Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and the G-boys are someone else's property. I'm just renting them.
Hee hee... nervous... well, here go the fics.
GW isn't mine, but gosh I wish it was...
Feedback appreciated just read it...
/blah/ is emailing in the fic.
/I'm doing great. Got myself set up in this great flat. I share with this older guy, he pays most of the rent, 'cause him and his girls are always coming in. I don't mind though, 'cause the clubs around here are awesome--who wants to stay at home anyway?/
"Runt!" He looked up, fingers momentarily pausing on the comm-keyboard. "Get your ass back to work! I'm not paying you to sit on that narrow tush all fuckin' day, you little shit!"
"Not paying me at all," he grumbled. He ignored Manuel, who was just blowing steam anyway, and went back to composing his letter.
/So, Quatre-chan, howzit going with Trowa? You two living happily ever after yet? I hope so. Me, I got a girl. She's real great. After Hilde took off with that jerk, I know I acted real bent up and all, but the truth is, well/
Duo hesitated, trying to come up with a suitable ending to that. Tiredly he snagged a aluminum canteen drink, and popped the lid with a broken fingernail. While he drank, he struggled with his story. He met a rich heiress? No. Too unreal. Opened the door on the wide possibilities? That was better. Suffered a breakdown, spent all his days at a bar trying to drown his troubles, and fell in love with the beautiful freckled waitress who brought him coffee when it was time to sober up? Better still. Duo snorted at his own cleverness as he gulped the synthetic, non-alcoholic beer, long used to the greasy after-taste. He wrote that down.
/Her name is Lian./ He crossed that out. /Lanore. Real sweet. I swear I've never been happier. I feel like you two always looked when you got lovey-dovey. We just had our two-month anniversary. I got her long-stem roses--took your advice after all, Trowa. We're talking about moving in together./
Perfect. Quatre would be so happy for him he wouldn't think twice about it.
"Runt! I told you to get moving!"
"Alright, alright." /I gotta wrap up now, I'm late for an appointment. My boss wants to talk to me, I think I'm up for a promotion. Pretty wicked, huh? My love to everyone. Stay cool! ~D. M./
With a heavy sigh, Duo hit the send button, whirring the letter off into the endless wonders of the colony's mail system. Duo still didn't understand how the whole thing worked, but he did know that his letters got to Quatre. It didn't matter that the system was inherently privacy-violating--monitors read everything before it left the colony for Earth. It wasn't like he ever told the truth in any of them.
He grabbed his coat and tossed his drink to the ground, ignoring the spill. The grubby carpet would just absorb it. He pulled up the face mask, tucking in stray wisps of his hair and wincing as his fingers brushed the raw scarring on the side of his face. Damn, it would ache at the end of the day. Heero had been right. He should have cut the damn braid off, before it caught in the heavy machinery and nearly took his skull with it when it was torn off.
Manuel slammed a tool box into his hands, and pointed mutely up to the catwalks. "Blew a fixture," he grunted. "Ain't no one else fuckin' shrimpy enough to take care of it."
"Fuck me," Duo told him, but obediently secured the tool box to his wide leather belt and pulled on his rubber-coated gloves before shimmying up the ladder.
Once, the heat that radiated from the catwalks had fascinated him. The engine room was always boiling hot, but one got used to that--that was why it was so surprising to feel that awful burning heat melting the gloves on his hands just climbing the metal ladder. The soles of his boots had long since succumbed, loosing their tread--and thus doubling the danger of climbing around the catwalks, where there were no handrails--and the pads on his hands were blackened and hard from daily working with the intolerable temperatures. Once, he'd found the hazardous work exhilirating and challenging. Now, he simply didn't care.
He settled on the block of wood provided for his skinny behind and slipped his legs over the side into the empty air over the engine room. He did sort of like the view, in a love-hate way; he was hundreds of feet over the production that kept the colony running, of which most citizens were unaware. Below him, in the blinding white light that was broken only by sparks and shadows, lay the massive machinery called the Engines that provided power to an entire civilisation. He was the only one who ever saw it from this vantage.
And when he died, maybe plummeting to his death the way the last runt had, some new kid would get that dubious privelege.
The heat blasted his face even through the mask, and he longed for the relative cool of the break room. The beer wasn't sitting well on his stomach. With a breath that stung his lungs, he reached for the ceiling belt that would haul him out to the broken fixture.
He couldn't tell what the problem was, which meant it was gonna take a long time; he hated the feeling of slowing roasting alive while hanging suspended over the room with the weight of the tool box making his back ache. The thought made his feet itch--but they, like the pads of his hands, were black and ruined anyway. He clipped himself to the chain-link belt and swung out into nothingness. The first time, he'd hollered in delight. Now he gritted his teeth and grimly began the undignified process of creeping to the fixture.
A furnace blast hit him full force, literally stealing his breath and singeing his new growth of arm hair. He hung still for a moment, just long enough to recover, then inched out farther. The sooner he got there, the sooner he could be on the ground again, where the fire was bearable.
He should have quit when he realised he was probably going to die soon, either from the heat or the drop. But he didn't. He needed the money, what he got of it; the minute he earned enough to do more than pay his taxes, he was out of here and on a shuttle back to L2, where a man could at least make a decent living, even if he had to steal it. Of course, that minute was a long way off--at present, he was behind on his taxes, too, so much so that he now worked a sixteen-hour shift trying to catch up. His health would probably give out first. If the ceiling belt didn't.
God, he was getting morbid. Where had death-defying Shinigami gone?
The way of his beloved Gundam--death. The paradoxial irony.
The super-heated wrench seared his palm even through the gloves when he applied it to the huge light fixture, hanging forty times his size and a ton or two heavier inches from his dangling body. Only the very small could work on the lights when they broke--which was more and more, now, as the old darlings gave in to the years--because the belts weren't made to hold people. Duo wasn't sure what exactly they were made for, but they'd been the death of several men and women before the higher-ups had figured out that a kid could do the work. Granted, at twenty-three, Duo was not a kid, but due to the hard labour he'd been forced into after the war had ended, he'd never grown much. He still stood only a sad five-foot-six, and he weighed significantly less than he had as an unappreciated terrorist. Perfect size for the belt--big enough to handle the machines, small enough not to stress the system. Duo worked steadily, tightening bolts here, cracking open pitted metal siding to peer inside, and once fitting almost his entire arm inside the inferno of the casing to scrape at the rust which had killed the light.
Duo frowned. He'd forgotten something--
The malignant hum of energy was all that warned him. He barely had time to throw a hand over his eyes as the light blazed to life.
Someone was there, on the catwalks, grabbing his ankles and hauling him in by the legs. Duo tried to aid him, but his limbs shook powerlessly and all he could do was dangle helplessly.
"You little shit," the older man said softly, staring at him.
The high wattage had melted the front of Duo's coveralls, and his facemask, which Duo had ripped off when it started to burn, hung ruined by a string. Duo's skin was smoking and burned, and the old worker knew from experience that by tomorrow, Duo would look like he'd spent a weekend in Hell.
"Which bastard left the eletricity running while I fixed the fucking light?" Duo croaked, trying unsuccessfully to unclip the belt. It had stuck where his belt had melted. Eyes glazed and tearing sightlessly, Duo tore at it with his fingers, sobbing wordlessly.
The old man caught him when the pain set in, and that was the last thing Duo knew.
/Personal Log: Account DM-2
I'm in the hospital. A real hospital, not the spit-and-shit hole in the wall they took me to when my hair got ripped off. The docs here are real professional, but not too friendly. The nurses are terrific, though. Pretty, like in the vid-pics, all dimples and curves.
I don't feel very good. Considering all, that's not too abnormal. They don't know if my eyes are gonna recover, and I sure as hell can't pay for implants. I'm not sure what I'm gonna do about that. I guess it'll have to wait until the bandages come off and the final diagnosis comes in. As for all the burns, turns out the rubber clothes did their job and prevented a lot of damage, even considering they melted all over me. I look like a charred lobster all over, but the docs say that'll go away as my skin heals. And get this--they think they can fix my hands and feet. Of course, I can't pay for that, either, but it's a nice thought. Involves scraping off the dead skin and transplanting new skin from somewhere else on my body. Sounds messy, huh? I'm not too sure how I feel about that.
I'm better off than the runt before me. I lived.
I lost my job. Manuel sent me an email through the system, charged it to me, the bastard. Like I can pay for anything, now. He says they might hire me back when I get out of the hospital, and the sad thing is, I'll probably apply. I couldn't get any other job on this hell-hole, and I doubt it's changed much. I'm giving serious thought to stealing a seat on a shuttle and taking off for L2 like I always say I will. I don't have too many options left.
Life's a peach, huh.
Oh, hold on. The nurse is coming in. I swear, lady, if you prick me with one more needle I'll scream--
God, God. Quatre's coming.
No. No, this is some sick joke. This is what she says--she says, they thought I might die when they first brought me in, so they started doing a background check. Manuel told them I was always writing letters to some guy name Quater or something and--and they called him. He's coming, here. Shit. This isn't happening. God, I'd rather die than have him find out I've been lying to him all these years.
I'm checking out of the hospital. That's all I can do. I've got maybe three days to wait for a call one way or the other on my eyes--then I'm out of here. If it's the engine room or the shuttle, it doesn't matter, as long as Quatre can't find me.
I've got my damn pride. It's worth more than the rest of me./
Quatre chewed his lip, distressed. "Are you sure?" he asked.
"Sorry, Mr. Winner, but we haven't had any patients listed in the past month by the name 'Duo Maxwell.'"
Maybe he's changed his name. "What about... " He hesitated. "Duo--anything? Or Solo?"
With a heavy sigh, the secretary made a show of running through the list again. "No."
Quatre worried. "I'm positive it was this hospital," he frowned. Then his face lit up. "Wait--I'm always getting his letters through your mail system. Could I use that to reach him?"
The man shrugged. "Your money, Mr. Winner. There's a terminal down the hall. Have a good day." Then he turned back to his computer, and the report he was typing.
How very strange. Quatre examined the terminal carefully, and experimentally typed in a search. It did not result in anyone resembling Duo Maxwell. A little reluctantly, Quatre turned back to the skills learned years ago as a Gundam pilot, and settled in for some serious hacking.
It took him ten minutes to trace one of Duo's letters through the system--the colony utilised an incredibly complex carrier system that he was unfamiliar with, but eventually he located the address of the sending.
How strange... The address seemed to be in a factory of some sort, not the flat he'd expected. Frowning, he keyed for an operator.
A picture of a lovely young woman fuzzed into being on the screen, superimposed over the tracing work he'd just done. "Thank you for using Terminex, the quickest way to satisfy your communication needs. How may I help you?"
Quatre said, "Could you please connect me with someone at Terminal--" He paused to be sure he had it right. "Terminal A-U-9.83029 at area code J-6?"
"One moment, please. Thank you for using Terminex, and have a pleasant day."
The connection took a long time. No one was answering the call. Frown deepening, Quatre called the operator again and asked her to please continue ringing until someone answered.
It was a galling half-hour--a half hour during which Quatre paced, worried, and gnawed his lip practically raw. When a rusty voice finally answered, Quatre leapt to the terminal and hit record, just in case important information was exchanged.
"Who the hell is this?" A middle-aged black man glared at the screen, and spat to the side. "Whaddya want?"
Definitely not the type of gentlemen who owned a nice flat, Quatre thought. "I'm looking for Duo Maxwell. I thought I might be able to reach him here."
"Ain't no one here called Duo Maxwell." The man moved to turn off the screen.
"No, wait!" Desperately, Quatre moved closer to the screen. "Sir, he may be going by a different name. I haven't seen him in some time. Please--he's about twenty-three, American, violet eyes and brown hair." There was a long silence, then a shrug. "If he's here, I don't know him."
Quatre slumped. "Are you sure? He'd be about my height, and he tends to grin a lot... "
"Look, mister, I don't know nobody like that. Whoever he is, he ain't here. Now, good bye." Before Quatre could protest, he turned off the screen.
"Ooooh!" Quatre slammed a hand onto the terminal's keypad. "Damn!"
What the hell was going on?
Quatre sighed as he gazed out of the shuttle's window. "I hope you're okay, wherever you are, Duo," he murmured, brushing his fingers over the cold plasi-glass. "I wish I could have found you." It wasn't as though he hadn't tried, for a full week. But he had a business to get back to, and he just didn't have the kind of time it took to find Duo when Duo didn't want to be found.
A stewardess appeared behind his seat with a tray. "Would you like a drink, Mr. Winner?"
Absently he smiled at her. "Thank you," he said. "Fruit juice would be nice." He went back to staring out the window as she filled a glass for him and placed it in his cupholder for him. "We should be arriving within the hour," she told him, then made herself scarce.
Quatre sighed. "Duo," he said. "Where could you be?"
Manuel shoved the tool box into his hands. "One of the engines. Need someone small to get down inside it and figure out what the hell happened."
Duo took the box, and attached it to his belt. "Which one?"
"Ol' Yoko-39. Your favourite." Manuel laughed coarsely. "Maybe you'll find your hair in there."
"Funny," Duo snarled. "Fuck off, Manuel." He stalked past the older man and fumbled his glasses off as he walked, replacing them with more heat-resistant goggles and fitting a borrowed face mask overtop. The gloves, also borrowed, were last, ill-fitting and worn from too much use.
His stiff, arthritic fingers couldn't handle delicate work anymore, but when a runt was needed, Duo went. He'd gotten the job back, at reduced pay, and on a twenty-hour shift. He would have taken the full twenty-four if it was legal, and as it was, he worked overtime more often than not. It had become quite routine to go as much seventy-two hours without sleep. When he did manage to get some time to drop from exhaustion, it was in one of the uncomfortable aluminum chairs in the break room. The back-breaking days were taking their toll. Duo was like a skeleton now, and he was making mistakes. He'd nearly lost an arm the other day. And he couldn't quit. He didn't have the resources to quit, not with medical bills hanging about his neck like the proverbial albatross.
He didn't know any of the faceless workers who spent their days down with the engines. He still worked primarily alone from the catwalks. He liked it that way. The engines weren't his babies, the way these men and women treated them. He lived with the heights and the heat; these people's souls were trapped up in their machines, the thunderous noise, and the grease. He didn't envy them, even knowing they earned more than him and ran less risk on shorter hours.
A technician appeared at Yoko-39's monumental side, looking at him dispassionately. "You da runt?"
Duo nodded.
"It's in Sec-23. Gonna hafta crawl down, you know, and work on da inside. Tube disconnected, you know, gonna hafta reconnect it. You can do dat?"
Duo nodded again, and grabbed the first handhold he saw. The last time he'd climbed into Yoko-39, he'd made the mistake of getting too close to one of her gigantic moving arms, and a jagged egde had caught the rope of his braid, despite his precautions, and starting dragging him in. His screeching had attracted the attention of a nearby worker, and she had run over with shears--the jaws of life of the Engine profession, powerful enough to cut through the bones of the unfortunates caught in the machines. Duo considered himself lucky. It had been time to cut that damn braid anyway; he just hadn't planned on it taking his scalp, too. Using the remembered path, he climbed up Yoko's side and located an open air-duct.
One more routine repair. Duo might have despaired if he hadn't been too damn tired.
Idas yawned hugely and threw her chubby arms over her head. "God damn," she groaned. "I'm for bed. You staying, runt?"
Duo's eyes flew open. "I wasn't sleeping," he protested automatically, straightening. His breakfast, a canned drink of greasy Tang, spilled out of his lap and hit the floor with a metallic thunk.
She frowned. "Runt," she said, "go home. Sleep. You're gonna kick the bucket in here from lack of shut-eye."
He scrubbed his face. "No. I'm on shift for another ten hours."
She shrugged. People learned not to get too close to the runts. They didn't last long enough. Then the terminal beeped, catching her attention.
"Message received," she announced, leaning over to check it. "Whose account is DM-2?"
He looked up, then shuffled over to the terminal, trying to straighten his strained shoulders and failing. "Me. Scoot over." He plopped down before it, and keyed in his password with a filthy fore-finger. Idas watched incuriously as he scanned the email that popped up with a chime.
"What's the news, runt?"
"Nothing important," he grunted. He moved to erase the message, then stopped. Instead he saved it, giving in to the wistful impulse. "What time?"
"Time to go home."
"Time to get back out there, you mean." Duo stood, swayed, and finally decided he might keep his balance after all. Idas watched him lurch out, and shrugged again.
Duo accepted the tool-box from the morning-shift supervisor.
"Catwalks," he was instructed. "Coolant leak." He headed where he was pointed, allowing his brain to detach and float in a haze of overwhelming fatigue, letting his body perform the familiar functions without conscious direction. Except... his thoughts kept wanting to go back to that email.
/A reunion... We'll all be there. I hope you will too, Duo, if you ever get this... I know you said the mail mix-up from six months ago was irregular, but just in case I'm sending this several times. Wu Fei just got in, and he was glad to hear you hadn't actually been in an accident, like we thought... I'm paying all the expenses, don't even think of trying to pay me back. I want to do this. The shuttle will have a first-class seat just for you in two days--I can't wait to see you!/
Quatre... Quatre and the others.
No. There was no way he could get the time. Runts didn't get holidays.
And yet...
No. He had his pride. There was no way in hell he was going to ask Quatre for money. He'd lived his entire life on his own, without anyone's charity; not even at Maxwell Church had he taken anything from anyone. He would make it on his own or he would crash and burn--but he would never, ever take handouts.
Screw the reunion. They'd have a better time without him.
Duo slipped the facemask on and climbed.
Duo stared at the shuttle. The stewardess stared at him.
"Uh--sir," she said awkwardly. She held his ID card out to him. "I'm afraid you're going to have to provide more proof that you are who you say you are."
He took the ID back, glancing at it. Hell, no wonder she didn't believe him--he didn't look anything like the picture, taken when he'd arrived on the colony six years ago. Even accounting for ageing, which these people did, he just didn't look like the grinning boy.
He handed her his papers, and watched her read them carefully. He wasn't angry. He hadn't felt much of anything since he'd begged Manuel for the week. Just a week, he'd argued. Manuel had swore him sick, shouting that he was insane. Asking for a week when a day out had damn well gotten him fired. But he'd begged. He'd even agreed, in desperation, to dock his own pay to cover for that one precious week. He'd humiliated himself, and finally gotten Manuel to agree. On the condition that his job might not be waiting for him when he got back.
He didn't know what he was walking into. He didn't want to see the others--more precisely, he didn't want them to see him. He had his pride... that mantra was all that kept him back. That, and the knowledge that he was going to get a week to pretend life was wonderful, and then it would be back to the catwalks. It would be a dream--and it would become a reminder, a futile glimpse back at the life he'd never have. One that would haunt his miserable reality. That scared him.
But he had still agreed to come. He was waiting for the stewardess to okay his papers, and he was going to sit in a first-class seat in a gleaming white shuttle and fly to the friends he hadn't seen in six years, since the Marymaya incident.
Shit.
The stewardess reluctantly handed him the papers. "I'm sorry about all the trouble, sir. If you'll please follow me?" He did, all the way down a tunnel he could have navigated without his glasses and to the small gangplank.
A brightly smiling young man took his bag, and stood back to let him pass in. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Maxwell. We hope you have a pleasant flight."
Flight of imagination... flight of inexplicable impulse... flight of the last hope he'd been able to scrounge out of his empty soul.
"Thank you," he said, and sat down.
Trowa glanced at his watch again. The shuttle was a little late, but not horribly so. He stood up, and smoothed his sweater down where it had rucked up. It would be good to see Duo again. Heero and Relena had arrived already, a little after Wu Fei and his wife, with Sally Po, Zechs, Noin, and the other Preventers. Quatre had invited Hilde, but there was no word so far. The only one of their company yet to put in an appearance was the braided, grinning Shinigami.
Trowa scanned the crowd as they exited the shuttle, searching for the familiar black-clad figure sure to come hopping out laughing maniacally. He frowned. Nowhere to be seen.
A short man in dingy coveralls walked toward him, then stopped several feet away. A broken-veined hand reached up to remove darkly tinted glasses.
"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse.
Trowa stared at him, utterly shocked. "Duo?"
The man nodded. "How ya doin', Tro-chan?" He did not smile, and his squinted eyes seemed uncertain.
It was a moment before he could find his voice again. "Well," he whispered. He forced himself to take a step towards Duo. Awkwardly, he managed to say, "You?"
Duo's mouth turned up slightly. "Great. Terrific, actually."
Trowa gave up altogether on speech, and simply stared at the man who stood before him. Duo looked... like he imagined Death would look. He was gaunt, skeletal. His hair was singed and hacked brutally short; one one side it seemed to have been ripped out at the roots, leaving behind permanent scabs and the abortive beginnings of regrowth. Stubble covered the sunken cheeks, doing little to disguise the roughened, burned skin. And his hands... They were blackened, the fingers twisted and knuckles swollen, laced with scars and the tip of one finger missing... His whole body seemed almost stunted, compared to Trowa, who stood above six feet, and his shoulders were hunched, his back slumped as if in pain.
Duo raised an eyebrow--or would have, except it was mostly burned off.
One of Quatre's many servants, an older gentleman who had perhaps seen many sad sights in his life, stepped up. "If the young masters will follow me, I will take you to the car. May I carry your bag, sir?"
Duo handed it to him. "Thanks." He frowned. "Rashid?"
The man bowed. "The same."
A real smile spread over Duo's face. "Rashid! You look terrific, you old goat. I see you finally got a hair-cut!"
Trowa, surprised by the camaraderie, stared for a moment before he remembered how Duo had made friends with all of Quatre's Manguanacs, once upon a time. Of course he would know Rashid. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to think of that man as Duo, though...
During the drive to Quatre's estate, Duo talked mainly to Rashid when he talked at all. He seemed uncomfortable with Trowa, though they had always gotten along; or maybe it was Trowa who was uncomfortable, not the other way around. He had expected... well, he had expected a young man who had done well for himself, like in the letters... like the rest of them had.
It was dark by the time they reached the vast Winner estate, but Trowa had called ahead to let them know they were coming and a small group was waiting outside on the driveway for them. He caught Quatre before Duo got out of the car, and under the pretext of giving his mate a peck on the cheek, whispered, "He's not what you think he will be, my love."
There was no way to warn the others, who had followed the young Winner out, drinks in their hands and expectant smiles on their faces.
Duo got out, accepted his bag from Rashid, and turned to face them. He left the glasses on, and Trowa realised he'd added his black battered cap from those years before. The dark almost hid all the changes--it would hide them, unless you got up close.
Quatre, beaming, stepped forward to embrace Duo, who squirmed away with a faint grin of chagrin on his chapped and split lips. "I'm all dirty," he protested in his hoarse voice. "Not in your clean clothes, Quatre."
The others came, chorusing a "welcome," and Duo shoved his hands in his pockets.
Quatre didn't seem to know how to deal with a Duo who didn't bounce and crack jokes and want to glomp all of them. "Well--why don't we go back inside? We're about to start dinner, but you probably want to wash up first, Duo."
"Yeah," he said. "A shower would do me some good, I think."
Heero, arm held in a steely grip by Relena, said, "We'll wait for you. Don't rush. You look like you were bathing in grease, Duo."
Duo managed a weak smile. "Something like that," he said.
Quatre walked with Trowa. "What's wrong?" he asked, almost inaudibly, so his guests wouldn't hear.
"Duo--" Trowa shook his head, still partially in shock. "He looks awful," he finished.
Quatre's face shadowed. "What do you mean, awful?"
"I mean--awful. Horrible."
Quatre worried.
The shower was incredible. Duo couldn't remember anything like it in his life. Quatre had put his money to good use when he'd invested in this. It was as close to heaven as Duo Maxwell had ever gotten.
He leaned back against the tiled wall and let the pounding hot water pour over him, washing away years of grime and oil. The steam clouded his senses in a pleasant numbing fashion, creating his own little world in the water. This whole trip was worth it, if he did nothing so wonderful as just stand there in the shower.
Eventually, though, he recovered a semblance of wit, and picked up the bar of scented soap. He needed it. Scrubbing with a bristle brush felt good too, despite the pain of old fractures and new scars. And the shampoo--God. He wanted to live in the shower. He washed three times before he was satisfied as to his cleanliness. And then he just stood in the water again.
A gentle voice woke him from the doorway. Rashid. "Young master, you will wrinkle away to nothing if you stay in there forever."
Duo croaked out a laugh. "What a terrific way to go," he replied, and turned of the water, not without deep regret. He emerged into a huge fluffy towel that Rashid wrapped around him, and sleepily allowed the old man to dry him off. "Thanks," he yawned.
"Will the young master make it to dinner, or would he like to lie down? I can tell Quatre-sama that you couldn't make it."
It sounded inviting, but so did a good meal. Even if he would have to face his friends... a hint of defiance, perhaps brought to life by the unimaginable luxury of the shower, stirred. So what if they didn't like what they saw? He didn't need their approval. He did need their food. So, damnit, dinner it was.
"Where'd you put my clothes?" he asked, looking around.
"I thought you might like something more--appropriate." Rashid replaced the damp towel with a dry one, also toasty warm, and led him out into the huge room Quatre had allotted him. Laid out on the gigantic four-post bed were slacks, a button-down cotton shirt, and a dinner-appropos knit sweater of a pleasing tan colour. Even the socks matched.
"These aren't mine," he protested, as Rashid picked up underwear and held it out.
"You only have to borrow them, young master," Rashid told him, a twinkle in his eye. Duo sighed, and nodded. Under the old man's gentle guidance, he dressed himself, and slipped his ruined feet into house slippers.
He looked down at his hands, and winced. He'd been feeling almost normal until he saw those.
Rashid took hold of one hand, and a pool of sharply scented oil appeared in his palm. While Duo gazed on, perplexed, Rashid worked the lotion into his blackened pads with tender fingers.
"Make a fist," he instructed.
Duo said, "Haven't been able to do that for years."
"Just try, young master."
With a shrug--what could it hurt--Duo obeyed. And it happened! The stiff pads actually obeyed... painlessly. Amazed, Duo looked up at the Arabian manservant.
Who smiled. "If the young master will allow me to attend to his other hand, I'll show you the way to the dining room. And after dinner, I will return to work on your feet."
Duo nodded. "Thank you," he breathed, flexing his palm again.
Incredible.
So far, so good.
Only had to worry about dinner, now...
Trowa noted, with relief, that the prolonged shower had improved Duo's appearance.
The result was still enough to effectively hush the entire room when the young man walked in, attended by Rashid. Nothing could hide the many burn scars or the gauntness. Everyone, shocked, stared at him.
Sally Po broke the silence. "Would you like a glass of wine, Duo, with your dinner? You've got a few to go to catch up with the rest of us."
Urbanely, she stood and poured for him, then pressed him into his seat.
Once he was down, servants appeared and began to set out the appetizers.
Slowly, conversation resumed. Quatre alone did not make a pretence; he gazed at Duo in dismay.
Why didn't you tell me the truth? his eyes demanded.
Duo avoided the question.
Somehow he survived. He dozed off, weakened by wine and the fact that no one seemed to be able to converse with him for more than a few minutes at best, and was woken by Rashid's gentle hand on his shoulder, and that booming voice observing quietly that the "young master was done in." He staggered to his feet, muttered something that would pass for good night, and made the interminable trip back down the hallway.
Rashid undressed him and had him in the bed before he realised it, propped up by deliciously soft pillows and with his feet exposed to the air to get the lotion treatment. He fell asleep while Rashid worked, and woke again only briefly when the old man laid an extra coverlet over him.
"No," he mumbled. "No more heat. Want to feel the air."
"Of course, young master," Rashid whispered, taking the blankets away and leaving him with just a light sheet. "Sleep now, Duo Maxwell." The gentle hand briefly touched his head, and then Duo was enveloped by blackness.
So far so good...
Quatre laughed. "Oh, Wu Fei, I'm sorry. I honestly don't know any other way to describe it. It's just... well, there it is."
The Chinese man rolled his eyes, then went back to bouncing his infant daughter on his knee.
Relena, looking dreamy, said to Heero, "Don't you want a little girl just like her, darling?"
Having heard that at least fifty times in the past few days, Heero simply kept his mouth shut. It was largely rhetorical at this point anyway.
Zechs, stretched out on the floor to play with one of Quatre's many kittens, allowed his knuckles to be gently gnawed while he regarded his sister. "Relena," he said, "if you say that one more time, I do believe Heero will run screaming into the desert. I might join him."
Heero suffered in silence as Relena stuck her tongue out at her brother.
The door opened, and Duo came shuffling in. Quatre jumped up immediately, as did the others, and someone found him a chair, which he collapsed into unevenly. Then he yawned a very real, very wide yawn. The tension broke, and they laughed.
"You look much better," Quatre told him sincerely. Indeed he did. Duo had slept for almost three days, Rashid keeping watch on him, emerging only for meals, and during that time the others had adjusted to the radical changes in him. Sleep had improved those changes somewhat, taking the desperate edge off of his tense frame.
"I feel bad that I'm missing so much of the reunion," Duo replied. He smiled sheepishly. "I think I'm back on my feet now, though. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry." Quatre smiled. "We're all going out to the patio for lunch. Would you like to join us?"
"Sure." Duo yawned again. "Sorry. Can I claim jet lag?"
Heero snorted. "No, baka." Duo cheerfully thumbed his nose at the Japanese man.
No, not as bad as he'd thought. Waking up--from the beautiful dream it all seemed to be--that would be hard. But this part, this was good.
He fell into a kind of happy lassitude during lunch, enjoying the food and the lemonade and the complete absence of any ache in his body--Rashid was a wonder. He listened to the conversation going on around him without attempting to participate. It was nice just to watch the others. To see how they had grown with the years.
Heero had loosened up. So had Relena. He thought he saw them both actually smile a couple of times.
Trowa spoke more, seemed more animated. He wore his hair back now in a very attractive style.
Quatre thought more before he spoke, which had the effect of giving everything he said more seriousness. He looked older, more self-possessed, quite the young heir to millions. He looked older than ten for once, too.
Wu Fei surprised him. The bitterness, the obsession with justice and the clouds of depression that had plagued his youth, were gone. He laughed and teased and spoiled his daughter, often leaned over and kissed his blushing, china-doll of a wife while Sally Po looked on in maternalistic amusement. He had completely changed. He, of all of them, had come the farthest, Duo thought.
Relena called him out of his thoughts. "Duo," she said, smiling. "What have you been doing with yourself?"
The others immediately threw her nasty looks, but in a way, Duo was glad someone had broken the ice about it. Part of him still felt a little defiant, but it wasn't an important part. He would have kept his silence if no one had asked, but since the question had been posed, he decided to simply answer it. He couldn't change it, after all, and he wasn't going to embarrass himself by lying in everyone's faces.
"I work in a plant," he said calmly. "We produce the power that runs the colony."
There was a slight pause. Apparently, Relena also came to a decision: she abandoned caution to the winds, and came out with it. "And what exactly is it that you do, Duo?"
He was almost grateful to her--a first. He continued to speak directly to her, as if no one else was present, gently, not wanting to destroy too many of her illusions about The Peace and Happily Ever After. "I repair the heavy machinery. It's hard labour, basically--bad conditions, long shifts, low pay. High risk. Not for the light-hearted."
"How did you get into that, Duo? Did you look for other work?"
He nodded. "Of course I did. No one really wants to be a labourer, Relena. I didn't have many options--my unique abilities had overqualified me, you might say. By the time I ran out of money, the only jobs left were the kind that most people don't like to hear about."
Quatre said, staring down at his hands, "You should have told me, Duo."
Duo shook his head. Yes. He was glad it was coming out. "No. I didn't want charity. I have to survive on my own."
The blonde man waved a hand at him sadly. "You call this surviving, Duo?"
He met the other pilot's eyes squarely. "Just barely," he affirmed.
He'd made them feel guilty. They looked at him and saw what they all could have become, with a run of bad luck and too much damn pride to ask for help. They looked at themselves and saw pampered, spoiled children who had taken for granted their prosperity.
Duo sighed. "You know," he said, "I should get back. If I go today, there's a chance I won't lose my job." He stood, and pushed back his chair. "Quatre, thanks for everything. The ride, the clothes, food, all of it. I'm glad to see you all. I'll go pack my things, and call a cab."
Quatre hurried to stand. "Duo, don't go!"
Duo looked at him. "We live in different worlds, Quatre," he said bluntly. "I don't belong here, any more than you belong in my plant. And I really do have to go. I need the job, Quatre."
"Damn your job!" the blonde man cried. "Anything you do on Earth will be a damn sight better than what you have now."
Duo didn't argue. "But I don't have anything on Earth. This isn't my home. I'm going back to the place that is." With that, he took himself inside, up the stairs, and tried to say goodbye to the one respite he'd ever likely have.
Because, it was a dream. A nice dream, with old friends and incredible luxuries, but a dream nonetheless. It wasn't his. It never would be. And he wasn't coming back.
Rashid drove him back to the spaceport, refusing to hear of him calling a cab. He handed Duo his bag, and then surprised him by embracing him gently.
"You're a strong one, young master," he said, stepping back. He pressed a tube of the lotion into his hands. "Use this whenever you can, and please send for more. Consider it my return to you for the friendship you gave me years ago."
Duo nodded, tucking it away in his lumpy coveralls. "Thanks, Rashid. Stay cool." He awkwardly shook hands with the man, who bowed low.
"Be well, young man." And then he was gone.
Duo turned to look out the windows at the runway. He felt strangely at peace. Must mean he'd done the right thing.
That put a smile on his face.
Quatre stared in dismay at the error message he'd received.
/Regret to inform you that DM-2 is no longer a viable account; the owner of the account has terminated it. If you wish to access any information about purchase opportunities, resort-vacation sites--/
Trowa gripped his shoulder. "Quatre," he said harshly, dismayed to find his lover still trying to track Duo through the colony's mail system. Then his voice softened with compassion. "It's better this way, my love. Please."
Slowly, almost dreamily, Quatre shut off the screen and let his hand drop. "Duo... He doesn't even want to talk to us now. How can he just forget all about us? How can he just turn us off as if we don't even exist--"
Trowa stroked his hair, aching for his beloved. And for Duo--though he had the feeling that Duo didn't need or want his grief, wherever he was.
"Some people," he said softly, "are meant for just moments. Duo was just for moments, my love. Save your tears. Remember him, that's all he would want, remember him as you loved him best, and leave the rest."
Quatre turned his face into Trowa's chest, and was silent.
The End
(:./erin/after)
