6-1-2002 (completed)

Fic: Tenshi?
By: Lyssira
Disclaimer: Don't own em. Do you?
Warnings: Shounen Ai. Romance, Violence. Blood. Lime. Language.
Pairings: 1x2x1
Archived: http://www.angelfire.com/goth/lair0/index.html
C&C: Please! Pretty pretty please with pocky and nekky G-boys on top!!!! nekophile@hotmail.com
Note: I started this along time ago. The idea nagged me a long time before that. Now it's done! wooohoo! Hope it doesn't suck too badly!



AC 195

Glaring white surrounded him, nearly blinding the onlookers, shining from the walls, the ceiling, every machine and tile on the floor. There was no relief of the color, or lack there of, simply unending luminance. Pitilessly the flourescent bulbs cast their light upon one frail-looking figure curled on the only occupied cot, cheap cotton blankets not hiding the half-starved, almost skeletal appearance of the boy.

His bronze skin had been lacerated so many times it became difficult to determine where one scarlet line began and another ended, crimson patterns spreading across flesh and fabric alike. What was not marred by cuts, was bruised, dark and sickly patches mingling with the red. Almost comically large hands lay limp at odd angles, fingers clenched in pain or death; one could not be sure.

The boy laying helpless amongst the overused bedding made not one sound to be heard, the only echoes consumed by the white of the walls being the chirps of several machines, logging his progress. He had not stirred once since he'd been placed in the room, alone in a white tomb as though humanity had forsaken him. Thick, almost black lashes did not flutter, torture limbs did not twitch. He dreamed through his pain, forgotten in a sleeping mind, perhaps hoping he might dream forever and not remember pain at all.

Past the sealed doorway noises filled the corridor, that passageway just as bleached as each room inside the complex. A group of surgeons, medics and assistants gathered, watching the limp form carefully through bullet-proof glass. One waved his chart about wildly, aging, wrinkled face flushed with anger. The others barely stirred at their comrade's ranting many dubbing the man a fool in their thoughts, hearts hardened to granite from too many years of failed cases in the charity hospital.

Only did the men and women glance up when a newcomer approached, a slender form clad in shadow and bloodstained ash. Stormy violet-blue eyes glared from within the dirt marring his face, daring any to be in his way. They took the challenge unknowingly, moving between himself and the door, though it remained locked against such characters who might do harm to its patients. Only then did the boy (for it was a young man despite a long braid trailing down his back) bother to acknowledge their presence, a cold rage settling over his features.

He did not yell, as might have been expected, instead murmuring, "Move," cooly, his tone empty.

"I'm sorry, but this patient is due for an operation, If you'll excuse-" one nurse began.


"Yes. His left leg has been shattered below the knee. It will have to be amputated or infection will set in," she replied flatly.

"Shattered? You're positive?"

The flushed surgeon stepped forward, casting a disgusted glare at his colleagues.

"No. We do not have the time to examine him to the best of our ability. It is very possible I could save that leg if-"

"If nothing!" another doctor snapped, "This child is not a paying patient. And we do not have the time to give him that sort of attention!"

They faced each other off, mouths open to yell, only distracted from their argument by a low growl from the teenager.

"Shut up. You will let me pass. And you will save that boy's leg. By whatever means necessary. I'll pay for whatever bullshit you need to figure out how to do it."

"You're going to pay for it? Street trash like you two hasn't got that kind of money. How are you going to get it? Murder? Bank-robbery?" the second man spat sarcastically. He barely had a moment to gasp when strong hands lifted him off his feet, against the wall, throat tightening quickly from lack of air.

Whatever anger, feeling, had remained in Duo Maxwell's voice died, leaving behind a monotone devoid of compassion, of hate, of what stirred within the braided boy's soul, "I'll get it. By any means necessary," he whispered, "Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

The taller, older man slouched against the wall for several moments past that, heaving for oxygen. His colleague, now studying the broken pilot's chart with professional care, took over swiftly, orders filling the air while a locked door swung open and shut.

Duo circled his friend's bed cautiously, eyes narrowing as he realized the extent of Heero's injuries. He watched the monitors lining the room with almost cat-like fascination, finally settling himself to sit on one of the empty cots filling the room, all identical to the one Wing's pilot occupied in their overuse and design. It creaked under his slight weight apologetically, squeaking as he slid it closer, finally leaving mere inches between them, wrapping his hands around one limp, icy fist. Duo's head bowed for one moment, whispering a forgotten prayer to no one in particular.

"I will get that money," he murmured, no longer killing the weariness in his soft baritone, "But I know better than to leave."

"I'm here."


Two Days Prior

Earth shook as five monstrous machines settled in her depths, modern titans stored away from prying eyes and loose tongues. Heero felt the tremors through sneaker-shod feet, not needing to recover his balance despite the nearby mechanics who grabbed frantically at shelves and bunker walls in order to steady themselves. Nonchalantly, he passed them, nodding in greeting but otherwise ignoring those who would care for his Gundam while it remained here, more of Howard's trustworthy men to save them the trouble. Most of them were friends with Duo, Pilot 02 having warned them far ahead of time not to expect much in the way of gratitude from Heero.

The American himself followed his friend into their temporary living area, sharing a few slaps on the back and friendly greetings with his friends. Yawning slightly, ignoring the twinge of sore ribs against his lungs, Duo stretched and trailed after Heero. The Wing pilot seemed aware of his presence, though he said nothing, instead reaching the kitchen and pulling out water. Tossing one bottle to his partner, he greedily gulped it down, parched throat welcoming the fluid, as his skin would welcome a shower later.

Now, he turned to meet amaryllis eyes, shadowed and weary, reflecting his own mood back into Prussian mirrors. Resting a hand on one bare shoulder, Duo pulled him closer, not demanding, fully giving the dark haired pilot time to retreat and escape. Both knew he would not, instead meeting his braided counterpart halfway. There was no caring in either's eyes, despite the warm embrace, only sympathy. Respect.

"That was pretty easy," Duo sighed against Heero's cheek.

"There will be a worse one soon," he replied, savoring the contact, a reminder he wasn't alone just yet. Neither of them were alone, not when they needed that selfish support, sharing the protection they could offer each other, but only for their own purposes. And not one nor the other would take anything farther, would bother to give more. There was no reason to.

"There's always a worse mission."

"No. One of these days there will be one that will be too hard," Heero growled softly.

"The last one."


They were quiet for a while.

"Heero?" Slender hands tightened their hold.

"Hm?" he repeated the gesture, body pressed to body in comfort.

"Maybe..." Duo trailed off uncertainly. He felt a pulse against his own, hearts beating in unison, the world focusing until there was nothing but those two rhythms.

"Never mind," Deathscythe's pilot shook his head, bangs tickling darker skin.

He pulled away, confused, wondering at the frustrated expression his partner wore.


"It's a discussion we don't need to have, " Duo muttered half to himself, half to Heero.


Gently, completely unlike any other kiss they'd shared, he let his lips touch the Perfect Soldier's, none of the violence and anger from their usual encounters found at all. Instead, he discovered himself returning the gesture, no longer being merely a support or a stress-reliever. This was something different. The bruising force, angry punishing touches they'd shared before were long forgotten, buried beneath this.

The insistent beeping of a laptop drew both boy's attentions away from each other in an instant. They un-entangled themselves quickly, greeting the other three as they had only moments before, separated, alone, as was the way of Gundam Pilots.

Soon all five had exited once more, launching their demons into the air for another battle, no war waiting for the rest and recuperation of its soldiers. A group of startled mechanics left the scene heading for their hammocks, sending unspoken prayers and well wishes along for the ride.


In the void-like silence of the hospital room (save for the shrill melody of the machines), Duo sat and watched the still form of his friend. He rubbed one calloused finger over the back of Heero's hand absently. The braided boy had never spent much time in hospitals–those few times because of Heero Yuy. Their chill made him uncomfortable, their smell nauseated him. Sick people terrified him. The injured ones weren't as bad. They'd been the victims of accidents and wars. Sick people were taken down by an enemy that couldn't be seen or blown up.

Duo shuddered, trying to calm himself through the faint warmth of Heero's skin. He wouldn't put it past the Japanese boy to choose this moment to wake up. And damned if he was going to find out about any of Duo's weaknesses.

With his free hand, he reached for the phone, which was the same dead white of the room. An almost-forgotten number played across the keys. It rang once, twice, three times. At the fourth ring, he hung up and dialed again. The phone on the other end picked up immediately.

"Chinese Stir Fry, who's this?" a raspy voice said in a bad in imitation of an Oriental accent.

"Herbert Max," Duo replied dryly.

"Oh, hey Herb. How's it going," a statement, not a question.

"Need some lo mein."

"A pint?"

"Twenty pints actually."

"Gotcha. To be delivered?"

"Eight. St. Oliver's on West."

"Credit card?"

"You'll get it, no worries."

"Credit card?"

"I got a few."

"Good. Delivery Boy'll be there."

"Thanks, Stir."

"Just make sure you tip, Herb."

The line clicked and went dead. Duo watched as Heero twitched in his sleep. It wasn't much--the Japanese boy's eyebrow dug a little deeper into his forehead. Even unconscious Heero was not a restful sleeper. He never had been. In his most exhausted state, his face was full of pain. Tossing and turning hadn't been a problem-that was Duo's specialty-but it wasn't difficult to tell that the Perfect Soldier did not sleep dreamless.

//"Let me fuck you one last time."//

Their many encounters with each other were pure coincidence. They were together at the right place and right time. It was convenient. Convenience allowed them not to care too much. Not to wince when the other came under fire. Convenience had fused with stability. Stability was the source of their partnership. They could work together and not worry about betrayal. Stability had become something completely different. He'd wondered if Heero actually looked forward to it, sometimes.

//"I want to hear you scream."//

Quatre and Trowa might have had a similar thing going if Quatre wasn't so...straight. He didn't understand the need for it. To him it was romance. To them, it was survival.

//A tumble of arms, legs, torsos and lips traveled across the unmade bed.//

Wufei didn't care what they did. He knew about the nightly visits. He knew about the stress-relief. He made it plain that it wasn't his business. The Chinese boy spent most of his time in Nataku: repairing, sleeping, meditating, even eating. Though, more than once Duo had discovered he'd snuck off into a nearby city, probably for his own succor. There were women who didn't care how old you were if you had the money...

//Heero moaned into his chest, every tiny vibration rippling across sweat-soaked flesh.//

A nurse walked down the hall, reading over her clipboard. She didn't look in the lead-plated window, much to Duo's relief. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His hand moved to sweep over the boy's face, brushing the dark hair out of his eyes. He leaned over the still form to press his moist lips to Heero's parched ones. He imagined the boy waking, kissing him back, pulling at his own lips, beckoning his tongue into that ever-serious mouth...

//They fucked. Hard. All he knew was his face. His eyes. His body. Just him. Just Heero.//

He did not wake at the touch of his lover's mouth. The monitor beeped on, monotonously. Duo dropped his head beside that tousled, dark one. Death sobbed tearlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

//He arced against the Japanese boy, crying out, screaming until his voice failed him. Heero arced back and it almost seemed they were one person. One voice shouting to the heavens.//


Through the dark of OZ's warehouse they crept, one boy on each wall and one precariously perched on the roof outside. Explosives in hand, the four ignored a booming rodent population that scurried along the ground with them. There was no human life in the warehouse at the moment, except for them. Though according to many, that would not have mattered. Humanity had deserted the warehouse.

Duo slid another explosive onto the crate behind them. This would be a quick job, in and out. Yet, it was too easy in his mind. There was a trap on the horizon. They all knew it. And not one of them cared. Perhaps, they even looked forward to it.

Another explosive. Five remaining.

A flashlight blazed into the night, suddenly.

"All of you out! Now!" a deep, gravelly bass thundered.

Duo snorted to himself. OZ was settling for some pretty stupid officers if he thought they'd give up that easy. He scuttled forward, planting another bomb. They'd have to kill them all to prevent this destruction. Each had his detonation switch. It would be so simple just to end it all now...

"We know you're in here!"

~No shit.~

There was a heavy stampede of boots as the officer dispersed his men. He could hear them coming towards him, though not close enough to matter. They wouldn't see him unless they tripped over him. Ash had been smeared over pale skin on his face, hands and neck. Night-vision glasses hung over his eyes. Anything that shone or sparkled had been left in a safe place. These men would not find him with their limited skills. And if they did, he pitied them. Explosive.

He could sense his fellows in the far reaches of the warehouse. They were probably close to finishing. He wondered how Wufei fared on the roof. It had infuriated him to draw the short straw.


Duo's heart leapt into his throat at the nearness of the private's voice. But it wasn't him he'd seen. His mirror on the opposite wall...



The blonde, his brilliant locks hidden by a ski cap, was wrenched to his feet by the private. No bombs clattered to the floor. The man dragged him over by the arm, hand spanning all the way around Quatre's slim bicep. He said nothing, did nothing. Duo could almost hear the gears turning in the Arabian's head. There would be a plan, shortly. He set down another explosive.

"Good work," the officer rumbled from his position in the middle of the floor. The braided boy spied his large bulk through the night-glasses. He'd make the perfect target for an assassin, loud and easily spotted. He saw the man's meaty fist come down on Sandrock's pilot's ivory face.

A bullet found its way into the man's skull. His fat body tumbled to the ground almost comically.


The air erupted with gunfire as the OZ soldiers realized their leader's demise. They shot randomly, into the rafters, into corners. Bullets ricocheted off the crates and the walls. They hit each other. Their aim was pitiful but their unpredictable-ness could be deadly. Duo, hand tightening on the detonator, fled the scene, long legs pumping. He heard footfalls behind him. They were not the clumsy steps of an inexperienced soldier. Wufei's soft *umph* as he exited the roof echoed in his ear.

Soon, the Gundam pilots stood on a hill above the warehouse. They panted with exertion, sweat soaking their faces. The yelling of OZ's soldiers had faded into the dullness of night. Only the roar of an explosion had ended that dullness. And their yelling. That was Heero's signal. He'd begin the detonation and the others would follow. Duo pressed his switch. More flames erupted into the night.

Then he glanced about him.

There were four pilots.

Death knew he was running towards the red-hot blaze.



The door slid open. A small, thin boy no older than Duo glided into the room, his footfalls making no sound on the tiled floor. His fist clenched a canvas bag, bulging with something. Without a word he went to Duo, who watched him warily, extending one grime-coated hand, palm up. Equally silent, Duo pulled the golden cross from around his neck.

"Give it to Stir. He'll know what it means."

The boy nodded, leaving the bag at Duo's feet. He threw an ironic, nearly toothless grin at the braided boy before leaving.

"Spend it well."


A small groan moved Duo from his position crouched over the bed. Heero's cracked eyelids flickered open amongst a sea of burns and cuts. He groaned again. The slits of Prussian widened slightly, though they focused on nothing. His pupils had contracted with pain. Duo watched, incredulous, as his lips moved.


"N-nawa shin ni....Tenshi nariya? Tenshi...?"he asked softly, his monotone fractured into a child's whisper.


"Nawa shin ni tenshi nariya?[1]" Heero asked again, his dark eyes brimming with liquid.

Duo didn't know how to answer.

The red-faced doctor from before barreled into the room, his expression bright. His scrubs flapped around him as he raced toward the boys. He barely noticed the bag at Duo's feet or the American himself. He practically glowed when faced with Heero awake and talking.

"Well, you're awake, m'boy! Good! But I'm afraid you'll be sleeping again soon. We need to get you into the OR," the old man practically sang.

"And his leg?"

The doctor turned to face Duo's dark, almost red-violet eyes, "Not shattered. Salvageable"

"Thank you." To who, neither could be sure.

Without a thought for his audience, Duo leaned down and kissed Heero chastely on the forehead. He released his hand, squeezing once before letting it fall.

"Thank you."

//"Let me kiss you."//





[1] Translated as ‘Are you an angel?' I'm not sure about it though, so feel free to correct me.