27-Dec-2001
Look... it didn't take 6 months! Aren't you proud of me?! heh
Title: Inferno's Touch ~ Chapter 21
Author: Ravynfyre (ravynfyre@hotmail.com)
Archive: GW Addiction, Darkflame
Category: Angst
Pairings: to date - 4X3, 6X5
Standard Disclaimer: All parts of Gundam Wing are Not Mine. It's all Theirs. *sigh* Too bad, but otherwise, I guess I'd never get anything done *happy hentai thought*. Anyway, not makin' any money offa this so dun sue me. You'd only get some college debt, a few dogs, and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers anyway. Ya know. blood. Turnip. Do the math.
Rating: PG at worst for this chapter, and only for language
Warning: more angst, gomen. Good stuff coming up, I promise
Spoiler: None.
Notes: All terms will be explained at the end of each chapter. If I miss something, please let me know and I'll be happy to explain.
Feedback: Yes, please. All comments welcome (although flames may be fed to my dogs, who, since they have notoriously gassy intestinal tracts, will be spending the night with the flamer afterwards)
The harlot peered at him with wide, frightened eyes, backing away from his slow advance in a futile attempt to escape her fate. Her justice.
"I kn-know you," she stammered, eyes darting around the small kitchen for an escape route or a weapon. "Alexander, h-he-"
"Alexander," he said slowly, relishing the quick start of fear in her eyes as his too calm voice washed over her, "Is dead. I sent him to his judgment myself."
"Y-you're crazy," she breathed, finally succeeding in backing herself into a corner by the refrigerator in her tiny kitchen. A bright orange blaze of the setting sun lanced through the open curtain, illuminating the stark terror of her features. He found himself wondering if her little girl, that innocent child, had had mind enough to fear her own death as it loomed upon her, despite the Neonatal ICU's best efforts.
"Filth. You seduced him. Led him astray. Little wonder he tried to kill you."
The can of gasoline settled to the floor with a gentle metallic ping, the pungent scent of it filling his nostrils as he carefully unscrewed the cap.
"What. what are you d-doing?"
"Bringing God's judgment to a filthy aldultering harlot."
"I'm going to die," she breathed, knees going weak as he met her gaze without a trace of sanity in his eyes. "I know you. That party Alexander took me to. You were there with your family-"
Suddenly he was upon her, one hand bunched in the collar of her shirt, the other hand wrapped firmly around her neck. She gave a strangled little scream, eyes showing white all the way around the iris as she struggled to breathe, to fight back against his attack.
"Don't. You aren't fit to speak of them. You aren't fit to think of them. If I were you, I'd be more interested in repenting. Making it right by that beautiful little girl you murdered."
As quickly as he'd attacked, he backed off, dropping her to the floor like nothing more than a piece of trash. Picking up the can, he doused the area all around that corner of the kitchen, before kicking the still half full can over and watching the deep amber fluid spill over the linoleum with morbid fascination.
"Murder?" she managed to croak out, trying to struggle back to her feet. "He killed her. He tried to kill us both, but I-"
"You're as guilty as he. Children have no choice in the circumstances of their conceptions. but you did." He stood then, turning to face her, hands balling into tight fists as his eyes raked over her. "You knew he was married," he hissed urgently, "And still you seduced him. Because of that, he tried to kill you both. So you're as much to blame for the lamb's death as he was. And now it's time to face the consequences of your sins."
She caught another glimpse of those mad, mad eyes before he was upon her again, this time with both hands wrapped tightly around her throat. She grabbed his wrists, trying to pull his fingers away from where they dug sharply into her neck, even as her legs flailed and kicked.
"Don't fight it. It's the only way you can be clean again. Just let go. so when the fire comes, you'll be purified."
The world started to get black around the edges, shot through with red and white lightnings. Little by little, it slipped away, the black creeping in further and further until it felt like her body was floating in a thick pool, a pool that still smelled sharply of gasoline and blood.
With a final little hiccough, she went limp in his grasp, eyes finally slipping completely closed as a thin trail of saliva dribbled down her chin. To be safe, he held his grip for a little while longer, and then gently lowered her to the floor, laying her out. Had to make sure she wouldn't escape her own judgment now, didn't he?
As he backed away a step, his courage almost fled him; she looked so peaceful and helpless propped on the floor next to her fridge. She was breathing shallowly, and the fresh bruises at her throat combined with the almost faded ones from the original accident made her look frail and harmless.
As harmless as the baby had, wrapped in swaddling blankets and stuck in almost every limb with IVs and monitoring wires.
Cinders and ash. That was the only way to save her now. Cinders and ash, and hope for justice to cleanse her.
He double checked all the doors and windows at the front of the house, making sure the deadbolt was locked tightly and that he'd remembered to take the keys. Returning to the kitchen, he emptied the dregs of the can around her and then kicked it back to the center of the floor before crossing to the back door. He paused there, turning back to double check his handiwork, eyes straying to the still body slumped in the corner.
Cinders and ash. He'd make the world right again, one sinner at a time.
The matches came easily to his hand, one tearing away from the cardboard backing so quickly that it could have been magic. A quick jerk across the striker, and it flared to life in his fingers. It was beautiful, this fire. So destructive. It was the only thing with enough power to cleanse the world. Even if it meant destroying it.
The survivors could always rebuild. Noah did.
With a pang of regret, he flicked the match from his fingers into the pool of amber retribution. He had to hurry. The sun had almost set, and there were places he had to be.
No need to arouse suspicion yet. The world didn't always understand prophets.
He shut the door firmly behind him, locking it with the keys he'd taken once the fire within had taken root. As much as he wanted to stay and watch, he couldn't. Too suspicious. Besides, the windows were already starting to soot up in the kitchen; he wouldn't be able to see anything soon anyway.
Tucking the key under the back doormat, he stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in a pocket, and then jogged away, slipping through a couple of yards to the street a few blocks over where he'd parked his car.
He ran a hand through his hair quickly, smoothing it out with a secretive little smile. Cinders and ash. Even the sun agreed, painting the sky in fire and soot as the last rays of daylight slowly faded from sight.
With a quiet slam, he shut his door and started up his car. Promises to keep. He had promises to keep, and the rest of the world to purify. Couldn't keep them waiting.
What the fuck? What the fuck?! What the FUCK was THAT? Oh god, he- ...he... he. what the fuck... he- I- what...
Heero shook his head savagely, grimacing as he struggled to ignore the fierce pounding echoing throughout the sudden silence that fell over his empty apartment like a funeral shroud. It wasn't until he felt his hands balling up into tight fists that he suddenly realized that the racket about to drive him insane was nothing more than the slamming of his own heart in his ears and the rush of his own blood through a mind wound so tight, it felt like it would snap any instant. He balled the heels of his hands up against his temples and backed up, one slow step at a time until he ran out of room, coming up short against the wall at the end of the entry hallway.
His knees felt weak, and without understanding how he got there, he suddenly found himself sitting in a drawn up heap upon the floor, legs tensed as if he could push himself through the wall at his back simply by willing it. Down the darkened hallway, he could still make out the bulk of the door, looming accusatorily amidst the shadows, mocking him with its very stillness. Nothing else seemed to be focusing. It all sort of wavered in and out like staring at the world through three feet of murky water, and it was getting hard to even breathe. That's when he realized that he was hyperventilating.
He clenched his jaw shut tight, closed his eyes, and slowly counted to ten in Japanese to order his thoughts and calm his racing heart. After what felt like a small eternity, he was finally able to lift his head and stare blearily at the door again, while his mind kept repeating a litany of confusion.
Duo Maxwell had kissed him.
And he'd slammed the door in Duo's face, curled up on the floor and indulged in a panic attack. Because Duo Maxwell had kissed him.
Duo Maxwell had kissed him.
He was doing it again. Getting out of control. Heero closed his eyes, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing down once more before he passed out. He had more control than this, dammit!
Unconsciously, one hand crept up to gently touch the still warm spot on his cheek that Duo had cupped in his palm. His tongue darted out, moistening dry lips and catching the faintest hint of Duo upon them. The taste of Duo on his lips. Duo had kissed him. Duo had...
Heero blinked in confusion, his mouth curling into a bemused little shadow of a smile without his permission. What the hell was happening? His neat and ordered life had been swept away the day he walked into Engine House number 8, vanishing into a whirlwind of hyperactive driver, chestnut hair, and silk boxers.
God, those boxers.
Heero groaned and buried his head in his hands, ignoring the instant response of his body to thoughts of those boxers, that towel... the curtain of damp hair and the faint scent of vanilla and hazelnut.
Duo had kissed him. Now that the shock was slowly wearing off, now that his heart wasn't trying to dash itself to death against his ribs, now that he could breathe again, he had to admit...
Duo had kissed him... and it felt... Good.
Like nothing in his life had ever felt before. He stared bleakly down the darkened hallway, not even seeing the empty shadows of his tiny little apartment, but instead, remembering the last few weeks of his life. He was wrong; his neat and ordered little life didn't vanish when he walked into the firehouse that morning. His life had never been neat and ordered; he'd only imagined that it was.
Until that morn- afternoon, when it finally seemed to click into place as he sat across from Duo at his kitchen table trading small talk over a plate of home-cooked breakfast.
Shocked cobalt eyes stared dazedly back at him, tearing up a little as the light overhead flashed on when he palmed the switch. Blinking, Heero peered around himself in confusion. How did he end up in the bathroom?
God, what was happening to him?
Taking another deep, steadying breath, he stripped off the shirt he was wearing, balling it up and dropping it in the corner before moving on to the rest of his clothing. He ignored the minute tremble of his fingers as he flipped the water on and adjusted it to the coldest setting he could manage. His breath hissed out sharply between his teeth as he stepped under the spray and washed over him in hundreds of little needle pricks of ice. After a moment, all thoughts of Duo slipped from his mind, washed away by the chattering of his teeth and the loud protest of his muscles. Perversely, he forced himself to take a thorough shower, refusing to shut the water off and leave until every minute inch of him was clean.
Not that it helped. The moment he stepped from the curtained alcove, his gaze fell upon the wadded up bunch of jeans and shirt in the corner. Duo's jeans and shirt. The ones he lent Heero.
The pale fabric felt warm in his chilled fingers, and there under the stronger scent of smoke and beer and sweat, he could just detect a trace of hazelnut and vanilla. Duo.
He didn't even bother grabbing a towel as he stumbled out of the bathroom and over to his bed, collapsing across the surface and curling up with Duo's shirt clutched against his chest. God, he was pathetic. One stupid kiss, and it felt like his heart was slowly imploding within his chest. Okay, so technically it had been two kisses, but still. God, even his thoughts were starting to sound like Duo.
He lay there curled atop his damp blankets, ignoring the cold, ignoring everything but the faint traces of vanilla and the steady beat of his pulse. Wouldn't the old men at the Foundation just love to see him now, how weak he'd become. Then maybe they'd leave him alone and let him get on with his life.
No. Odds were, they'd simply have Duo eliminated, thinking to root the weakness out of him by killing it at the source.
That startled him into coherence again, the frigid fear of that thought chilling him in a way that not even the shower had been able to.
The Foundation. J already suspected that Duo was important to him. If the old fool figured out just how right he was, Duo would never be safe again. They'd kill him, just to hurt Heero.
Distantly, he recalled his odd dream, Odin saying that they would *try*, and that maddening little smirk of his that said louder than words how futile he thought their attempts would be. What if it... *hadn't* been a dream? Odin had claimed to know things. Things that must be important, otherwise he wouldn't have said anything.
Heero snorted, sitting up in a controlled explosion of motion. He must really be losing it if he was willing to accept the possibility that he hadn't been dreaming earlier. God, what a mess. How long had he been unconsciously waiting for this to happen, only to throw it away because he panicked? Panicked!
"Fuck."
Oddly, the starkness of his voice in the silence, the vulgarity of the word, soothed him. There was something Freudian in that, for sure.
With a heavy sigh, he buried his face in the shirt again, inhaling deeply. At least. At least with the way he panicked. Duo would hate him now. He'd be safe. The Foundation wouldn't bother him if he meant nothing to Heero. That should take all of ten minutes to demonstrate when they both showed up for work day after tomorrow. Duo wasn't known for repressing his opinions.
So if Duo was going to be safe now, why did it still hurt so damned much?
On the up side, he had to be alive. If he was dead, it obviously wouldn't feel like he'd just gone twelve rounds with a hopped up Mike Tyson. Duo groaned and tried to roll over, stopping before he'd actually managed to shift position when both his brain and body started screaming protests loud enough to wake the dead. Another lance of pain started hammering away at the back of his eyelids when he started to groan, making him freeze and hold his breath until the world quit bucking and threatening to throw him off. What the fuck had he done to himself last night?
It had been last night, right? He blinked open an eye, seeking the LCD on his stereo, only to discover that he'd apparently passed out, fully clothed, on his couch. Sunlight streaming through the windows bathed him in what would have been a nice warm glow, if it wasn't threatening to burn out his already abused retinas. He squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered quietly for a few minutes, forgoing his attempt to recall the previous night until he could at least count to one without wanting to rip out his brain to make the hurting stop.
It took him almost five minutes to slowly lever himself onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes to protect them. Good God. He'd never gotten *this* drunk before, no matter what the guys thought about him.
The guys. There was something important about th-
Oh shit. He'd kissed Heero.
Ignoring the scream of his head and the protest of his aching muscles, he flung himself to his feet, stumbling for a vehicle or a phone, whichever came to hand quicker, to try and make this whole massive mess better. Somehow. He managed to make it to about his kitchen before both stomach and brain decided to conspire against him, swamping him with a wave of nausea that had him bent over his kitchen sink, clutching the counter desperately. He valiantly held on to the contents of his stomach for all of a second before the nausea won out with a series of massive heaves that stole his strength and what shreds of dignity he'd managed to cling to. Bloodshot violet eyes blinked painfully as he slowly slid to the floor, leaning heavily upon the cabinets. Turning his head slowly, he spotted his phone lying upon his kitchen table, less than a dozen paces away. Unfortunately, with his body as listless as tepid water, and his stomach threatening to tie itself into knots every time he moved, it may as well have been on the moon for all the good it did him.
Well, there was nothing left in his stomach but memories, so even if he did get sick again, he at least wouldn't make a mess. Besides, even if he did remember how bad it hurt to move by the time his hangover wore off, he'd deserve it for screwing up that bad last night. With agonizing slowness, he shifted onto his hands and knees and began the arduously long crawl to the table. It felt like forever before his shaking fingers reaching over his head finally closed around the smooth, cold plastic handset of his cordless phone, although the kitchen clock claimed that it all of a quarter till seven in the morning. He couldn't honestly say if it was the hangover or sheer nervousness that had his hands trembling so badly that he had to dial Heero's number six times before getting it right, but he'd never been so grateful, nor so terrified, to hear the ringing tone before in his life.
One ring. Two. Heero never slept in, but he rarely went anywhere on his days off. He should pick up any second now. Fourth ring. There! He was answe-
"I'm not home right now. Leave a message," Heero's curt voice informed with an electronic whine, followed closely by a long, low tone.
"Heero," Duo croaked, blinking a little as he heard how crackly his own voice was, "Pick up. We need to talk."
A long pause, but no one came to pick up the phone.
"Please, Heero. I don't want to do this over an answering machine. Don't do this. Pick up the phone. I know you're there, Heero. You never go anywhere. Pick up the phone. Please? Come on Heero, we need to talk so pick up the pho-"
He was cut off by another low tone as the answering machine hung up.
It wasn't until the discordant tone of the off-the-hook signal began screaming in his ear that Duo realized he was staring blankly into space with the phone still pressed tightly to his ear. Heero hadn't answered.
Somehow he found himself swaying unsteadily on his feet, stumbling half-dead down the hallway to his room to throw on clothes that didn't reek of beer and smoke and vomit. Heero didn't answer the phone, but he'd damn well answer his door, if Duo had to pick the lock. He hoped. But first, first he'd need clean clothes, and a cup of extra strong coffee to wake up.
Out of habit, once he'd dressed, he bypassed to the front door for the paper on his way to the kitchen to make his coffee. A sack that had been leaning against the door fell inwards against his sock clad toes as the door swung open. With a perplexed frown, he stooped, catching up both sack and paper, before shutting the door and peering inside. The paper slipped from his fingers as he reached into the sack and withdrew a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and socks, all neatly folded.
It was probably a function of the hangover, or lingering vestiges of his drunkenness, but the whole world seemed to swim by as if he were submerged under a half meter of water. Distantly, he was aware that he'd tied the right boot on a little too tight, while the left was just a touch too loose. He didn't even realize that he'd grabbed up the bundle of clothing again, the clothes that he'd lent Heero the night before, until he set them down in the passenger seat of the Camaro before starting up the big muscle car. Foregoing his coffee, he backed his car out of the garage and took off for the cross town freeway, streets already getting cluttered with early morning rush hour traffic. Although the clock in the CD player claimed it took no more than the normal 15 minutes it usually did, Duo could have sworn that the drive to Heero's apartment dragged on forever, making him fret and swear at the pace of the traffic. What seemed like an eternity later, the dark maw of the parking garage loomed up and swallowed him whole, delivering him to an empty space beside Heero's own old white truck. Wing sat patiently amidst the other motorcycles near the handicapped spaces by the elevator and stairwell.
Heero had to be home.
Out of some perverse need to punish himself, Duo opted for the stairs over the elevator, swallowing back another wave of headache induced nausea by the time he made it to Heero's floor. Common sense took over for a moment, and he leaned against the stairwell wall to catch his breath and steady his nerves before confronting the other man. After all, it wouldn't do much to help his case if he managed to make it all the way here, only to puke on Heero's shoes as soon as he opened the door. Once the world steadied around himself again, he slipped into the hall and up to the now familiar door, knuckles rapping against the wood with more confidence than Duo felt inside. After a few moments, he knocked a little bit more forcefully, one foot scuffing against the toes of the other out of nervousness. When there was still no answer, he balled his fist up and pounded once or twice.
"Come on, Heero. Answer your damned door before I break it down. We need to talk, dammit!"
Only silence greeted him. With a frustrated growl, Duo fished in his pocket for a slim black case, pulling out a pair of slender steel picks which he applied to the lock in the door. A few seconds later, the knob turned and swung in with a satisfying click, and the picks and case were slid back into a pocket as Duo slipped inside.
There was a thick blanket of silence resting over the darkened hallway, disturbed only by the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Duo shut the door behind him and crept towards the living room with his heart in his throat. There was something ominous about the quiet, lacking even the almost subliminal feel of habitation that came when there was another human present.
"Heero? I told you I'd get in. Please don't be this way. I just want to talk, okay?" he called softly.
The living room proved to be empty, magazines and books neatly stacked or packed into boxes beside the rather austere couch, laptop computer missing from the desk. The kitchen was equally as empty, a cup of thick, greasy black coffee sitting on the counter, ice cold to the touch.
"Heero?" Duo called again, voice low and uncertain as he crept towards the bedroom, poking his head around the doorway. The bathroom to his left was empty, walls lacking even condensation from a morning shower, and towels all neatly folded and stacked in a box beside the doorway. The bed itself was made with the same military precision as Heero made his bed at work, although it was covered with small stacks of equally precisely folded clothing, and a pair of duffel bags. The open closet door revealed even more emptiness, bare even of hangers, save for three neatly pressed uniforms waiting patiently. Suddenly Duo began to wonder if Heero would even be in to work the next morning, or if he'd simply vanish like a thought in the wind.
"Fuck you, Yuy. I'm not letting you get away this easy," Duo growled, stomping into the living room to settle onto the couch and await Heero's return. Even if the Japanese man was planning on packing up and vanishing, he'd have to come back for his stuff. Duo would just wait him out. Even if it meant staying put all day.
"Good morning, love," a soothingly deep voice greeted from the doorway, tearing Wufei's attention away from the report Noin had dropped off to him the afternoon before. He twisted a little in his seat, a small smile gracing his lips as Zechs wandered in clad in nothing more than a loose pair of drawstring pants and a damp towel draped over his shoulders. "Still working on that report?"
A soft sound of agreement slipped from the investigator's lips as Wufei settled his chin in his hand and watched Zechs cross to the coffee maker with half lidded eyes. There were some mornings that he almost hated the necessity of work. especially morning when Zechs came wandering in looking so damned good. Okay, so most mornings.
The pure strength of his attraction to the tall blonde frightened Wufei sometimes, seizing him so suddenly, it stole even his ability to think or breathe. With a regretful sigh, he forced himself to turn back to the paperwork, knowing that if he gave in to his thoughts, they'd both be late for work.
"Another arson-homicide. Noin wanted me to look over it for correlations to the cases I'm working on."
"Another one? I didn't hear about this one," Zechs commented with faint surprise as he sidled up behind Wufei, dropping a hand on his shoulder as he peered down at the reports from above.
"That's because it happened while we were all at Jake's two nights ago. That's why Noin got this one instead of me; she was the one on call," Wufei replied, absently reaching up with his free hand to rest it atop Zechs'.
"So have you found anything yet?"
With a frustrated sigh, Wufei straightened, settling back against the chair and the comforting presence of Zechs behind him. "Too soon to tell, but my gut says yes. There were signs of a struggle in the unburned portions of the house, and a considerable amount of gas used, especially in the kitchen where the victim was found. The body itself was too badly burned to get much from it yet, but the coroner is working on it."
Eyes narrowing with deep though, Zechs stooped down a little to examine the report, frowning suddenly. "The name of the victim sounds familiar," he commented slowly, trying to place it.
"Remember that sociopath that tried to kill himself and his mistress a while ago by running their SUV into a concrete abutment at 85 miles an hour or so? She ended up being pregnant, and the hospital had to do an emergency C-section?" Wufei replied.
"That one. It was Heero's first day. The big yellow Navigator. Yes, we were on that one; I remember it. Didn't the guy die?" Zechs asked.
"In the hospital. Burned up in a deliberately set fire," was the grim response.
"I remember that one, too," Zechs murmured darkly, although an atavistic flash of heat raced through him as he recalled trying to 'relax' Wufei in the wee hours of that morning. "This is the woman," he guessed.
"That's why Noin wanted me to look at it. Seemed to big a coincidence," Wufei agreed.
"I can almost understand someone wanting to kill him, but why her?" Zechs asked, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup on the table and picking up the sheaf of papers to rifle through for more information.
Reaching a hand up to massage his temples, Wufei sighed in defeat. "I don't know yet. I can only *guess* that it has something to do with the little girl. She didn't survive, and I'm. guessing that it has something to do with retribution. There isn't quite enough non-circumstantial evidence to even say the two cases are definitely connected." He gritted his teeth. It hurt his pride to admit that he didn't know for sure.
"Both murdered by fire, and that's not enough evidence?" Zechs asked, his voice heavy with disbelief.
"Unfortunately, as far as the D.A. is concerned, until there's another body on the ground, all we have is a coincidence, not a serial arsonist. But since there's nothing left connected to those two people, even if we do end up with another victim, there's going to have to be some pretty compelling similarities before the D.A. will help us pursue this. If we *do* have a serial arsonist on our hands, out to make a point of some kind, then it may take another few victims before the similarities are pronounced enough to be that compelling," Wufei replied bitterly. "The worst part is. I don't think that's going to take too long. My gut tells me that this is just the tip of the iceberg. That I'm probably already missing cases that tie in."
Zechs set the papers back on the table, bending down to wrap his arms around Wufei's shoulders for a long moment. "I don't like the thought of the two of you wading through that many bodies," he admitted softly. "You never ruled out that the fire that killed all those homeless drug addicts and the one that almost got Duo and Heero weren't related. What if this psycho starts trying for the investigators?"
"And what if he takes another shot at you and your crew?" Wufei replied just as quietly. "By the time Noin and I get called in, the damage is done. There's no reason for us to take stupid risks. Besides, she and I can go armed if we want. You."
"There's no reason for me to take stupid risks, either," Zechs interrupted. "Calculated, maybe, but Duo and Heero know that, too. Forewarned is forearmed, and we're watching out more carefully now. We won't be careless with our lives."
"Hn. Good. I." Wufei's voice trailed off and he pulled away from Zechs to walk briskly into the small office off of the living room, returning with a thick folder. As he settled back into his chair, he pulled out another sheaf of papers and pictures, rifling through them. "The fire that killed all those homeless drug addicts. You're right, I'd never connected it to the warehouse fire. but there might be a connection between these two and that fire."
"A connection? Like what?"
"Like a vigilante, trying to purify the wicked of the world with fire," was Wufei's ominous reply.
~TBC~
RavynFyre
Please send comments to: ravynfyre@hotmail.com