Title: Someone Saved My Life Tonight
By Keelywolfe (keelywolfe@aol.com)
Author's webpage: http://www.ravenswing.com/~keelywolfe/
Rating: R
Series: Being Duo Maxwell
Archive: Anyone who already has it is more than welcome. Anyone who doesn't, please ask first.

Feedback: Yes, please!

Summary: Set at the end of Episode 19 and into Episode 20, just before Duo gets rescued at the OZ prison.

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing, it's characters, settings, Gundams, etc, do not belong to me, we all know that. I also do not own the song, Someone Saved My Life Tonight, which is performed by Elton John.

WARNINGS: For language, mostly. In my mind, Duo is a foul-mouthed little brat and I'm afraid it's reflected here. Also, this one is a LEMON, so if that isn't you're thing, you might be happier elsewhere.

NOTES: This story is the Eighth in a series, which if you missed the others, is available on my web page at:



Scheduled for execution.

There is just something about hearing that phrase, especially when you know it's your name next to the time and date on that particular clipboard.

Scheduled for execution.

I think I can say with great confidence and assurance that this sucked. Big time. I mean massive suckage here; suckage of the type that always seems to land in my lap.

I'm starting to think I'm cursed.

At least I'd managed to keep my pants on during this little incarceration. One nice thing about this outfit is that guys are a little leery to strip it off, no matter how many goodies they think you have underneath.

I can't imagine why.

If the priest collar doesn't stop them, you can always start praying loudly or even better start singing hymns. It's pretty difficult for a guy to keep a stiffy when his intended fuck is belting out 'Onward Christian Soldiers.'

Didn't stop them from beating the shit out of me though, and Jesus, what is -with- these guys smacking you in the head with their gun? What, is that all they teach them in their little OZ drone training classes? Pistol-whipping 101, or how to abuse your enemy in three easy steps. My head feels like it's been filled with lime Jell-O, the shitty kind with the banana slices.

They tossed me into this nasty little cell a while ago, at least my brains aren't so scrambled that I can't tell time, but who knows when the charm school boys are gonna come back for me. Not like it matters, I don't exactly have much in the way of an escape plan. Hell, I'd never planned to be captured, and much less still alive when they did it. It seemed kind of stupid to think about that when I was supposed to be a corpse.

How lucky am I that OZ is going to take care of that little detail for me.

And how is it that all cells are like this? Cold, smelly, is there a construction crew that specializes in making disgusting, uncomfortable rooms? Seems like it would cost about the same to make a halfway decent one. I swear, if I were still going to be alive when I got out of this fucked up little party, I'd complain to the management.


So, this was how I was going to die, eh. No fiery death in the heat of battle for Duo Maxwell, hell, no. I was going out with a pop like a wet firecracker. Typical. And you want to know what's worse?

I don't care.

Really, I don't. All I feel is a strange sort of apathy, I guess. Hell, I've been waiting so long for something to kill me, now that it's here I'm sort of at a loss.

I can hear someone in the corridor. Must be time for the festivities to begin. You know, I bet these assholes are a real blast around Christmas. Little dinner, little dancing, and then they can toss the Yule captive in front of the firing squad...OK, that was a little weird even for me. Maybe I have a concussion or something.

Well, if they're expecting me to cry and beg, they can keep their thumbs up their asses until the pigs in Hell grow wings. Duo Maxwell doesn't cry for the viewing pleasure of others, that's for fucking sure, and if these OZie bastards thought otherwise they could...except the guy at the door wasn't an OZie bastard, or even a plain old OZie.

Instead, it was probably the last person I'd expected to see in my little doorway, up to and including a group of guys dressed like Judy Garland from the San Fran Pride parade. At least I'd know what they were doing here.

But this guy, this guy just standing here looking at me, who knows why he does the things he does? Heero Yuy, who I haven't seen in a hell of a lot longer than I prefer, one of the best lays I'd ever had in my life, the guy that, much as I hate to admit it, I had actually been devastated when I thought he was dead...and he's pointing a gun at me.

Hmm. Guess that explains that.

You know, this isn't exactly how I envisioned my next meeting with Heero Yuy. I mean, I wasn't expecting flowers and edible underwear but the gun is a bit of a surprise. I suppose I should've known better. After all, I'm a big fucking liability right now, and this is the Superman we're talking about. Shooting an old boyfriend is no trouble for soldier boy.

Somehow, I don't feel any different. Does it really matter who kills me? Someone is apparently going to today. Any which way you cut it, I'll still be a corpse, does it matter if it's Heero Yuy or Treize Khushranada or Mickey Fucking Mouse that does the deed?

Except...except suddenly it does. That nice, peaceful little numb feeling did a little exit, stage left, and all I felt was cold, clammy sweat dripping down the back of my spine while I looked into a pair of even fucking colder eyes. He was really going to shoot me. Really and truly, say ta-ta to Duo Maxwell, flags at half-mast and all the other bullshit.

And you know what the worst part is? I'd really missed him, really, really...

He's really going to shoot me.

"You're really going to shoot me!"

I almost didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until he blinked, once, still staring at me with the eyes of cold.

And then he lowered the gun.


I wonder if it's rude for me to be thinking maybe I'd be better off if he'd just shot me.

Yeah, probably rude. So sue me.

I'd been feeling pretty shitty just sitting in that cell for hours, and after being half-dragged out of there, I kinda feel like I've been stuck in a clothes dryer for an hour with a load of rocks. BIG rocks. Still, it was awfully nice of Khushie to put a bed in our little borrowed shuttle...I might just have a chance to write a letter to the management after all.

Which brings to mind another question. All right, so the question was already in mind, has been for a few hours now.

Why didn't Heero kill me? He traveled all the way here to make sure I'd keep my mouth shut, (Naturally, I hadn't, but I hadn't told them anything they wanted to hear anyway...) and then he didn't kill me. That whole idea just doesn't square with everything I know about Heero. I mean, this guy missed class the day they taught moderation. It's either all the way or not at all, halfway is chickenshit.

But, you know, now that I think about it, that's not true. He didn't kill the little princess in the Barbie dream mobile either. Gee, how flattering to be the one other person in the world he decided not to bump off. I'm thrilled, truly I am.

Now, nothing bothers me more than having my hair all sweaty and dirty. Give me fingernails on a chalkboard anytime, but don't screw with the hair. It actually offends me, you know?

I've been like this ever since I was a little ankle biter, still perfecting my pathetic 'I'm hungry' look for people to ignore, and my hair started to grow out. Why is it so important to me? I guess it's because hair is something you can keep, not like food or clothes, or pets.

Or friends.

Anyway, I...what? Oh, well, yeah, the hair did come in pretty hand a few years later when I was working at Mona's too, but...hey, wait a sec, this is -my- story, let me tell it! We'll discuss Mona's at a later date.

Like I was saying, I just can't sit here with my hair all nasty, etc. and not do anything about it. Only, I'm going to have to because, due to severe beatings received earlier in the day, I can't lift either of my arms over my head without them feeling like they are going to drop off onto the bed. And since my hair is pretty much firmly attached to my head, my options are pretty limited.

So...so far, I'm alive, feeling tired, dirty and pretty much just plain shitty and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

Story of my life.

Which is why I nearly wet my pants when I felt someone behind me start to undo my braid. I managed to retain control of my bladder, but I still jumped about half a meter into the air. Heero just gave me a look; hell, he actually had an expression of mild surprise somewhere in his limited repertoire. Who knew?

"Jesus, give a guy a warning before you grab onto him like that," I managed.

"Your hair is a mess," was all he said. Like I hadn't noticed that? But I didn't really feel like arguing the point anymore, not when he started brushing out all the tangles. Still, it's against my nature not to at least make a weak attempt.

"I thought you were piloting," I mumbled, not really caring if he'd given the controls over to ... at this point.

"I already entered the coordinates, the automatic pilot can handle it until we reach earth's atmosphere. Here," He handed me a cup that I very nearly dropped. "You need to get some liquids into your body before you get dehydrated."

You know, it's amazing that no matter how concerned the words are, the tone of voice still sounds kind of like a computerized telemarketer. I'm telling you, the phone sales industry lost out big time when Heero became a Gundam Pilot.

Anyway, I'm not exactly sure what the stuff was, but it tasted like some kind of liquid feebly masquerading as lemonade. Thirsty as I was, I actually debated briefly on whether or not I wanted to drink the foul brew that Heero had whipped up, possibly in his shoe from the taste, and risk making myself puke on top of being a bruised wreck. Still, Heero had actually applied himself to something with concern to my welfare, and I'm sure that many artificial lemons died to make it. Be a shame for them to have croaked in vain.

Trying not to breathe through my nose, I chugged it down, swallowing desperately to get it out of my mouth before I actually had to taste it. My stomach went through the same debate that my head had, trying to decide whether it could stay, but the red flag stayed down and the 'lemonade' was not violently reintroduced into our presence.

Heero just kept brushing out all the snarls in my hair, carefully enough that I never felt one single extra twinge of pain. What a guy. But I'll tell you, there is nothing more relaxing than having someone else brush your hair, especially when it's as long as mine and a pain in the ass to do by yourself.

Yeah, it's very relaxing but it didn't take me long to I realize I felt tired. I mean, really tired, more tired than I should be, even taking into account everything that had happened in the past few days. I should have known having him brush my hair was too damn good to be true.

"You put something in my drink," I accused, my words already slurring. At least that explained why it had tasted like hammered shit. I should have known that Heero couldn't have fucked up in the kitchen anymore than he could at anything else. I'd bet Martha Stewart could have called him for advice.

"Just something to help you sleep a little. You need to rest." His face was starting to look like something out of a Van Gogh painting, weirdly blurred.

"Jesus, you can be a jerk, Yuy," I mumbled. My eyes were about as heavy as bags of cement.

"Sometimes," he said agreeably. I didn't even have time to give him a dirty look for that little quip before everything faded into blackness.


It felt like much later when I woke up, but since -someone- drugged me, I really couldn't say. Someone who was sleeping right next to me. Nearly on top of me. A -naked- someone who was sleeping nearly on top of me while I was in a conspicuous state of undress myself. Geez, bad enough that nearly died today, but I had to get rescued by a pervert who drugged me before he groped me.

He could've at least groped me first.

It's been a while since Heero and I slept in the same bed, and I must've forgotten how clingy he is. He was wrapped around me, the sheet was wrapped around us, mummifying us together...and that soft, soft, skin right on the inside of the thigh was pressed right against my more delicate parts. I groaned silently and tried to move away without waking him up, because said delicate parts -were- waking up and...well, shit.

So, now I was tired, bruised, drugged, and I had a hard on that I couldn't do much about. So far, my daily suckage ratio was hanging right around a hundred percent.

If there is a God then he has a hell of a sense of humor.

And suddenly there was a very warm, callused hand wrapped nice and tight around my erection and trivial things like breathing seemed a hell of a lot less important.

I'll tell you one thing, when Heero learns a lesson he doesn't forget it. Rubbing me just so, just hard enough until I was practically writhing my way through the sheets, and I could feel his cock starting to perk up, pushing into my side.

Carefully, I managed to roll over without causing any more damage to my abused body, and Heero didn't need to strain one super brain cell to figure out what I wanted. He slid his hand around both of our erections, rubbing them together, and shit, it had been so long, and it was good, really, really good. He was being astonishingly gentle, mindful of all my little dents and scratches, and it didn't take long before I was muffling screams into a pillow and we were both sweaty and sticking to the sheets.

Now, my thought process came back online when I figured out how to breath again, and at the moment, my greatest wish was to sink down through this bed and out of the ship into the cold vacuum of space to die hideously. But then if wishes were potato chips then I'd weigh about a thousand kilos. What the hell was I doing? This guy had tried to -kill- me not all that long ago. Certainly not long enough ago for us to be doing the mattress tango together.

"Why...why did you do that?" I managed. He actually had the nerve to look surprised.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Ok, this guy has a set of balls that a Gundam would be proud of, and if he actually wore underwear he'd have to special order them. Like two hours ago he was going to splatter my brains all over that dinky little cell and now he thinks giving me a hand job is no big deal?

Oh, whatever. I was still too tired to process and if he was naked in bed with me we couldn't be all that close to Earth. I rolled back over and left him the wet spot, snuggling into the warm blankets as I drifted back into dreamland.


I hate hospitals. Actually, I don't know anyone who likes them. Wearing little paper gowns with your ass sticking out of the back. People wandering in and out who pay way too much attention to the various products your body expels on a daily basis. It's just not a good place to hang out.

And more than that, I hate actually needing to be in a hospital. And I really hate that Heero is right about me needing to be here. While he's going off and kicking some OZie ass, I'm stuck here, recovering from OZie boots kicking my ass.

So while all I wanted to do was sleep some more, Heero was blabbing on, and when did he suddenly become a chatterbox? I wasn't even listening too hard to it all until he got to this part.

"Why not go to school instead of me. I've already got the admission taken care of, under you name."

Hold up. Rewind tape.

He'd used my name. My name for his enrollment. Mine.

You know, I've never been known for the quality of my mental abilities, but in that one, single moment, I had an epiphany.

When I was younger, after I learned how to read, I used to play a little game with myself. I collected words, sort of, learned what they meant. Lethargic, fastidious, precipitate. They were a little like exotic creatures, of the likes you'd never bump into on the streets of L-2.

An epiphany, according to Merriam-Webster's Dictionary, 270th edition, circa 21**, an epiphany is: (1): a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2): an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3): an illuminating discovery. b: a revealing scene or moment.

That about covers it.

For one instant, the sky cleared, the planets aligned and everything was perfectly, crystal clear to me, and I knew without even a shred of a doubt that I had fucked up.

My name.

He'd used my name.

Oh, fuck me, do you know what that means? In my lifetime alone, a few million schoolgirls have doodled the names of their crushes on the brown paper of their book covers, with little hearts and stars surrounding them. Heero's no schoolgirl and the relationship we have isn't exactly anyone's idea of a crush, but even I'm not so blind that I can't see a metaphor.

He's fallen for me. Somewhere along the line this had stopped being a game to him, if it ever had been and oh, shit, yeah, I'd fucked up. If you combined every other fuck up in my life, they'd only be a drop of water in the ocean compared to this one.

If I could have gotten out of that bed, I'd have been out of that room so fast that my bare feet would have left skid marks.

People don't fall in love with me. That's not how it works. I'm telling you, they don't fall in love with me. Period.

I said they don't! They can't! That is not fucking well how it works! I hadn't even told him about Quatre yet. I'm mean, it's not like we're mong..monagum...er...going steady.

I didn't even hear the rest of what he said. When he left a few minutes later I was still just sitting there like an idiot. Through the roaring in my ears I could hear a song playing on a radio somewhere; that canned music they always have in public places.

"...almost had your hooks in me, didn't you, dear? You nearly had me roped and tied..."

Oh, shit, no. I don't think so. The second I could get up under my own steam, I was going to be out of here, and I do mean gone. Good and gone, and good riddance to one Heero Yuy, because that is baggage that I -so- do not need. Not now.

Not ever.


Hi, my name is Duo Maxwell and I never tell a lie.

But I will sure as hell run and hide.