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"Drabbles"Written By: Clara Barton Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. The following
is an intellectual exercise with no intention of profit. That said,
these characterizations, words, and situations are mine. Please ask
before reprinting. Rating: R A/N: For
CeeCee, who requested 2x5 for #8, "Things you said when you were
crying." Warnings: angst,
language Pairings: 2x5
He could have gone to anyone - I thought he would have gone to anyone else but me. But maybe that was why he chose me, in the end. Heero, his oldest friend, the one who knew him best and who pushed him to be greater. I wouldn't have gone to Heero either, wouldn't have wanted Heero to see me... like this. Trowa, his closest friend, the one who shared all of his little jokes and who lied smoothly for him when he needed cover. But Trowa was also the one who had ordered this, who had set things in motion, and maybe, maybe he didn't want yet another thing to blame Trowa for. Which left lucky, unliked and unnecessary me. Well, unnecessary until now. It was late, not late enough for me to have been in bed when he knocked on the door to my apartment, but late enough that I had changed into the silken sleep pants I preferred and had shed my shirt. I had opened the door, unthinkingly, before putting anything on, and the first thing he did was to stare at me, at my scarred torso, the licks of flame and the rough scars of shrapnel. "If you want a show, go to the strip club three blocks down," I snapped, and his eyes jerked up to mine, his face flushing dark in anger and embarrassment. "I wasn't-" "What do you want, Maxwell?" He sighed and fidgeted, shoving his long, dangerous fingers into the pockets of the battered leather jacket he wore. The jacket held my attention. I was fairly certain I had seen Heero wear it, at some point. I hadn't realized he and Maxwell were involved, hadn't realized they shared a wardrobe. I looked at the rest of his clothes, then, and realized that he wasn't wearing any of his own. The boots were Heero's too, but the dark jeans weren't something I had seen either of them wear before, and the t-shirt... faded and a little large on him, was Trowa's. The one he wore when we sparred together. "Why are you dressed like that?" He sighed and jerked his head. "Can I come in, or are you gonna interrogate me in the hallway so that all the civvies get an earful?" I narrowed my eyes at the rebuke, and stepped aside to allow him in. I should have just slammed the door closed in his face, but I was too curious. It wasn't until I closed and bolted the door that the line of tension in his shoulders eased. "I ship out at 0900," he said, as if that explained everything. "Ship out? To where?" He blinked at me. "Oh. You don't- shit. I thought you knew." He gave a huff of laughter and ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Well. This is awkward. I, I don't even know if you have the security clearance to know." I glared, irritated even more now that I had no idea what he was talking about. "Maxwell. Spit it out or get out." He glared at me, then hissed out an annoyed breath. "I'm going undercover. I drew the short straw on the Spannek mission, and-" "No." He arched an eyebrow at the vehemence in my voice. "Yeah, I did. Pretty sure there's security footage of it happening. Une's already signed off on the orders, and Tro-" "That's a fucking suicide mission," I snapped. I knew. I had helped Trowa compile the intel. Three other Preventers officers had already been sent in, over the last five years, and we had been getting their body parts in the mail ever since. He shrugged one shoulder, but he didn't bother to argue with me. "You can't," I continued. "You're too distinctive. Your face was all over the news vids during the war, and-" And he had grown up, in the ten years since then, and while his eyes still burned with that same fire, his features had grown lean and chiseled. The only thing that still remained of the youthful terrorist, physically, was his braid. I suddenly realized why he was here. "No." He rolled his eyes. "Come on. It's not that big of a deal. I know you do your own hair," he gestured to me, eyes raking over the undercut I had adopted on the sides, while keeping my hair long on the top. "Go to a barber." "Can't - they aren't open this late at night." I wondered at that, wondered why it had taken him so long to get this done, but I shouldn't have to ask. I knew why. Like me, Maxwell's hair meant something to him, was a tie to his past and it helped to define him, to ground him. I sighed. There was no helping it. "Take off your jacket and shirt - no need to get your hair everywhere." I knew how fine his hair was, and I knew it was going to cling to everything. I would probably be finding strands of it for the next six months, after this. He followed my instructions, taking off his jacket and shirt and folding them over the back of the living room couch, and then he followed me into the bathroom. I laid a towel down on the floor, and put one of the kitchen bar stools on it and gestured for him to sit. He looked nervous, and he worried at the inner seam of his jeans, just above his right knee. I looked at him in the mirror, but his eyes were closed and his lips, barely parted, seemed to be forming words. "What-" "Just do it," he snapped, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. I sighed and picked up the scissors I had on hand. Kitchen shears, so they were certainly sharp enough, but for this cut to be anything passable, I was going to have to pull out my razor and make it very short. I took his braid in my hand, wrapping my hand around the weight of it, and swallowed hard. I was reminded of the last time I had held his hair, four months ago. He'd been drunk and miserable, and I- I had never been able to leave him alone. I'd thought, because of his inebriated state, that the sex would be quick and rough and disappointing, but I had been very wrong. Instead, Maxwell had taken his time, worshipping my body with his mouth and fingers and, finally, his cock, and I had never felt so... important as I had that night, when he whispered into my skin and begged me to tell him it was good, that he was good. It hadn't been the first time he had shown up, hadn't been the first time we had fucked, but it had been the most dangerous - the most real, and I hated both of us for it. For that night, and for the way he slipped away in the gray of dawn and the way our eyes slid over each other at work, the way we stayed silent. I cut through the braid, hacking it off, the fine hair thick in its tight confine. He sucked in a breath when it fell, when his past left him and, instead of sitting up straighter, his shoulders slumped. "Why me?" I demanded. "Why come to me?" He didn't open his eyes, and I could see the streak of tears on his cheeks. "Because you've seen me at my worst, and you still- you still see me." -o-
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