches them. But mostly, I just love him.

I never wished more than now that I didn't.

I said a prayer for Wufei too, fighting for what he believed in even as he hoped for another chance. And lastly, I prayed for Duo, that he find happiness wherever he was. If I could have given Heero back to him, fixed and as perfect as he was back during the killing year, I would have.

But people aren't gifts to be given.

I moved my hand up to card my fingers through dark brown hair. His breathing was steady, now. Like his heart. I went to him. Dreamed with him.

To whatever dreams may come.

Owari

(:./cyt/galileo)