"The Good Life"

There was too much blood, Trowa knew that even as he supported Heero, half carrying him away from the crumbling compound. The main fighting was done, the explosion ripping apart the militia group, and they were now away from the building, on the dirt path, a Jeep Trowa had hoped to steal ablaze and it meant on foot for a while before they could find the motorbike they'd stowed in the forest, covered in tarps. It was just Trowa didn't know if Heero would make it there.

Fuck, Heero's head was lolling on his shoulder, his hair bristling against Trowa's jaw and he had been helping their movement moments before but now he was limp, barely conscious and Trowa made a decision. Heero was not as damn tall he was but he was well built, his defined muscles that Trowa knew so well, that he'd touched and kissed and caressed. Trowa was strong but Heero was heavy but there was no other way. He stopped, looked back at the burning wreckage, and changed his grip on Heero's fragile body, putting him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, Heero making a small sound of protest at being manhandled. Trowa knew if he was more lucid, if he wasn't bleeding so fucking much that Heero would complain about his treatment, about seeming weak in front of Trowa as while they so often were injured, wounded, they were never weak. But shit, Trowa didn't care if Heero whined, he was carrying the idiot, walking as fast as he damn could.

He'd created a tourniquet, make-shift, around the thigh, stemming the blood flow at least a little yet it was deep, it would definitely need stitches and fuck, he'd lost so much blood he may even need a transfusion and Trowa knew the limits of his medical care. That while his skills had been gained during his childhood, sat beside a disgraced medic, a man who became a merc after mercy killing in field hospitals, Trowa knew that if there was something more complex, he was unable to do anything. And he calculated about whether he would be able to contact Preventer HQ, whether they would be able to get a drop ship and urgent medical care to them quickly enough. But fuck, they didn't exist - missions were sent on secure channels or passed over to them in random cafes in random cities in brown padded envelopes. It wasn't like Trowa had a direct line to Une to demand a rescue, an evac, a med-ship. All he had was himself, some supplies with the bike, and Heero.

The distance wasn't too bad but Trowa could feel Heero's dead weight, he could feel blood soaking into his own clothes, he could feel the heat of his skin as he tried to increase his pace to a jog as best as he could while carrying his partner.

Heero shouldn't have been the one wounded, Trowa knew, as it should've been him. In the fight, the knife was aimed at him and it was the quickest move, almost too quick for Trowa to realise and Heero had extended his leg, stopping the long sharp blade from penetrating Trowa's skin and instead it went into his own. Trowa had been pissed at the time, the protective gesture not appreciated but then after he'd snapped the neck of the assailant, he'd realised that Heero's cut was deeper than he first thought.

They'd got out, the charges they'd set earlier being activated within safe distance but as Trowa dragged Heero around, he realised it was not okay, making the tourniquet out of his shirt, walking with him as best as he could so that they could escape.

It wasn't even a fuck up. It was just a consequence to an action, a brief thing, one split second and Trowa was fine, and Heero was goddamn bleeding.

The increase in his pace made Heero's limp body jostle against Trowa's body and shit, Trowa did not have time to be careful, instead all he did was move as quickly as he could until he could at least do something more, use some of their med supplies and maybe patch him up.

He thought as they moved through the warm night, the smell of smoke and explosives clinging to the air and their skin, that it was always going to be this - one of them fucked up and broken, the other having to heal them and Trowa wondered if it was damn worth it anymore. Even though they were good, even though each mission was about adrenalin and a high that was as near they could get to piloting a Gundam, maybe it was time to give up before one of them died. The accounts in the Caymans had plenty of money and Trowa didn't know what they'd do next - or if they'd do anything, all he damn well knew was that it was time for them move the fuck on. They didn't need to be soldiers anymore.

Not like this.

The path between the trees was dirt and Trowa followed it, counting, he heard Heero mumble, incoherent and he tried to increase his pace, sweat dripping down his face, his hair plastered to his forehead. He tried to count the times he'd healed Heero Yuy - from that first time, the month of unconsciousness, tending to all that damage to all their recent ones - and Trowa knew one day a wound would be too deep, a bullet would hit an artery, an explosion would crush them and so he swallowed back those thoughts, seeing the bike up ahead in the darkness.

He dropped Heero inelegantly to the ground, his head hitting the soft earth, and the jolt appeared to make him more coherent.

"Trowa?" he asked.

"Yeah," he answered, "I'm here."

He was, close, finding a torch among their supplies, camping equipment to stay the night in the wild if necessary. And it probably would be. Trowa didn't dare move Heero. They would be stuck and his own rudimentary medical attention would have to goddamn do.

Rifling through the bag, he found everything he needed, turning his attention back to Heero. Swallowing, Trowa looked, seeing him sweating, bleeding, shivering - he could go into damn shock and probably only his remarkable body, that training, was stopping him.

Trowa undid his makeshift bandaging, growling at the depth of the cut, at the difficulty he'd have in stemming the bleeding and in the dim torch light, he pushed hard, using a pad to soak up the blood, using a bandage tight around Heero's thigh and hearing Heero voice his complaint, the tightness causing him some discomfort.

"Okay?" he asked.

Heero nodded. "Yeah."

He tried to move and Trowa pushed down on his chest, feeling the moisture of his t-shirt, the sweat and he remembered forcing a stubborn fifteen year old back to a bed. A fifteen year old who didn't want to be lying in a bed - fierce blue eyes and determination.

"Stay."

The command was obeyed and Trowa found the bags on the side of the bike, undoing the canvas and finding the camping supplies. They had planned to get further away from the compound, deeper into the forest but they had no damn choice as Heero was too weak - Trowa didn't trust him to hold on and so he set up the tent, his eyes drifting to where Heero lay, listening to his damn instructions in the dim torch light.

"We'll stay the night here," Trowa said softly once the tent was up and Heero nodded, weary, his blood loss and pain making his usual stubbornness more manageable. His face was set in a grim line as Trowa helped him into the tent - there was no room in their supplies for sleeping bags or comforts but they were sheltered and that had be a fucking enough.

Trowa let Heero sleep, listening to the sound of his breathing as he sat in the flap of the tent, looking out at the forest. He could still see the smoke rising from the compound, the fire still burnibg and if he had it, Trowa would have smoked a cigarette but he picked the grit and dirt and blood from his nails with his blade, whistling a little as he did.

He didn't think he'd wake Heero as Heero had lost blood and was in pain, but after only a few hours sleep, Trowa heard the movement and then felt a hand on his back.

"You should sleep," Heero said and Trowa turned to the man he had devoted his life to post-war. He looked bad still, pale, his eyes surrounded by dark circles but his eyes were bright and his face set in a severe expression.

"No, you need it," he answered but instead of turning back towards the tent, Heero crawled out cautiously, sitting next to Trowa in the dim light of the small fire. Trowa knew better than to instruct Heero to go back inside, to sleep but he still made a "huh" that stated his concern and annoyance subtlety. Heero picked up on his annoyance but ignored it. As always.

But when Heero leaned against him, his head against his shoulder, Trowa's annoyance abated a little. As he no longer felt feverish, that body healing itself superhumanly even if it was not so much as it used to, and there was a reassurance to the feel of his skin, his hair, the stubble. They didn't say anything for a while, listening to the sounds of the jungle around them and Trowa could see the smoke still pervading the air from the compound, still ablaze in places hours later, a testament to how well they'd set the charges, how well they'd done their mission. If not for Heero's injury.

Despite it being fucking hot during the day, the night was a little cooler, especially in the density of trees and Trowa put his arm around Heero, dressed as he was in only boxers and tank, offering him his body heat. Without resistance, Heero moved into him, his warmth, and Trowa finally spoke softly.

"I think it's time," he said.

He didn't elaborate, he felt Heero's breathing against him. "What do we do next?" Heero asked.

Trowa would've shrugged, instead, he answered. "Something else."

He didn't know what - fuck, they'd always moved from one mission to the next after the wars, their movements controlled by the Preventers, their lives a series of dangerous and violent situations. It would end with one of them dying and Trowa didn't want that. It had come too close to that too many damn times.

"Yeah."

Heero's voice was quiet in the dense sound of the night but Trowa heard, nodding his head, and disentangling himself from his partners body. "We both sleep."

There was no protest, even though one of them should watch, even though they could potentially be discovered, and instead, for once, they didn't live their lives poised in state of readiness, in a state of fight or flight. They both settled inside the tent, Trowa spooning his body behind Heero's, the position more intimate than all the fucking they had ever done and he kissed at the back of Heero's neck - tasting the salt of his sweat. He buried his head in Heero's shoulder, mouthed at him, and ran his fingers down Heero's firm abdominal muscles, feeling them jump against his touch.

They weren't going to fuck, Heero wounded, but instead, Trowa slowly jerked him off, his fingers wrapped around his dick, his strokes long and firm, tantalisingly hot, and he continued to kiss and mouth at his pulse, at his shoulder, until Heero came, breathing out his name in short bursts.

"I don't want you to die," Trowa said in the aftermath, as Heero's body relaxed further back into his own.

Heero only made a small noise in affirmation and it was the moment if they were different men that they'd say "I love you", that "I need you and I always will" but they weren't and they never would be. They were men who smelled of sweat and blood and cum and spent explosives, lying in a tent in the middle of damn nowhere after killing dozens of men and while they were giving that up they'd never have a normal life. And Trowa knew that as he nuzzled the hair at the nape of Heero's neck, entwined their legs together and fell asleep with him, sticky and hot, the sound of the forest around them.

Chapter 6

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