16-Aug-2000

Notes: Response to a line challenge by Emily.
Warnings: Response to a line challenge by Emily. (Yes, the repeat was intentional. ^_~) Just a conversation between da boyz. And Cutter is very tired, so bear that in mind (things get a little weird when I'm tired, ne?). No other even semi-risky stuff, so don't worry.
Setting: That oh-so-convenient safehouse, oh-so-conveniently outside timeline.
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I would not have named them after numbers. And they would probably have complexions that matched their assigned ethnicities. Thus we conclude that, in fact, I do *not* own them.

Privileges by Cutter

I probably knew it wouldn't last.

I mean, Heero only opens up to a person once in a lifetime, you know? I figured, if he's so cold and composed on the normal day (barring missions, of course, but I defy anyone with a shred of soul to be composed while he or she is ripping another human being to shreds with a mobile suit), I should seize the opportunity he was giving me--he was more talkative that night than I'd ever seen him.

Of course, it maybe helped that I got him drunk. . . .

I honestly didn't mean any harm. I was just curious. There were things I wanted to know. And I know the others felt the same way. Of course, it maybe helped that I got them drunk, too. . . .

[[one night previous]]

"Heero, <hic> why do you <hic> let Relena follow you 'round like that?" Quatre asked, tilting slightly sideways in the process. Trowa was instantly on the alert, trying to push him back up, but had apparently been affected by the vodka and orange juice a little more than he'd thought, because his efforts resulted in both of them tangled hoplessly with his chair, on the floor.

While they were sorting themselves out, I reflected that it was kind of a personal question, and I hoped Heero wouldn't freak out and leave us all, storm off in a fit of whiskey-heightened rage. I'd really hoped to learn more about him tonight. I guess one of Shinigami's faults is a desire to know everything about everyone.

I want to know what makes that bastard tick.

But Heero was on his third whiskey and soda (I don't even want to *know* how many Quatre had), and feeling no pain. I think he'd never had a drink before, really, and his body's natural high tolerance was warring with his inexperience.

The advantage of dealing with an inexperienced person is that it's easy to confuse the hell out of them. And Heero's inexperienced in a lot of things. He was too sizzled to even notice that he usually flew into a murderous rage at questions like that. You know, even that gives me insight into him, because if those questions really made him angry, he'd be worse drunk. I think he's really just scared to let us get that close to him, and the whiskey was erasing all his fears.

He seemed--wonder of wonders--to be actually considering the question. "Because," he began in his usual monotone, colored by a slight dizzy look, "I know that as long as her ideals aren't crushed, she can keep fighting. If I represent one of her ideals, then I have a duty to her cause. Even if I don't believe in it."

Quatre looked mildly surprised he'd received an answer; usually he wouldn't have the guts to ask the question. He doesn't like to step on people's feelings, their privacy. He grinned at us, across the makeshift table piled high with liquor in brown paper bags. "'Sgood. . .I allus won'ered that. . . ."

Then he proceeded to pass out, very unceremoniously, in Trowa's lap.

I think Trowa and I were the only ones who heard the end of Heero's answer, whispered to himself: "Even if I don't believe in me."

We'd been sitting and sporadically drinking for a few hours, ever since I brought the stuff back to the safehouse. I think everyone eventually picked up my plan independently--ask the others the things we've always been curious about in a setting where they'll be less likely to refuse answers. Quatre had tried to explain his Space Heart (using wide, sweeping gestures, and if you've ever seen a drunk make a wide, sweeping gesture, you know it's dangerous and funny as all hell). I'd gotten asked about the braid a few times, and never *quite* lied about it. There had even been a moment where Wufei looked at Trowa and asked, "Why do you always follow?"

Trowa looked for a moment as if he wouldn't answer, and then said in his quiet voice (the one that always makes me feel like a loudmouthed asshole), "Because I have nowhere to lead to." He hadn't spoken since, but the look he gave Wufei didn't seem to be hatred, and when you're us, sometimes that's enough and more.

Speaking of Wufei... poor bastard. It was inevitable that someone would wonder about Nataku. Hell, *I* was about to ask it when Heero did, suddenly, as if the words poured out of his mouth before he could figure out who put them there. When we all stared at him, he retreated into a stony silence again. And Wufei. . .well, he told us, and it was probably good for him, but after he was a wreck, and staring moodily into his glass as if he knew it was liquid darkness but he really, really wanted to let himself drink it anyway. I don't know which side of him is winning, but I wish him luck. He and I have a lot in common, really.

So Quatre and I were wondering aloud about Heero and each other. And I learned rather more than I thought I would, about everyone.

With Quatre passed out, though, Trowa seemed to feel like it was his duty to fill in a little. "Heero, how can you do"--he seemed to lose track of his sentence, and blinked several times to regain it-- "all the things you can?" A slight smile was on his face that might have been the two vodkas, or might have been that special emotion he's had for Heero since Wing's first self-destruct.

Heero grunted into his glass. He was beginning to enter the more angry, more "spirited" stage of inebriation, if you'll excuse the pun. "I have to. I have to earn... peace. I have to be good enough for everyone, the ones that can't fight. I have to protect them. I *have* to." He glared at Trowa, as if Trowa had contradicted him in some way.

Trowa just smiled back. Either he understands Heero way better than I do, or that tiny smile is his defense against a hurtful world. I think both.

Wufei suddenly seemed to pull together the strength to reenter the conversation, and to be honest I admire him for it. "But what *I* want to know," he began, a little too loudly, "is where do you keep that goddamned gun?"

Perhaps it was Wufei swearing in that way--a phenomenon I had never even considered before--that revived Quatre, or perhaps it's just one of those questions that whoever's in hearing distance has been wondering about for so long that if they hear nothing else, they hear that. Or maybe it was the fact that Trowa pinched him. Hard. In a sensitive area. Whichever, he chose that moment to wake up. "Yeah, I've been won'rin' that <hic> too!" He squirmed a bit in Trowa's lap. Amazing how some people can't drink without hiccuping. . . .

Heero began to nurse his fourth (fifth?) drink--he'd switched to vodka while I wasn't looking, and I was planning to force him to stop before he had any more. Damn. His speech was ok, but his pupils were dilated and he looked distinctly spaced out. I don't want to fuck up the boy that way, I just wanted him to loosen up. If he got any looser that night, there'd have been Yuy body parts floating around the room. It was a miracle he could still talk. I couldn't have; the bottle of "gin" I was holding was actually mineral water. No sense in getting five terrorists into a room together and getting them *all* wasted. That's just bad planning.

"Hn. It doesn't matter where I keep it, as long as when the time comes I can use it effectively. If you train hard and learn all you can, and master all the tricks you can think up, your weapons won't be obvious and you'll be a better soldier. I don't even need the weapon for most missions."

For Heero, that's a fucking soliloquy. Of course, when the basis for comparison is "hn," just about anything would be. Last time I asked the same question to Heero's friend Sober Heero, all I got was, "Hn. Concern yourself with staying out of its way."

Then Quatre voiced what I didn't know I'd been asking all along, what I'd wanted to know from the very beginning. "But Heero-kun <hic>. . .Spandex?"   Heero glared. I guess my comments on his fashion sense rubbed him the wrong way. . .but that's another story. He really likes vodka, I'm learning. Four pairs of eyes looked at him curiously.

"It's aero-(here he paused and pointed a slightly wobbly finger, emphasizing his point)-dynamic. It doesn't get in my way. Efficiency is important." A very pointed glare at me. Yep, I think those lectures on the joys of full-length pants were not appreciated. And I swear, this is all supporting my theory about Yuy's superhuman abilities. Nobody who hasn't been genetically manipulated could *ever* say the word "efficiency" correctly while drunk, even given the slight lisp he's got now. Not a chance in hell.

"But how do you keep your gun concealed in Spandex?"

He acquired the air of someone about to say something very important. "You have to be willing to think and act beyond what people believe is possible. That's the mark of a dedicated soldier, someone who works hard. It's not a secret you share with just anyone. People who see me see someone who is efficient, and deadly, and good at what he does. And they see someone who can make people believe he doesn't carry a weapon, and then produce one. Do things that are very possible, but seem impossible. Because I worked, and I trained. Not just any soldier can do what I do."

He downed the last of his vodka-heavy screwdriver in one decisive gulp, and fixed us all with a severe look. "Spandex is a privilege, not a right."

And he earned it.

Doing the impossible with seeming ease, that's really what I've admired about him all these days and weeks.

So I'm honored that he shared a piece of himself with us, because I know words are hard things for him to give ordinarily. And I wasn't surprised when immediately after this legwear revelation, after having four (or was it five?) mixed drinks without any major slurring of speech or violence of movement, he pitched headfirst into the table, out cold.

Typical Heero, perfect until he surrenders to his own darkness.

"Trowa, <hic> I jus' know he's gonna have a *monster* <hic> hangover tomorro'."

"And he won't talk to anyone for a week. Just when he was starting to get interesting," I groaned.

Oh, well.

I probably knew it wouldn't last.

So Em, I don't think this is quite what you were looking for, but do I get the prize nonetheless? ::grins::

To bed with me; I'm so beat I ache.

(:./cutter/privileges)