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Left Unsaid	By : ElleSmith Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male > Heero/Duo Views: 1021 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: GUNDAM WING is a Registered Trademark of Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency & TV Asahi. This work of fiction was written for non-profitable purposes.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Chapter 17: APB
"Jingle Bell Rock" played quietly on an old jukebox in a dark and shady establishment. The small pub was rather empty; its booths stood bare, yet a few lonesome customers sat brooding at the bar. A bright purple neon sign hung above the abundant display of liquor bottles behind the counter, flashing the name: Eliot's.
A young brunette sat at the far end of the polished counter, slowly sipping a colorful cocktail through a straw. She was a lovely looking woman, dressed plainly enough as to not attract too much unwanted attention to herself, yet the blouse she wore under her trendy jacket was sufficiently tight and her cleavage just provocative enough to catch someone's eye if she so pleased. Her deep brown eyes were fixed on a handsome young man sitting at the other side of the long bar. She has been watching him all night.
She estimated him to be in his mid-twenties. He sat quietly, staring bleakly at his drink, keeping to himself. His hair was a rich shade of dark brown, cut short yet unkempt at the front; his bangs were arranged in tantalizing heap as though to entice her fingers to touch it.
There was an air of desolation about him; dark, brooding and so heartbreakingly alluring. His handsome face was set in a blank, unreadable expression: hard and cold... except for his eyes. There was a distant, forlorn look in his sad blue eyes. He sat hunched over the bar, sipping a glass of whiskey on the rocks and staring endlessly at his phone, lost in a world of pain. She has been watching him for hours, fascinated by a tragic mystery waiting to be unraveled.
She licked her lips slowly, hungrily, her eyes running up and down his figure. He was very well-built. She could tell even through the casual long-sleeved shirt he was wearing. It was a slim fit that left little to the imagination; the fabric stretching over his muscular arms and chest. She had watched him walk to the restroom about an hour ago. The sight of his retreating backside in dark blue jeans was far from disappointing.
He had been sitting alone all evening, just drinking quietly, never attracting any attention to himself. For the last half hour or so he had been looking at his smartphone. At first she had thought he was texting, but after a while she figured that he must be looking at something, reading perhaps, maybe surfing the net, because his fingers weren't typing anything. Whatever he was doing, he was deeply engrossed in it, never tearing his gaze from the phone, even while reaching for his drink. He only looked up when he signaled the bartender for another round, gesturing with his empty glass. He never said a word.
She had futilely tried gaining his attention a few times during the night, attempting to catch his eyes in the seldom moments when he finally looked up from the bar. He never spared her a glance. He wasn't looking for company, but then again, why would he be here instead of drinking alone at home? Only the sad and lonely were out tonight, Christmas Eve 205.
She finished her drink quickly, gulping down the rest of it without the straw, grabbed her purse from the bar and stood up. She opened her jacket widely, flipping it back to reveal her impressive rack. She pushed her long hair back, picked up her empty cocktail glass and marched determinedly towards the solemn young man. She placed her empty glass in front of him while climbing up on the bar stool next to his, smiling artfully.
"What does a girl have to do to make you buy her a drink already?" she asked in a low droning voice as she leaned one elbow on the counter, looking at him thoroughly. Sitting close to him now, she could see that his left cheek was bruised; a large purple stain telling the story of a punch he had taken to the face by a right-handed opponent. She hadn't been able to see it under the dim illumination from all the way across the bar. From afar he seemed perfect, but from up close he was... flawed. She liked them that way.
Glancing down at his hands, she noted that his knuckles were bruised as well, suggesting that he had taken an active part in the fight. A few of his fingers were crooked; they've been broken once. Faint, white and hairline-thin scars peeked under the cuffs of his plain cotton shirt. It reminded her of self-inflicted knifing; she was intrigued. He caught her looking and pulled the sleeves down forcefully, hiding them. Her gaze traveled upwards. She noted another scar sneaking under the tip of his V-shaped collar, running down his clothed chest. A bad boy; she smirked, pleased.
The young man continued looking at his phone, ignoring her still. She glanced at it briefly and her eyes caught a glimpse of a photo. He was viewing the picture gallery, browsing through a set of pictures – all of them of a small blonde girl with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.
She gave him a wily smile and leaned towards him slightly, invading his personal space even further. He reclined back a little. It was a subtle movement, but she picked up on it nonetheless. A shy guy – sweet.
"Let me guess," she opened slyly, slurring for she was a bit tipsy. "The Ex refused to let you have your baby-girl over on Christmas, so you're sitting here, brooding, torturing yourself with her pictures?"
The young man purposely ignored her and flipped the phone over to hide the screen. He reached for his drink and sipped it quietly, looking ahead at the bar.
"You married young – your high school sweetheart," she continued her little guessing game, smirking, "had a kid by the time you were twenty and it didn't take long for both of you to realize that you made the biggest fucking mistake of your lives, right?" she laughed at her own assumption. "So you moved to the city and she's been a cold-hearted bitch ever since. How's that?"
He finished his drink quietly and placed it back on the counter. He signaled the bartender for another round by pointing at his empty glass. He still hasn't turned to face her.
"Or I could be way off," she tried again, shrugging carelessly. The guy was so intense!
"For all I know you could be a sick pedophile getting off from gawking at pictures of innocent little girls..." she teased and this time he finally turned to her, glaring angrily. She smiled in apology.
"But something tells me that it's not the case," she added softly. He scoffed silently, dismissing her presumptuous remark, and reached into his jeans to pull out a pack of cigarettes – Winston Blue. He flipped it open with his crooked fingers and fished out a smoke.
"Hey man, no smoking in here," the barman said as he approached with the young man's order, holding a bottle of Jameson, and the young man looked up at him, scowling.
"Since when?" he asked in low raspy voice, barely above a whisper, but still intimidating in a creepy way. The young woman felt a small tremor run down her back. She wriggled her hips a little on the seat, feeling a pleasant tingling. There was something undeniably pleasing about his husky voice.
The barkeep shrugged to indicate that he doesn't know nor care. He poured the young man his drink and walked away.
"Sucks, doesn't it?" she commented dryly, smiling at her reluctant companion. "It's hard to find a good place that doesn't ban smoking anymore. This was a last haven, you know?" she said and pulled a lighter out of her deep cleavage. She waved it up and down in his face, smiling seductively. "Join me outside?"
He turned to look at her and she strained to keep a straight face under his fierce blue gaze. He studied her quietly, scanning her up and down, his gaze lingering on her bountiful cleavage long enough to let her know that he wasn't truly made of stone as he appeared to be.
He stood up without a word and shoved his phone into his jeans pocket. He grabbed a plain brown leather jacket from the back of his bar stool, dug a crumpled old fifty-dollar bill out of its pocket, threw it on the bar and then walked to the door, slipping into the jacket as he went. Confused, she remained seated for a moment until she saw him stop at the door, holding it open. He turned to look at her, his intense blue eyes seeking her from across the small bar. She smiled and hopped off the chair, hurrying after him.
They stepped outside into the cold snowy night and he offered her a cigarette. She accepted it with a slutty grin and lit up her own smoke while watching him pull another cigarette out of the box and throw it expertly to his mouth, catching it between his lips and letting it dangle in his mouth. Once again her eyes noted the bruise on his cheek. She lit his smoke for him, leaning into his personal space once more, pressing her breasts to his firm torso to enjoy his intense heat in the cold night air. This time he didn't flinch away.
They stood under a bright purple neon sign flashing Eliot's and smoked quietly. She studied his bland face carefully, looking up for he was a bit taller. He was looking out at the other side of the street, his eyes gazing numbly at a dark alleyway across the road. She turned to watch the alley for a moment too, trying to see what was so interesting about it, but no one was there.
"Come here often?" she asked, trying to make conversation. He just kept staring at the alley as though expecting someone to come out of the shadows.
"Not really," he murmured after a while, never tearing his gaze away from the alley. He took a drag on his smoke and released it slowly, sighing. "Been a while," he added solemnly.
"Yeah? Well, this place ain't what it used to be anyway," she muttered and took a puff on her own smoke. "I just come here outta habit, I guess," she added and studied his bruised face; the bruising was much more prominent under the electric purple light coming from above.
"You look like you've been to a bar fight or something... Got kicked out of your usual place?" she ventured a guess. "Some Christmas, huh?"
The young man ignored her and continued smoking quietly, his eyes still fixed on the alley on the other side of the dark and narrow side-street.
"Don't talk much, do you?" she mumbled with a sigh and slumped against the building wall. "Yeah, I know the type..." she muttered, taking a puff on her smoke; "been there, done that... got the restraining order..." she finished with a small bitter laugh and turned to look at him again, smiling at her own sarcastic joke. Her smile slowly faded when faced with his eerie stoicism. She glanced towards the alleyway again, wondering what was so damn fascinating about it!
"I live right across the street," she said carefully, studying his face for a reaction. He turned to her, scowling darkly. His intense glare was making her nervous. He was running his eyes over her again, assessing what she had to offer. His fierce blue eyes traveled from her breasts down to her hips; he was checking out her ass, an asset she was quite proud of actually. She made a subtle shift to the side, just enough to offer him a view of her voluptuous booty. Her intentions did not escape him. He was eyeing her like a hawk fixing in on its prey. She chuckled agitatedly, hoping she wasn't getting herself into something more than she could handle.
"In case you're interested..." she added, hesitating; "Christmas's a shitty time to be lonely, right?"
He turned back to look at the alley and raised his smoke back up. "Yeah," he agreed quietly while staring at it pensively. He finished his cigarette, taking his time, and then threw the burnt butt to the floor, squashing it with his foot. He turned to her, eyes fiery with resolve. Fuck, he was sexy!
"Let's go," he rasped silently but sternly and turned towards the main road up ahead. She smiled, pleased that she has finally managed to reel him in. She followed him out of the narrow side-street towards the main road up ahead. He walked briskly and she had to quicken her pace to catch up with him, wobbling on a pair of high heels.
"It's right over there," she huffed, gesturing with her head towards a large building up ahead, over by the main road.
A car turned wildly into the small street, tires screeching. It sped towards them, engine roaring, and then swerved onto the pavement, coming to an abrupt stop a few feet away, blocking their path. She stopped dead in her tracks, gasping, and gaped at vehicle in shock. It was an NYPD squad car.
Her company for the night wasn't deterred by the sudden intrusion. He stood two steps ahead of her, staring calmly at the police car blocking his path.
The driver's door opened and out came an officer, wearing dark-blue uniform complete with an NYPD duty jacket and hat. He secured his holster, twisting it around his waist, and marched towards them, looking pissed. He was a handsome young man; his hair a light chestnut brown, cut to medium-length with short bangs peeking under his police hat, and his eyes a fiery cobalt blue burning with silent rage. She could see the angry gleam even in the darkness of the night. He was glaring at them furiously as he approached, as menacing as death.
She took a step back, alarmed, and gaped at the young man she had planned on taking home with her tonight.
"Jesus... you're not some psycho, are you?" she whispered nervously. The young man ignored her. The cop was glaring at her menacingly as he finished his approach and turned to her companion.
"Get in the car, Heero," he growled as he halted in front of her chance-date; "Don't make me book ya."
The young man – Heero, apparently – scoffed insolently, dismissing the threat. "On what fucking charges?" he asked nastily, raising his chin in spite.
"Assaulting an officer comes to mind," the young cop muttered, rubbing his left cheek, which was bruised much like Heero's, she noted. She gaped at the two, stupefied.
"What the Hell is going on?!" she demanded and turned to Heero. "You got in trouble with the law or something? What the fuck did you do at that bar?!"
"Back off, sister," the cop hissed dangerously, glowering at her from behind the young man's shoulder. "You're done for the night."
"Hey – I'm not some fucking hoe! I have my rights!"
She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and went back into the bar muttering a frustrated "I don't need this shit..." under her breath.
"Lovely broad," Duo commented cynically as he turned back to Heero. "One of your better choices, I gotta say."
"Don't worry, you can have a go at her after I'm done," Heero smirked spitefully, "You're good at that, aren't you?"
"Oh, we're back to that now?!" Duo exclaimed, waving his hands up animatedly. "We said we're sorry like a billion times – get over it!"
"No – you get over it! I'll fuck whoever I fucking want!"
"Oh sure!" Duo laughed cynically. "Sure you will! I bet the broad woulda been real understanding when she saw you can't get your junk working. Oh sure... she woulda listened to your sob story and you woulda told her all about how coming off the SSRIs damaged your goods so it ain't your fault, and how you've been through so much shit that even when you finally could do it, you still couldn't... sure! She woulda gotten that, right? Woulda been real sweet 'bout it too, telling you it's okay if she doesn't get laid tonight, that you're still her man 'n all that bullshit. Real supportive, I'm sure. Unlike the guy who stuck with you through all that shit, told you he was cool about it... The guy who waited for you a whole damn year and then when shit hit the fan you ran off to some WOMAN!"
"Ch!" Heero snorted coldly and turned on his heels, ready to head back to the bar. Duo grabbed him firmly by his arm, stopping him. Heero whirled around, glaring wrathfully.
Duo smirked smugly, looking Heero in the eye with a haughty gleam in his dark blue eyes. "Didn't think I'd be stupid enough to approach you with a weapon, didja?" he snarled nastily, his hand sneaking towards Heero's, who was still gripping him by the empty holster around his hips. The moment he touched him, Heero flinched back violently.
"Don't fucking touch me!" he shouted and pushed Duo back with both arms. He whirled around and stomped towards the bar.
"Heero – get back here!" Duo yelled and ran after him, grabbing him by his arm again. In a flash Heero had Duo pinned up against the building, holding the young cop's face pressed into the cold brick wall and clutching his neck in a dangerous chokehold. He held Duo's free arm twisted behind his back in a death grip.
"Don't touch me!" he roared into Duo's ear, his eyes wild, and yanked Duo's arm back forcefully, slamming him repeatedly against the wall. "Don't ever touch me!"
Duo's police hat fell to the pavement, rolling to the road. Pressed against the wall, he gurgled, choking. He wriggled in Heero's tight hold, trying to break free. But the young man was strong, leaning against him with all his weight, keeping him pinned to the wall. The arm clutched around his neck tightened, pulling back even more. Desperate to get away before he ran out of air, he lifted his leg up backwards, kicking Heero in the groin. The young man cringed back with a loud groan and let go. Duo stumbled away from the wall, coughing.
"Dammit, Heero..." he huffed breathlessly, leaning against his knees to catch his breath. He looked up at Heero sadly. "Don't do this... c'mon..." he pleaded, straightening up; "I said I was sorry, alright? Let's just go home," he asked, reaching a hand towards Heero. "We'll talk it out in the morning... when you're sober."
"I'm done talking," Heero grumbled angrily. "We're done here," he said and resumed walking, this time headed towards the main street. "We're done!" he stressed ominously as he walked past Duo, punching the building wall. He headed out of the narrow side-street. Duo watched him leave, sighing.
"Here we go again..." he mumbled, shaking his head despairingly. He picked up his hat from a small ditch at the side of the road, dusted it off and walked back to the squad car, plopping into the driver's seat. By the time he was seated behind the wheel, Heero was already out of sight.
Duo opened the glove box. His gun was inside, along with a pack of Winston Blue. He snatched it and helped himself to a smoke. He needed time to cool off if he was to rectify the situation. Tonight was going to be a long night. Like always, it was up to him to fix this, not because he was at fault – and he usually wasn't – but because Heero would never do it. That would require a substantial amount of mental strength, and Heero didn't possess any, tonight of all nights.
He sat in the car, smoking while gazing out at the busy road up ahead. Even drunk, Heero could still cover a lot of ground by foot and the city was a great place to hide if you didn't wish to be found. It was easy to get lost, disappear, and make sure no one would find you. Heero was a God damn expert.
Duo finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the car ashtray. He reached for the two-way-radio transceiver and lifted the talk-in piece to his mouth. He sighed and pressed the button on the side, speaking into the small device.
"Centre, 223, 10-69."
There was a pause, a silent crackle and then a female voice replied: "223, Centre, go ahead."
"I need you to put out my usual APB. I'm on 433 E Sixth Street."
"10-4 23. Bad night?"
"10-4," the dispatcher acknowledge. A moment later her voice came on the radio: "Centre calling all units in the East Village area. We have an APB out on a twenty-five-year-old male, brown hair, blue eyes, slightly Asian façade. Approximately five foot eleven, one seventy pounds. Last seen on 433 E Sixth Street. Possibly a 10-50. Subject is dangerous when intoxicated, be advised."
"223 from 222," a male voice came on the radio. "I'll come up from A Avenue, see what we got."
"10-4 22," Duo replied thankfully.
"223 from 221," another officer came on the radio; "I'm just coming up First. We'll flank him and get him home by breakfast."
Duo smiled faintly, touched by the strong sense of camaraderie they shared. He never had that on L2. The guys here were different, they understood. He didn't have to explain anything because they knew; they all knew Heero was the Redeemer's last victim and maybe that was why they helped out in every way they could. They didn't do it out of obligation or anything like that. They did it because they cared, because that was what the guys on The Job did for each other down here. Heero was ex-Preventer and that still counted for something.
"10-4, 21," Duo said into the two-way radio. "I owe you one."
"Nothing to it," the other officer replied; "make it up to me next time my damn sixteen-year-old runs off and we're even."
Duo smile faintly and raised the radio back up. "10-4, Mike. It's a deal."
* * *
They searched around the block, and the two adjacent blocks, but came up empty. Heero knew better than to stay in plain sight. This was not the first APB that was put out to find him. He was used to avoiding NYPD patrol cars; he's been doing it for nearly a year now. This wasn't the first time he ran off after a fight and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He couldn't cope, so he bolted. Duo was used to it by now. Usually he wouldn't have worried so much, but tonight was different. Tonight was Christmas; the first Christmas since Heero was taken. It was bound to get ugly.
At some point he found himself simply driving around, not even looking anymore. What was the point? Heero clearly didn't wish to be found. Hopefully, he will come out when he's ready; that's how things usually went down. It wasn't easy, but that was the life he had chosen for himself and he had no regrets. He bitched and moaned about it at times, but he had no regrets. He loved Heero and he had made the choice to remain by his side come what may. Heero tested him almost every day. The guy has certainly turned out to be the most frustrating, hardheaded, offensive and ill-tampered person he has ever known. Granted, not all the time, but he did have his moments, like tonight.
He had considered the first few weeks to be the hardest, but in retrospect what came later was much worse. In those first few days after he had discharged Heero from the hospital, he had been very patient with him; so fucking patient, surprising even himself when he still managed to muster strength and perseverance in times of unbearable frustration. He couldn't surrender to frustration because he had a clearly defined mission to accomplish: he had to get Heero talking or else he'd be committed again, treated with the same device Sloan had used to torture him. That would have only made it worse. Duo couldn't let that happen.
For two whole days, all Heero did was lie on the floor by his bed, wrapped in that damn blanket. For some reason, he refused to lie on the bed even after Duo had changed the sheets and tidied the place up, erasing any evidence of Relena and his betrayal. Heero just lay there at the foot of the bed, curled into himself and clasping the blanket around his chest as he stared ahead at nothing.
He had tried to get Heero to eat something, he was so frighteningly thin, however Heero refused to eat. Duo had even ordered some takeout from that Chinese place he assumed Heero liked after finding that delivery menu in his work station at Preventer. It might have not been the healthiest choice after weeks of starvation, but he hoped it would get Heero eating again. It didn't.
He had placed the food on the floor in front of Heero and sat down next to him. The scent of fried chicken meatballs was mouthwatering, but Heero just stared at them numbly. He had opened a box of fried rice and offered it to Heero, holding it close to him in hope that the delicious aroma will entice him to eat. Heero had hesitated, but eventually reached a broken hand into the box and picked up a few grains of rice with his only two working fingers. He served them carefully to his mouth and chewed slowly, completely apathetic. He gave Heero some fried meatballs and Heero picked a small one, eating it reluctantly. A moment later, he heaved it all out, vomiting on the floor in a series of sick gurgles, spluttering puke all over his chin. He then lay in it, staring into thin air.
The only thing he could get Heero to eat were those damn Skittles! He had walked to his room carrying three packets in different colors, sat next to Heero with a stupid grin plastered on his face and asked which one he liked best. Heero had pointed at the green one so he had placed the packet on the floor next to him and watched him eat it slowly. It went on like that for days.
Since the man obviously couldn't survive solely on candy, Duo had made a deal with him – eat a little of this or that and get candy. So little by little Heero ate here and there, just so he could get the damn candy. Eventually, he had managed to feed the man a whole meal without having him vomit it later on. It was a God damn miracle.
A few days later, Heero even agreed to get into bed, although he didn't let go of the blanket yet, taking it with him. It reeked of sweat and vomit, but he wouldn't let it go. Duo tried to slip the blanket carefully from under him while Heero slept, just so he could throw it in the wash real quick, but the minute it was off Heero woke up, screaming and flinging his arms desperately to try and get the blanket back. Shocked, Duo panicked and threw the filthy blanket back on the bed. He gaped, stunned and mortified, as Heero gathered the dirty blanket swiftly into his hands, squashing it into a ball and hugging it tightly against his chest. He pushed himself to the other side of the bed, scuttling against the mattress and tangled sheets as he curled into himself and around the blanket, protecting it. His wide blue eyes were on Duo the whole time, watching him fearfully, afraid he might try to take the blanket away again. Duo couldn't move. He stood there with tears in his eyes, trying his best not to fall apart. It was days before Heero allowed Duo near him again.
Weeks went by. He was supposed to take Heero back to the hospital for a psych evaluation, but the man still hasn't said a word. They were going to commit him and Duo was beginning to think that maybe it would be for the best. He obviously wasn't doing Heero any good. All he did was make sure Heero won't kill himself, but he wasn't helping him make any real progress. He tried to explain to Heero time and time again that if he doesn't speak he will be admitted, but his words fell on deaf ears. Heero wasn't talking. Then came the day he had to take Heero back to the hospital.
It was early in the morning and Heero was taking a shower. Duo didn't trust him to shower alone, not after what happened at the hospital. He joined Heero inside the bathroom whenever the young man was willing to take a shower, sitting on the closed toilet seat while Heero undressed behind the shower curtain concealing the tub and then showered. Once done Heero would reach a wet hand out and Duo would hand him a towel. That day, however, Heero didn't reach a hand out after turning the water off.
Duo had been sitting on the closed toilet, gaping dully at the bathroom door, when suddenly his mind registered that the water had stopped running. He frowned, turning to look at the closed shower curtain to his right. There was no sound, no movement.
"Heero?" he had called his name out worriedly, standing up. "Are you okay?"
There was no answer and he was worried, so he opened the shower curtain, just a tad, and peeked inside. Heero stood inside the bathtub, leaning heavily against the wall, facing Duo's way; his nude form was slumped and curled inwards and he was hugging himself. Duo tried not to gawk at his frail and bony body or the red cuts all over his pale wet skin, but he couldn't help it; his eyes moved on their own, taking it all in, once again faced with the horror of what went on in that basement. He forced himself to look up and keep his eyes on Heero's face. The young man's head was bowed down. His dark hair was longer when wet, reaching below the nape of his neck. His long bangs were plastered flatly over his forehead, concealing his eyes, which were wide open, staring unseeingly at the wall he leaned against.
"Heero?" Duo had whispered softly once more, trying to gain his attention. "Do you need any help?" he asked and reached for the towel hanging next to him, handing it to Heero. Solemn blue eyes slowly shifted to look at the towel. Heero gaped at it numbly for a moment, before he reached a hesitant hand up. He took the large white towel and wrapped it over his shoulders, letting it hang down like a cape. He held it closed in front of his chest, clutching the fabric in his fist, and resumed staring unblinkingly at the wall.
Duo stood there, holding the shower curtain in his hand, feeling at a loss. Up until now Heero had functioned on automaton, preforming whatever task was necessary in order to get by: from brushing his teeth and shaving in the morning, to getting dressed, eating and taking his medication (he was still being weaned gradually off the SSRIs, taking a lower dosage each week), to showering and then finally getting to bed. He got through the day one step at a time, going from A to B until the day was finally over. Now, he suddenly stopped, like a wound-up clock that had to be reset. Duo didn't know what to make of it, what to do.
"Is this about the hospital?" he ventured an educated guess. He knew that Heero understood perfectly that he wasn't going to come back home with him today. Duo had made it very clear when he tried to coax Heero into talking the other night, but it didn't change a thing. Heero still wouldn't talk.
Duo sighed. "Get dressed," he said, "We haffta be there by ten," he mumbled and prepared to step out of the bathroom.
"Don't..." Heero suddenly whispered and Duo stopped, slowly turning around to face him again.
"Don't leave me..." Heero murmured sadly, huddling closer to the wall, shying away. There was so much heartbreak in his quiet, defeated, voice. It took Duo a moment to find his voice again. He stepped closer to the bathtub.
"I won't," he promised. "I won't leave you. But you gotta help me out here, Heero. You have to talk to me."
The faucet dripped silently. Outside, an airplane flew closely by, its engines roaring loudly.
"I did talk to you..." Heero then whispered ever so quietly.
Duo felt a painful pang in his chest and winced, closing his eyes sadly. "You talked to me?" he asked, his voice breaking.
"...all the time," Heero mumbled. He fell silent for a while and then added: "You weren't real."
Duo opened his eyes and turned to look at the closed shower curtain, a wretched expression on his face. Tears shone in his eyes.
"And now that I am real you won't talk to me?"
"I can't..."
"Why not?" he asked softly, "because I might give a different reply than the 'me' in your head?"
Heero didn't reply, so Duo assumed he guessed correctly.
"Try me," he offered softly. "I might surprise you."
"You'll leave."
"I won't."
"She did." Heero stated miserably.
"I'm nothing like her and you know it," he said firmly and opened the shower curtain. Heero was still standing against the wall, holding the towel around him. He was looking numbly at the white porcelain wall ahead.
"I'm not going anywhere," Duo assured him. "Not this time… not unless you tell me to, but you gotta talk again, Heero. Not just to me, the doctors too. You gotta talk to them."
Heero bowed his head down slowly, clutching the towel closer against his chest. "...I have nothing left to say," he mumbled brokenly; "I gave him everything. I have... nothing. There's nothing left. Nothing..."
"You have me," Duo assured him almost automatically; "you'll always have me... for as long as you'll want me."
That concluded their conversation for the day. Duo waited a moment and when he gathered that there will be no reply, he settled back on the closed toilet seat. He sat there silently and waited until Heero was ready to come out of the tub.
He spoke to Heero's doctor and the man agreed to postpone the psych evaluation. Duo was determined to make the new deadline. But for some reason Heero was only willing to speak while they were in the shower. He never said a word outside that room. The shower was the only place where he felt comfortable naked, literally and figuratively. Duo would sit on the toilet while Heero stood behind the shower curtain, wrapped in a towel hanging over his shoulders, sharing what little he had been willing to share. He didn't say much, just little things, small words here and there that told volumes of the hurt he felt inside.
"She was just like me," he had said once, referring to his daughter. "Never loved enough... never cared for by her own parents... I would have loved her now," he had concluded miserably.
All Duo could offer was reassurance and understanding. He didn't really have much more to give. There was nothing he could say, so he listened. He knew better than to try and push the issue; it never worked with Tomás, so why would it work with Heero? His experience with the boy's elective mutism came in real handy when dealing with Heero's silence. He just went with it, never making a big deal out of it, until the new deadline arrived.
As the day came once more to take Heero back to the hospital, Duo had made it very clear to Heero that it was either talk to the damn doctors, or get admitted into psych against his will. He watched anxiously as the door closed behind Heero after he stepped into the therapy room and probably held his breath the whole time he was there. He didn't know if Heero said anything while inside. All he knew was that a committee of three God damn shrinks evaluated Heero's mental health and submitted a report to Preventer. Two weeks later Heero was honorably discharged for early retirement, along with a generous psych pension that more or less set him up for life. He's been unemployed ever since, which left him with a lot of time to practice his self-destructive behavior. When Duo suggested that he'd get another job, Heero told him to go fuck himself. He was spiteful that way; hostile and disgruntled. Surprisingly, Heero had a real flair for trash-talk. It was always the quiet ones.
Duo on the other hand had to get some sort of income going and therefore joined the NYPD soon after Heero was deemed fit to remain without supervision. It was more or less a smooth transition to the NYPD, no academy training required, especially after submitting warm recommendations from his Department Chief on L2, a few high ranking directors at Preventer he just so happened to know personally, and even Chief Lopez from the MSC. He was starting from the bottom again and working his way up the ranks. He worked as a police officer at the 7^th Precinct servicing the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It was a small precinct with a relatively low crime rate and he hoped to make 3^rd grade detective soon and move on to something more interesting, getting his hands dirty again fighting real crime.
He got a small place in an old but renovated brownstone building in Greenwich Village. The neighborhood was separated from the hustle and bustle of the city. It streets were lined with trees, large and beautiful brownstone buildings and smaller, more classic New-England-style homes. Living in the Village, Duo could escape from the rigors of life with a walk through Washington Square Park, lounging in a green haven he could never enjoy on L2. He appreciated the calm and refined vibe of the neighborhood and was rather content that he has chosen to make it his home.
Heero didn't like it. He said that the place was creeping with snobs – stuck-up, uppity and fussy, but Duo didn't mind. It was a nice neighborhood and he's had enough of living in rundown joints. The Village was a bit expensive, but he didn't need much space so he got by. The important thing was that it was close enough to Heero, but not too close. It was a delicate balance that had to be carefully maintained. Moving in seemed like a bit too much at this point. They weren't quite there yet... probably won't be for a long while and when the time would finally come Heero would probably want him to move out of the Village, so he enjoyed it while he could.
"223 from 225," a female voice crackled over the radio, tearing into his reminiscing. Duo reached for the talk-in piece and picked it up. "10-4, 25. Go ahead."
"Spotted a guy who fits your ABP on third," the female officer said; "Looks like he's been doing some shopping. Tried to engage but both he and the damn juggler split. Dunno if he managed to cut the deal. Lost him on Union Square."
Duo shook his head in disappoint and hissed a silent "damn" under his breath. He picked the radio up again. "10-4 25. Thanks for the info. I'm heading over there now."
"10-4 23. Good luck. Over and out."
Duo turned the car around, cussing.
* * *
There was, of course, no sign of Heero by the time he arrived at Union Sq. He had circled the area a few times, even scouted it by foot, but Heero had vanished without a trace. Disappointed, Duo got back to his squad car and drove off.
He wasn't supposed to be working on Christmas; rookies usually did, but he had requested some time off to be with Heero. He knew how bad it would get on Christmas. The writing has been on the wall for quite some time now. Heero has made much progress over the past year. He's been stable for months now, even without the SSRIs, and was slowly rebuilding himself from scratch. They were even talking about how he should look for another job, not because he needed the money, but so that he would have something to occupy him other than wallow in self-pity all day long. But as the holiday season approached and winter blanketed the city of New York with rain, sleet and snow, Heero suddenly regressed to his melancholic demeanor, shutting him out. His destructive behavior reemerged and he started doing things he hadn't done in months; smoking, for example. It was a habit he had kicked exactly a year ago. He just threw all of his cigarettes to the trash and never touched one since. Duo had quit with him, at least as far as Heero knew. He couldn't quite make it through the week without sneaking a few drags here and there.
He kept a box in his squad car and another in his locker back at the station. He did his best not to smoke at home, in case Heero dropped by and smelled the lingering scent of cigarette smoke in his apartment. He kept some cigarettes hidden in a soap box in the bathroom and whenever things got a bit too much he closed himself in there, opened up the window next to the toilet seat, sat down and had himself a smoke, gazing out at the city through the small hatch. He was hiding in his own damn apartment, but if Heero ever found out he'd have his neck so it was all he could think of to get by.
He felt bad for living a lie, hiding things from Heero, but smoking was one of very few strongholds of sanity he had left and it was hard giving it up completely. The second would be the medication he was finally willing to take to keep his Borderline Personality Disorder in check. It wasn't something he had entered into lightly; he only did it for Heero's sake. He had to keep the BPD under control or else he would be of no use to Heero, always surrendering to frustration and picking up a fight, making his already taxing relationship with the man even more difficult. The last thing he wanted was to add fuel to the fire, so... meds.
He only took the mood stabilizers his doctor prescribed, no therapy. Heero on the other hand has been seeing a shrink for nearly a year now. Relena had set it up so that Dr. Wright would fly over from DC once week in her private jet. Heero resented her attempts to help him from afar. He refused to meet with Wright, sending the man rudely on his way, but Duo convinced him to give it a shot. By some miracle, Heero listened to him. Wright met with Heero for an hour or two on a weekly basis and that seemed to work wonders for the young man. Heero declined any kind of psychiatric medication, so Duo figured that whatever Wright did for him had to include talking and that talking helped. It comforted him to know that Heero was finally talking to someone, that he was trying to put things behind him once and for all.
His third haven in the world would have to be St. Brigid's Roman Catholic Church in Alphabet City. It has more or less become his sanctuary over the past year. He started going there when he needed time to cool off or muster the strength he needed to take care of Heero while living with the man for a couple of months after his abduction. He continued attending the church even after moving to the Village, feeling no need to search for a new place of refuge because he was already comfortable there.
In its early years, over four centuries ago, St. Brigid's served as a haven for Irish immigrants fleeing to the US. And although later it became a stalwart presence for the ever-changing immigrant populations of the East Village neighborhood, it has always been a home to the local Irish community on the Lower East Side and for some reason that made Duo feel right at home, maybe because the parish reminded him so much of the life he had left behind on L2.
The church resided in a rather plain red-bricked building in the middle of a quiet residential street off of Avenue B, overlooking a small park. It wasn't much to look at, except maybe for the large glass-stained windows at the front and flanks of the building. In this late hour, Christmas Eve, they glowed brightly in the darkness of the night, welcoming any passersby into the fold.
Duo entered the church and took off his police hat. He crossed his heart and stepped inside, holding the hat under his armpit. He had missed Christmas Mass by a half hour. The service has ended a while ago. Not many parish members remained at the church and the last of them were leaving. Most were already home, getting ready for bed so they could greet Christmas Day in the morning with their children.
He settled heavily into one of the many empty pews and stared up at the altar. It was a humble church. Only a large Jesus on the Cross hung above the chancel. The pastor was busy speaking to someone by the altar. It didn't matter. In all the times he's been here, Duo hadn't spoken to the man once. He had his own private priest on speed-dial. He didn't think there were many Catholic priests out there who would be willing to listen to his endless bitching about his challenging relationship with another man.
He wouldn't exactly call what Heero and he had a romantic relationship per-say. It was definitely more than friendship, a loving partnership of sorts, but there was hardly anything romantic about it. They weren't dating or anything stupid like that. They were just... well – together. That much was clear, even when they didn't say or show it in so many ways.
Their relationship was full of trial and error. There was plenty of room for error, given the baggage they both carried, but they eventually found the golden mean between their two very distinct and very difficult personalities. On most days, meeting in the middle was enough. On other days, they stood their ground so damn stubbornly that they ended up fighting because neither one of them would budge. Those days sucked, mostly because Heero would give him the silent treatment for days to follow; he was annoying that way, a fucking drama queen, though he'd probably kill him if he ever said it to his face. Besides, Heero wasn't the only one in a constantly foul mood; Duo was no saint in that department either. He was aware of his bad tempter. It clashed wonderfully with Heero's own disagreeable character.
There was a penalty for picking up a fight, no matter how just. They argued so damn much, about anything and everything, so they decided on a system. The penance that had to be paid for starting a useless argument was to put a note in the Penalty Jar. Since they weren't getting to know each other as other couples would, talking about themselves on dates and such, they did it by putting a note in the jar. Once things cooled down, whoever started the fight had to write something about himself that the other didn't know and slip the note into the jar. Putting the note in was a form of apology they were more comfortable with than simply saying an empty 'I'm sorry'.
There were two jars – one for each; Duo's jar was in Heero's place and vice versa. There were times when Duo's jar was the fullest, and other times Heero's jar was fuller. Sometimes Heero wrote something trivial, like 'I don't like sea food', and other times, if the fight was really big and he felt bad about it, he'd write something more profound, like 'My birth name is Seiki. Don't ever call me that'. Those were the notes Duo appreciated the most and he usually reciprocated the next time it was his turn, replying with a note such as: 'Could wolf down fried shrimps like there's no tomorrow', or: 'Duo is a street name I gave myself. Don't know the real one. The nuns never told me'.
It was a great way to share things about themselves they weren't comfortable putting into spoken words. The rule was that they never spoke about what the other wrote in his note, never prying no matter how curious they might be. It was a safe way of sharing their thoughts and feelings. Duo now knew a lot more about Heero, more than he could ever know from just speaking to his lover...
...actually, the word "lovers" wouldn't define them either, because that wasn't true in the technical sense of the word; not quite yet. There was never a mutual admission of love. Duo had only said it once, the day he got Heero out of the hospital, but neither one of them has said it since. He supposed that loving each other went without saying. Besides, Duo couldn't picture Heero ever saying 'I love you' or anything touchy like that. It'll just be so weird. He'd probably laugh in his face if Heero ever said it. It was enough that there were together, going on a whole year now.
The past year had been a roller coaster ride. They were still learning how to be together. Heero had some hands-on experience from being with Relena for so many years, but that counted for shit. It wasn't the same. And Duo's knowledge of the matter pretty much summed up to what he had seen on TV, and he didn't feel comfortable doing most of that shit. They had to find their own way of making it work.
They didn't go out much, but they did spend a lot of time together, sometimes in Heero's place, sometimes in his. Their time wasn't spent in soul baring conversation, and they hardly ever got physical, just making out here and there – mostly when they got drunk – but still he felt that there was something very intimate about what they shared. It was just... comfortable, peaceful even... in a way. There was a kind of wordless understanding between them, very soothing and reassuring. There were no definitions or explanations necessary. He had promised Heero that he would never leave, as long as Heero didn't ask him to, and he kept true to that promise no matter what. Heero never asked him to leave; he might have been a real jerk at times, testing Duo's commitment to him again and again, constantly pushing boundaries (tonight being a perfect example), but he never asked for it directly, so Duo stayed. He stayed even on days like today, when he knew that he wasn't welcomed.
There were good days too, days that made Duo feel like maybe they were a couple after all, such as the nights when Heero joined him on his patrols and even with his quiet presence managed to make those long lonely night a little less lonely; or the times he showed up at the station late at night with a bag of fried shrimps just to keep him company; or those rare moments when they sat close together in front of the television in pleasant silence, sipping beer and simply enjoying the silence.
They felt good being together, even if it was just sitting in silence in front of the TV or reading in bed. It just felt like they belonged. They slept together too; not sex, but sleeping. They enjoyed falling asleep together, like that night when he had accidently fallen asleep in front of the television in Heero's place once he had finished cleaning up after dinner. Heero had already retired to bed. He took his sleeping pills every night at ten p.m. and by eleven he was out like a light. Those were the only pills he was willing to take, because they got him through the night.
Duo woke up sometime during the midnight newsbreak, surprised to find that he was still in Heero's apartment instead of his own. He got his things together and prepared to leave, but something compelled him to sneak a peek into Heero's room before he left, just making sure he was all right. He stood at the doorway quietly and watched Heero sleep. His feet carried him to the bed without his brain ever instructing them to do so. Heero was deep asleep, snoring softly, completely oblivious under the effect of the sleeping agent.
Next thing he knew, Duo was lying on the bed next to him, watching Heero's sleeping face closely. He studied those handsome features, lax and peaceful under a drug induced sleep. The face of a fallen angel; a creature both magnificent and noxious. He shuddered inside, his heart caving when he thought of all the horrors this face has seen, the pain and hurt it had endured.
He thought of the rape, as he often did. There was no physical trace of it, no evidence of the horror on Heero's serene face, but Duo knew it was there. It was always there, just beneath the surface. He couldn't stop thinking about it either. He would spend hours thinking about what might have happened there, hungry for details because he wanted to know what had been done to Heero, what kind of terrible things he had borne.
It was a sick obsession. He would imagine the worse possible scenarios, tormenting himself with images too vile to be described in words, and he knew that the only way to put an end to this madness would be to ask Heero about it. If only he knew what really happened, what had been done to him exactly, then he would finally put it behind him and stop assuming the worse. That, of course, would be selfish. He would never do that to Heero, never ask him about it just so he could ease his own damn mind, so he didn't. Duo could never avenge Heero's honor, but even if he could, Heero's sexuality wasn't his to protect; the experience was Heero's alone and he had learned to respect that. Heero didn't need him to be a vengeful lover; he was willing to let him in to some degree, which was why months later that Heero finally volunteer some information about his horrendous experience, writing something about it in a note he had put in the penalty jar, but he didn't need Duo to protect him.
Duo continued lying silently, watching Heero sleep. The young man's face contracted into a pained frown. He was having a nightmare. Duo reached for his hand, which rested limply over the blanket, holding it, trying to offer some comfort. He looked down at how his slightly larger palm covered Heero's pale hand. Heero's fingers were a bit curved; the bones never restored completely into place because the stubborn asshole kept using them while they were still broken.
"You're... still here?" he heard Heero asked drowsily, his voice heavy with sleep, and shifted his eyes back up to Heero's face. The young man's eyes were closed, but Duo could tell that he was awake. Heero never talked in his sleep.
"I thought those little blue pills make you dead to the world for seven hours," he said, smiling guiltily for he had been caught in an intimate position Heero had never allowed.
"Nightmares..." Heero murmured tiredly, opening his eyes and blinking sluggishly. He sought Duo's face in the dark.
"Best way to escape them is to wake up."
Duo smiled sadly, looking into Heero's eyes. He pushed himself up on one elbow, leaning over Heero.
"Yeah, sure is," he agreed quietly.
They looked at each other for a moment, before Duo prepared to roll out of Heero's bed. Heero reached his hand to stop him.
"Stay," he said, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark. Duo turned around to face him again.
"You sure?" he asked; "Usually you kick me out by now."
Heero tugged his hand gently, nudging him back to bed, and rolled over to lie on his side, pulling Duo towards him.
"I find that you work far better than any blue pill..." he mumbled sleepily, closing his eyes as he snuggled close to Duo.
"Don't leave..." he whispered, drifting back to sleep. He was out again, cuddled against Duo's chest, snoring softly. Stunned, Duo hadn't moved for at least a minute. Then he smiled, touched by the unusual display of need (must have been the drugs; Heero probably thought he was dreaming). He wrapped his arms around the sleeping young man, drawing him closer.
They made a habit out of it, sleeping over. Heero didn't feel comfortable staying at his place at first; he would try to leave after thinking Duo had fallen asleep. Duo had to stop him, pulling him back to bed before Heero got up. "Stay," he would ask simply, his eyes shining dimly in the dark.
"I'll have nightmares," Heero would mumble, sitting on the edge of the bed and keeping his head bowed down in shame. "I might hurt you."
"No you won't," he would promise softly; "I won't let you."
Appeased, Heero would finally lie back down and Duo would pull him close, hugging him tight. He had found that close, snug, body-to-body contact was the best remedy to ease Heero's anxiety. They would fall asleep embraced and wake up spooned together in the morning. In retrospect, those nights probably would have been the perfect time to finally take their relationship further and become lovers, Duo now mused sadly and heaved a long sigh. He looked away from the altar, shifting his gaze to one of the many glass-stained windows around the church.
There was something very peaceful, very sweet, about those quiet nights spent held in each other's arms. It happened months before Christmas and none of the troubles they were now facing would have gotten in the way. But back then Heero had just been taken completely off the SSRIs and the withdrawal had resulted in what his doctor had named Post-SSRI Sexual Dysfunction, which was a fancy way of saying that he has become impotent.
PSSD was a somewhat controversial diagnosis with no real cure other than Viagra or medication enhancing dopaminergic tone and such – which Heero refused to even hear about. He didn't want any more psychiatric medication and the very notion of using Viagra angered him beyond rational sense. So they went to a specialist, an urologist, who claimed that it had nothing to do with the discontinuation of SSRIs and that it was clearly PTSD related sexual dysfunction that would go away with time.
But fact remained that Heero still suffered from erectile dysfunction, something he had taken hard – no pun intended. It had damaged his already low self-esteem even more if possible and became a great source of friction between them, not because Duo was pushy, but because Heero expected too much of himself and refused to accept that he needed more time. Each time he attempted to initiate something remotely sexual, he struck out and then shut Duo out. They fought about it all the time. Tonight, however, was an all times' record.
Sighing blearily, Duo pulled his cellphone from his dark-blue duty jacket and pressed the digit '3' lengthily until the speed dial function kicked in and the phone dialed Dixon's number on L2. '1' was the voicemail preset, '2' was Heero, '3' was Dixon and '4' was work. That about summed it up. He didn't have anyone else to put on speed dial.
He stared anxiously at the cross above the altar while waiting for the call to connect. A few moments later, Father Dixon's rough voice greeted him warmly:
"Merry Christmas," the old man opened kindheartedly. "I was wondering when you'd finally call. Been a while. I hope this means you're doing well for yourself?"
"I wouldn't say that..." Duo muttered, sighing; "not lately anyway."
"Trouble in paradise?"
"More like another day in Hell."
"That bad, huh?"
"What did he do this time?"
"Actually... this one's on me."
"I see..." the priest let out thoughtfully. He sighed. "Okay, so are you going to tell me about it or what?"
"Don't you have to get ready for Mass or sumthin'?" Duo asked miserably.
"Not for another day," Dixon assured him; "You keep forgetting I'm a day behind you. So tell me: what happened?"
Duo turned to stare wretchedly at the sanctuary while holding the phone pressed to his ear. He studied the cross mutely, unable to put tonight into words.
"Duo, what did you do?" Dixon urged him. "Did you guys have another fight about his... problem?"
"You could call it that..." Duo mumbled and raised a hand up to rub his sore neck. His cheek was bruised, where Heero had punched him, but it wasn't half as bad as the bruising he'll have on his neck in the morning.
"I really messed shit up this time, Father," he whispered, closing his eyes sadly. "Really, really, messed it up."
"You say that every single time and then I call a few days later and it's all sunshine and rainbows again, so get over yourself. Just tell me what happened and we'll figure out how to fix it."
"This wasn't our usual banter, Father. This time it's... well it, uh... It sorta has to do with... baseball," he whispered, looking around anxiously. He didn't feel comfortable calling it was what it was while sitting inside a church on the holiest night of the year. Dixon got the message though.
"Doesn't it always?" he joked and Duo almost smiled.
"So it's... okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just spill it already. No details!"
Duo let out a small chuckle. "Sure," he promised. He took a deep breath, straightening in his seat, and just let it out:
"Okay. So we... we... we finally tried to hit a home run and..."
"Home run?" Dixon cut in and Duo shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't something you regularly confessed to your priest. Up until now he only had to talk about first and second base... sometimes even third, but a home run for a guy who played for the other team was some serious shit, even for Dixon.
"You know..." he said, hoping he didn't have to spell it out for the old man.
"Oh," Father Dixon realized what he was referring to. "Okay. And how did it go?"
"It didn't," Duo grunted, disappointed. "By the end of the night the damn switch-hitter was off trying to hit home base with some broad he met in a bar. Serves me right for falling for a guy who doesn't mind playing for both teams. Big boobs... nice ass... da fuck am I expected to top that?!"
"That bad, huh?" Dixon sympathized.
"Did I mention it was the same bar he was abducted from a year ago?" Duo added dismally, sighing. "Son of a bitch was on some crazy ride down memory lane. I dunno what the Hell is going on in that head of his anymore. He won't talk to me... and it's been weeks since he last talked to Wright. He's losing it, Father. I mean, I expected him to get all depressed when the holiday approached, but he... he was just the opposite. He seemed... fine.
"He started jogging more, but it didn't seem that unusual, yanno? I figured he was just trying to clear his head a little. He was keeping real busy all the time... didn't catch a break, but I thought maybe he did stuff so he won't haffta think. It seemed normal, yanno? I only freaked out when he started spacing out again... staring at stuff for hours like he did back then. He stopped eating again too. It got worse the closer we got to Christmas. He wasn't sleeping... got cranky... real anxious about stuff. He's not the nervous type, but anything would just set him off. I let it slide because I knew how hard things must be for him, I figure it was just a phase. But the weirdest part was that he suddenly wanted to... play baseball more, know what I mean? He hardly wanted to 'til now... suddenly he was ready. I was pretty comfortable on third base... we shoulda stayed there a bit longer, I think. Woulda saved me alotta trouble."
"Is he still having... problems?"
"That's the thing – suddenly he was okay! Tonight of all fucking nights – he's okay!"
"So he was finally ready to play ball?"
"Yup! Batter up!"
"I do not need to know who does the pitching and who does the catching here, son!" the old priest laughed goodheartedly. "Please don't paint me a picture. This is hard as it is."
"Jesus, Father, it's just baseball..."
"Please don't use the Lord's name in this context. It's not just baseball... not in the eyes of the church."
"And since when do you and the church see eye to eye?"
"Are we going to discuss my faith, or are you going to tell me the rest of it?" Dixon asked, annoyed.
"Yeah... sorry," Duo apologized, casting his gaze down briefly. It was not his place to judge, but sometimes Duo wished Dixon would be a bit more like the other priests. He found that he lacked that kind of guidance. His faith has gotten stronger over the past year, or maybe he just didn't bother denying it anymore. Whichever the case, he felt closer to God, and not because he was looking for absolution or forgiveness for the things he had done, but because faith gave him strength. There was a great sense of security when trusting that everything happened for a reason. It gave Duo peace of mind after all he had been through. Catholic faith answered his deep need for repentance. It helped him make sense of all the bad. Dixon didn't; he was basically just a shoulder to cry on.
"So we tried to finally bring it home, yanno?" he continued telling Dixon about what happened that night. "And... I don't think he was really ready."
"God, Duo, you didn't—"
"Hell no!" Duo exclaimed, cutting in before Dixon could even finish that thought. "I didn't force him into it! God! No!"
"Then what is it? Just spit it out already. I don't have all day."
"I didn't mind waiting, right? You know that. I've been waiting this long and I woulda waited even longer if he told me to. But he said he was ready. He said he wanted to take me out to the ballgame... and I was so freakin' happy that he finally wanted to do more than make-out like a couple of junior-high kids, that I didn't even stop to think about how crappy the timing was... why he was finally willing."
"You mean Christmas?"
"Yeah. We shoulda waited a bit longer..." He sighed, covering his face with his free hand, hiding in shame. "I waited it out for as long as it took, but he... Heero, he... he wanted to. I mean, really wanted it, just as bad as I did. No problems in that department no more, get it? I hit the freaking roof, yanno? But... God, I... I shoulda said 'no'... Shoulda waited 'til after Christmas. We were so fucking drunk... I never shoulda gotten drunk with him. I... I just wanted to see him through tonight. I thought drinking would help, but he wouldn't drink alone so I joined him and then one drink lead to another and another and suddenly we're both on the floor and so fucking hot... He was... he seemed ready..."
"Then what happened?"
"He lost it, Father... totally lost it. I mean, I like it rough 'n all, but... but that was something else. He... he... It was like he was trying to relive it... the rape."
"Was he violent?"
"God, no... No. That ain't it. It's... Well... We gave it a go, okay? Like we used to... and it sucked. Big time. I tried not to look disappointed, I mean, that ain't fair, right? To put so much pressure on him like that. He was in there pitching... really trying, yanno? So I said it was okay, but he could tell I was a little... frustrated. I've been waiting so long and then it just... sucked."
"So you had another fight?"
"No... no. I kept my mouth shut for a change. I... I wanted to fix it, yanno? So I... I asked him if it was hard for him because he was thinking back to that night and he said 'yes' so I... I told him... well..." He sighed, pausing for a moment. "I offered that we switch."
"Swit—? Oh. Okay. And what did he say?"
"Well, I told him that maybe if I was the one... pitching... it would be different and he won't go thinkin' 'bout those men... because it would be me."
"And he agreed?"
"Yeah... too quickly, actually. I shoulda put a stop to it then, but I wasn't thinking clearly. I think I wanted him to make it up to me for sucking so bad... and he did too. He knew how much I've been waiting for this night and... well, I think he felt bad so he said yes."
"So you... changed positions?"
"And then what happened?"
"It was cool at first, but then... then he... He wasn't even there, Father. At first I thought he was really enjoying it, so he was in his own little world, which is okay, but then he called out someone else's name... I think it was one of theirs. He... he was getting off thinking 'bout that night..."
"Yeah. He kept asking for it to be rougher. It was... I... He wanted me to hurt him, really hurt him, and I couldn't. I-I... I... I didn't want him to make me into one of them, yanno? It was... it was sick! I... It was so... I felt so disgusting. He was reliving that shit through me and I... I was pissed! Here I go tryin' to be all understanding 'n shit, but he just... just goes 'n makes me into this monster. I... I kinda lost my cool. I said a lotta things I shouldn't have said... and he walked away. Now we're back at square one... He's right back to where he was last Christmas."
"...I see."
"I hurt him real bad, Father. He... he looked so guilty. God, I... I don't think he even realized what he was doin' 'til I was yellin' at him to cut it out. He didn't mean to do it... it just happened and I made him feel like shit for it. Maybe he was just tryin' to purge it out of his system, yanno? Maybe... maybe I shoulda let him. Maybe that's what he needed me to do for him and I screwed it up. God, this is... this is—"
His cellphone beeped to indicate an incoming call waiting. Duo paused and looked at his phone. The number on the screen was from the station.
"Shit," he whispered and his heart nearly summersaulted in his chest. He brought the phone back to his ear.
"Sorry, Father, I gotta take this."
"Sure, Duo. No problem," Dixon said; "Talk to you later," he added and hung up. Duo hurried to take the other call.
"Maxwell," he said anxiously, already knowing what this was about. They found Heero.
"We got him," the female dispatcher from before cut right to the chase. "Robbins found him wandering around First a while ago. He was trying to climb up the fence to get to the old Bellevue Psych building."
"Yeah. Poor guy was pretty messed up, but he didn't give too much trouble. Mike brought him in on a DIP charge. [[i]] They got him down at the Tombs. Told them to hold off on Process. They put him with the rest of the junkies... you know it ain't pretty. You better get down there."
Duo winced, closing his eyes briefly, feeling awful for Heero. He sighed.
"Thanks Sandra," he said as calmly as he could manage, "I'll be right there."
"Sure thing, hun, Merry Christmas," she said and hung up.
Duo lowered his phone down. He gazed wretchedly at the Jesus on the Cross. "Goddammit, Heero..."
*     *     *
Duo marched hastily into the massive Manhattan Detention Complex, entering the immense gray building while flashing his badge at the guards. The Tombs were a bustling spot even on Christmas Eve. Dozens of cops zipped in and out, dropping off the night's catch before the pretrial detainees were either released from Central Booking or taken to Riker's Island, NYC's main jail complex.
Luckily enough, it was three in the morning, Christmas Day, and the alleged criminals who have been detained during the night were mostly sobering frat boys, homeless rabble-rousers looking for a warm place to stay, sobbing transvestites and maybe a few stab-happy kids with nothing else to do on Christmas Eve than get drunk and mutilate each other, so it was a better crowd than on most days.
A burly middle-aged police officer approached Duo once he walked inside. "I brought him in about a half hour ago," he updated Duo as they walked together towards the elevator. "The guy is as high as a kite," he remarked sternly and Duo stopped, staring at him in shock.
"You sure?" he asked, alarmed.
The officer nodded gravely. "...'fraid so," he sighed, "I know a Magic-head when I see one," he muttered in dismay, pushing the call button. "Means I'm stuck with him for the night," he muttered. They couldn't go off-duty if their catch was sick or a junkie. They had to watch them, sometimes take them to the hospital. That sucked. No wonder Mike seemed pissed. Duo really owed him for this one.
*     *     *
Psych patients, people suffering from chronic medical conditions, drunks and junkies were held separately from the main prison population at Central Booking, in case they would experience seizures, DTs from alcohol abuse and other drug related withdrawal symptoms. They were kept in individual holding cells, which was a big plus.The holding cells were warm and toasty, but they reeked of humanity; mostly urine. This particular ward was medically supervised by two seasoned and experienced EMTs who had pretty much seen it all.
One of the two EMTs, a middle aged man dressed in Fire Department uniform, was standing in front of such separate prison cell, frowning deeply as he looked at the distraught young man pacing back and forth across the cell like a caged animal. The FDNY medic stood tensely, his brawny arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the young man through the bars. He was brought in less than an hour ago, completely stoic. He just sat down on the cot and stared numbly at the bars. Then, a few minutes ago, he shot up from the bed and started pacing agitatedly around the cell. That wasn't a good sign, so the EMT watched him carefully.
Two cops, one a young man and the other an old-timer, stepped out of the elevator down the hall and made their way towards him. The EMT recognized the older guy and greeted him with a curt nod of his head.
"Stuck working Christmas too, Mike?"
"You kiddin'?" the older cop smirked; "Better this than my wife's parents!" He laughed, but once he looked at his fellow cop's face he turned serious once more. He cleared his throat, scowling.
"We're here for that Magic-head I brought in a while ago?" he said and the EMT shifted his glance towards the tense young cop standing next to him. The rookie was looking at the cell with a hard, surly, face, his eyes shining ominously. The sight was disturbing.
"Friend of yours?" the EMT asked, frowning.
"On his better days," the young cop muttered, watching the young man pacing around the cell, caught in his own little world. He still hasn't noticed them.
"Yeah well," the EMT sighed, turning back to look at the young man; "The guy's totally tweaked. Been watching him for a while now... he's gonna crash soon."
Duo studied Heero silently, his expression stony. If the EMT was saying that Heero was tweaked, it meant that he had reached the end of his drug binge. The Magic no longer provided a rush or a high. Unable to relieve the horrible feelings of emptiness and craving, addicts usually lost their sense of identity. Intense itching was common and a user could become convinced that bugs were crawling under his skin. They were often in a completely psychotic state, existing in their own world, seeing and hearing things that no one else could perceive. The hallucinations were so vivid that they seemed real and, disconnected from reality, the Magic-head could become hostile and dangerous to himself and others. The potential for self-mutilation was high; no wonder the EMT was worried. He just hoped that Heero would crash before that happened. The crash was imminent.
"Duo!" Heero suddenly called and ran to the front of the cell, grabbing the bars with both hands. Duo flinched, surprised; Heero was fast. He looked up slowly at his partner, trying his best not to look appalled. Their eyes met and Heero smiled widely, relieved.
"Duo..." he let out gratefully, leaning close to the bars. He reached a hand out between them, trying to touch Duo, stretching his crooked fingers as far as he could. Duo remained purposely out of reach.
"You're here... you came for me..." Heero slurred and managed to grab Duo by his duty jacket, just a pinch, and tried to pull the young cop towards him. Duo resisted, keeping his distance. He glared at Heero in disgust.
"You gotta get me outta here, Duo," Heero said, the words rushing out of his mouth in a hasty jumble. He turned to look over his shoulder and then whirled back around to face Duo, his face pale with fear.
"I think there are Shadows here," he said very quietly, leaning in closer as much as the bars allowed him. He tugged at Duo's jacket, looking at him desperately. "You gotta get me out before they come for me," he whispered each word slowly, emphasizing their importance: "You gotta get me out!"
Duo gaped at him, too shocked to move. Suddenly, the past few weeks made perfect sense: the hyperactivity, the agitation, nervousness, the spacing out, insomnia, loss of appetite... even the high libido. Jesus Christ... he was a former addict and he didn't fucking see it, maybe because he didn't think such thing would ever be possible – Heero was on drugs!
And why wouldn't he be? Magic was highly addictive and Heero was subjected to large quantities of it for days, binging on the stuff until his body came to rely on it. His heart literally stopped because it couldn't function without the drug. Magic was one of the most damaging drugs on the illicit market. Its effects were long-lasting. The risk for relapse was high even following long periods of abstinence. The memory of the Magic experience or exposure to cues associated with the time of the substance abuse could trigger tremendous craving and relapse to the abuse, so it didn't matter that Heero's experience was a negative one, nor did it matter that he had gone through a complete withdrawal. His body would always crave the drug, especially around wintertime and even more so on Christmas.
There were days when Duo craved drugs too, but unlike Heero he was strong enough to resist it, maybe because he only tried Magic once, or maybe because he's already been to this dark room and he barely got out of it intact. He swore off drugs for good, promising Joe, Dixon, God and most of all himself that he would never use again, if only so he wouldn't have to suffer the torment of going cold turkey again. Heero however, never had to suffer through the withdrawal, he was kept unconscious. He never paid the price for going on the Magic Ride. He simply didn't know better; Duo did.
Sometimes it seemed that every single thing he has been through in his eight years apart from Heero has been to prepare him for this moment. Working as a detective and learning how to crack a case, his newfound faith and relationship with Dixon, taking care of Tomás, losing Joe and being forced to see a shrink, even his addiction – they all happened so that he would be able to come through for Heero, so that he would know what to do. Perhaps God intended them to be apart so that he would have time to learn, to better himself and surpass her. Although Relena's intentions were always good, she hadn't been able to help Heero. He could, because he knew what had to be done for him, which was why he looked the young man in the eye and calmly said:
"Sorry, Heero, I can't take you home. Not like this. This is the safest place for you to be right now."
"It's not safe!" Heero exclaimed hysterically. He glanced over his shoulder anxiously and turned back to Duo, his face pale with fear. "They're in here..." he whispered, his eyes haunted; "I can hear them... If you'll leave they'll get me."
Mike and the EMT exchange a concerned look.
"There are no monsters here, Heero," Duo sighed.
"You said that before!" Heero accused; "You were wrong! You were wrong about EVERYTHING! You said the wounds have healed... that it's just the scars now... but they haven't! They haven't! They got me in the end, Duo! They got me! You didn't come on time so they got me! They dragged me back into that place! I was there again! With the a—" he gasped, panicking, as though he had just realized he had been doomed. "The apes, Duo!" he whispered frantically, "They'll come too! You gotta get me out of here. Please!"
Nothing Heero said made any sense. He was delusional, his brain going haywire on Magic. Duo sighed, shaking his head in disappointment.
"Sleep it off," he said, turning to leave. "I'll come get you in the morning."
"Probably for the best," the EMT agreed.
Heero thrust his hand between the bars and grabbed Duo tightly.
"No!" he called out, yanking Duo's jacket hard. "You can't... you can't leave me here!" he cried, tears of distress shining in his wild blue eyes. "They'll get me if you walk away..." he wailed, pulling Duo back towards him. He was leaning pressed heavily against the bars, as though trying to squeeze out between them. Duo looked down at where Heero's long and bent white fingers were clutching his NYPD jacket. His eyes watered, but he reached for Heero's hand and pried it off of him gently. Heero returned to grab the bars, squashing his tear-streaked face against them.
"I need you here..." he whispered, crying, "stay... please... Duo... don't let them get me again... don't let the Shadows get me... please. They never come when you're around... you know how to keep them away... please... they listen to you. You know how to talk to them... Please, Duo... tell them to back off... don't let them come... please..."
He couldn't look at those tearful Prussian blue eyes without losing his resolve, so he looked away, bowing his head down sadly and stared at his black boots.
"I'm sorry, Heero," he said quietly, and walked away. Mike and the EMT looked at him worriedly as he retreated.
"No! Duo!" Heero called out after him in despair, "Please! You can't leave me here! Don't leave! Duo – come back! Don't leave me! Duo... please! DON'T LEAVE ME!!!"
More warm tears flooded Duo's eyes and he closed them in a futile attempt to bite back his crying. He walked away faster, but Heero's frantic cries still echoed in the hallway:
"Don't leave me! Duo! You promised! Don't leave me! Duo – don't go! Please! Not again! Please! Duo! Please – don't leave me! Don't leave... DUO!!!"
He ran out of there as fast as he possibly could and only fell apart once he reached the dark parking lot. The sobs burst out of him uncontrollably and he dropped to his knees, covering his face, crying: "Shit... Oh God... Oh God... shit!"
*     *     *
Duo trudged up the stairs, slowly climbing all five stories leading up to his apartment. He stared numbly at his feet mounting one step at a time, his mind elsewhere. He could not get Heero's desperate cries out of his head.
He shuffled tiredly towards the front door, entered the small apartment, shut the door and leaned heavily against it. He gazed dazedly at his small apartment. Heero's hopeless pleas still echoed in his ears. He had let Heero down tonight. He had broken his promise, the very foundation of their relationship – he left. He had failed Heero... again.
"Jesus..." Duo whispered, closing his eyes in shame.
Angry, he pushed off the door and walked briskly to his small kitchenette. He snatched a bottle of Jameson from the top cupboard and opened the cork forcefully. He gulped whiskey out the bottle, letting the burn spread down his throat until his raging mind was sufficiently quiet.
His eyes fell on Heero's Penalty Jar, resting on the worktop by the microwave oven. It was full of little yellow notes reaching almost to the top: one year's worth of apologies and heartfelt confessions. He set the bottle back down on the worktop and walked over to the jar. He twisted the lid open and grabbed a fistful of notes off the top. He read them randomly:
Took me a while, but now I like you better with your hair short.
-
Had a job interview and didn't tell you. Blew it.
-
Watched my parents die. Didn't feel a thing. Been thinking about it – their fault.
-
I dream about Lizzie sometimes. I dream of being her father. I dream of being the kind of person who could love a child.
-
Talking to her again. Please don't be mad. No one could ever replace what she is to me. That's non-negotiable.
-
I hate it when you leave a mess behind you. You did it back then too. Clean up or leave. Not your maid.
-
When I freak out, please just hold me tight.
-
Like to read: mystery novels and thrillers. Don't like to read: those dirty jokes you text me. Not funny.
-
I lied about never counting. It was definitely more than 10. Probably around 50. They were just one night stands. Meant nothing.
-
You're my emergency brake. Without you I'd just roll downhill and crash. Sorry for being such an ass.
-
I didn't like it when you left me on the moon. You should apologize one day.
-
Will never try again: going down on you in your patrol car. Sprained my back. Hurts like a bitch. Made me cranky. Sorry.
-
You sing to yourself when you wash the dishes. I like listening.
-
Nightmares are worse when you're not sleeping by my side. Hate it when we're in a huff.
-
Killed a puppy once, was very young. Lost it. They retrained me, killed the part that cared. You brought it back.
-
Best time ever: Central Park, this spring. Never been to the zoo before. Let's do it again sometime.
-
You shouldn't feel stupid for going to church or believing in god. Keep at it, does you good.
-
I let a man burn alive. Shot him and burnt him. Can still smell it.
-
Darkness used to feel empty, a place to hide. I miss that.
-
I don't like it when you think about it. I can tell when you do. Stop it.
-
I miss the summer.
-
Everything feels like one big open wound. The bleeding won't stop. You're my only tourniquet. Thank you for putting up with me.
-
I still think you were wrong, but I shouldn't have been such a dick about it. I'm just tired all the time. Can't sleep.
-
Wish winter was over already. I get real cold and everything hurts more.
-
Can't stand the dark. Keep the lights on after we do things in bed or I can't sleep.
-
Smoking again. Sorry.
-
Favorite toy as a kid: an old Leo model. Stepdad threw it away. Hate him.
-
She had a pink bunny. I threw it away after she died. Hate myself for it.
-
Feels like he's picking me apart again.
-
Doggy, mostly.
On top.
Wall Standing.
Bum Lift.
Knees on Chest.
They called me a faggot. I had to like it.
Now you know. Stop thinking about it!!!
-
When you shot me, did you come for me because you were ordered to, or did you really care? Please tell me.
-
Sometimes I think he was right about everything.
-
Dear God. A cry for help has been there all along. Heero has been rolling downhill for a while now, but he didn't see it. He had read the notes in long intervals, sometimes weeks apart. He never tried to connect the dots, didn't think there were any... some detective, right? It was so fucking clear now when reading them one by one!
As winter approached Heero began thinking more and more about what he's been through. He missed spring and summer, good times they had shared that year while the sun was out and he didn't have to think about the darkness churning inside of him. He was losing control over his own mind, allowing Sloan to mess with him all over again.
"Shit," Duo cussed and shoved the notes back into the jar. He slammed the lid shut and punched it angrily. "Shit!"
His cellphone rang. Startled, he yanked it out of his NYPD jacket and turned to look at the caller ID. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. It was Mike. There was only one reason why he would be calling him.
"Mike, what is it?" he said anxiously into the phone.
"Sorry, kid, but you better get back down here..."
"Why? What happened? Is Heero all right?"
"It got real bad," Mike sighed. "They're putting him in an ambulance right now... The guy freaked after you left. Got real violent... totally tweaked. Tried to rip his own damn heart out or something... Kept yelling the beating was too damn loud. Got real messy... Worse Magic sores I've ever seen... Blood allova the place... They're taking him to NYPH."
"Jesus..." Duo gasped, closing his eyes sadly. He reopened them, his gaze falling on the Penalty Jar. He stared at it wretchedly, feeling like tonight he had failed the man he loved in just about every way possible.
* * *
"No, no!" a woman's stern voice exclaimed harshly; "High suicide rates on New Year's is an urban myth!" The smart-looking middle-aged woman argued before a discussion panel on the morning show. A title at the bottom of the screen identified her as Dr. Ally Buhrmann, Anthropologist. Another textbox next to it read: 08:12 AM, 01/01/206. Cloudy. 10-30°F.
"When looking at national statistics, you can see that New York City's suicide rate is actually an urban success story," another guest, a man in a suit, proclaimed proudly. The title below identified him as Dylan Grant, City Council Speaker.
"Only six out of a hundred thousand New Yorkers kill themselves in average each year," he stated; "versus eleven people nationwide!"
"Yes," a pretty female host agreed; "But how do you explain the crime spike we experience each year on New Year's Eve? Just this year – three homicides and one murder-suicide in less than forty-eight hours! Not to mention how many must have killed themselves overnight but haven't been reported yet!"
An NYPD sergeant in dress uniform intervened next. A title identified him as Sgt. Dayes of the Police Department's Public Information Office.
"We don't do a day-by-day comparison," he said sternly; "but looking at one day or a forty-eight-hour time period isn't an accurate indication of New York's crime or suicide rate. We do have a significant annual drop in crime."
"Cities are places of possibility," Dr. Buhrmann stated. "They are, and I quote: 'the visible symbol of aspiration and faith', New York especially. It is a symbol of metropolitan life. That being said, cities also fracture traditions and families, and they breed psychiatric illness." [[ii]]
"So you're saying that we're a fertile ground for the mentally unstable?" the councilman protested angrily.
"New York does lead in the US with the most serial homicide cases," the pretty hostess pointed out. "I think we all remember the Redeemer terrorizing the city just last year."
"What I meant to say," the older woman cut-in, "is that mental illness has increased around the world, if only because urbanization has increased. In a city you are more likely to be depressed, to fall mentally ill and to use alcohol and drugs. The risk of suicide is expected to increase accordingly."
"Well, there are plenty of tall buildings to jump from," the hostess said, smiling dumbly. The anthropologist scowled at her.
"The time it takes to gain access to a tall building, not to mention its roof, is enough time for many people to change their minds and not jump off after all. Usually the worst case scenario is that they stand on the ledge, look down and then change their minds," she said. "Suicide is highly impulsive. People don't kill themselves because they have a good reason. They don't kill themselves because it's the New Year's, or because they live in a large city like New York. They do it, mostly, because they're drunk, high, sad or angry and they have a means of elimination at arm's length."
"Like guns," the NYPD sergeant pointed out, nodding in agreement. Mr. Grant also concurred, nodding keenly. "People here trust their government to protect them from violence," he said, "so they accept gun-control laws that keep some of them from harming themselves."
"So less guns, less suicide?" the female host quirked an eyebrow. "If that were true, then shouldn't suicide rates have dropped significantly worldwide since the global arms control and disarmament law was passed a few years back?"
"I'll leave that discussion to the politicians," the sergeant laughed awkwardly and Mr. Grant smiled. "So far these laws have only done this city good," he added.
"New York City is a surprising exception when it comes to suicide rates," the doctor agreed; "The big city may cause problems, but the less darkly-glamorous truth is that the suicide rate in America overall is nearly twice New York City's rate. We like to romanticize about how dozens of lonely New Yorkers kill themselves on this particular night of the year, but it simply isn't true."
"Then how do you explain the crime spike?" the female host insisted.
The NYPD officer leaned forward. "The heavy binge drinking and partying during New Year's lead to a temporary spike in crime rate. The NYPD does its best, but we can't be everywhere at once. And for every hanging or jumping that occurs during the holiday season, there's someone out there in this city who didn't kill himself and likely would've given in to despair, if he'd had a gun."
"And maybe it's just that New York City is still, with all its woes, a place of possibilities," said Dr. Buhrmann, "and it makes suicidal people more willing to give life another chance."
"That is a nice thought indeed," the hostess agreed and turned to the camera. "We'll be right back," she promised and the show switched to commercials. Duo looked away from the flat screen TV hanging on the wall, sighing.
His gaze fell on the hospital bed by his side. Heero was laid on it, sleeping under a warm blue blanket. He has been sleeping since Christmas. Duo studied his handsome face; expression blank, skin pale and gray with sickness.
Heero had experienced an acute psychotic episode during his incarceration. He tried to dig his fingers into his pacemaker scar – probably trying to rip it out somehow – before he collapsed. His body had simply shut down, unable to cope with the drug effects overwhelming it after binging on Magic for days, possibly weeks.
A doctor explained that the large quantities of Magic Heero had consumed have disrupted his brain, weakening the synaptic functioning and thus keeping the system from arousing the brain – resulting in a coma. The man told Duo that he shouldn't be alarmed. Nearly half of the coma cases arriving at NYPH were a result of Magic abuse and the staff could handle it in their sleep. The drug was near-lethal, though the only fatalities were those poor unfortunate souls who overdosed on Magic and had no one with them once they fell into a coma. They either died of cardiac arrest, or starved to death.
"And we're back," the pretty female show host greeted her viewers once the commercial break was over and Duo looked back at the television again. It was the only way to pass the time, sitting in a damn hospital room for over a week. He had spent the previous night watching the ball drop and the New Year's Eve celebration at Time Square. Now he was watching the stupid morning show, feeling like the only one in the whole God damn city who wasn't sleeping off a hangover and was watching the damn thing.
"Before the break we were discussing the truth behind New Year's Eve alleged suicide streak," the hostess said; "Here with us are Doctor Ally Bur..."
"...shhh..." a faint voice came from the bed. Duo looked down, his eyes darting back to Heero's sleeping face. He frowned, thinking perhaps he had imagined it. He was so fucking tired. He watched Heero closely and once he determined that the man was still sleeping, Duo looked up at the television again.
"Doctor Buhrmann," the pretty hostess opened with another question. "Before the break you were suggesting that depression is a disease of our modern lifestyle..."
"...keep it... down... will you..?" came another feeble whisper and this time there was no mistaking it for anything other than Heero's quiet voice. He sounded utterly miserable; hung-over. Duo switched the TV off. He placed the remote on a small chest drawer and turned to look anxiously at the young man lying on the bed next to him. Heero lay still, his eyes closed, but he was awake. He licked his chapped lips.
"...thirsty..." he croaked weakly, moaning.
Duo got up, sighing. He reached for a small bottle of mineral water from the nightstand, pulled the sports-cap open and leaned over Heero, serving the bottle to his dry lips. He raised Heero's head up a little, supporting him while he drank a few small sips and then turned his head away from the bottle.
"...thanks..." Heero mumbled as he laid his head down against the pillow. He released a heavy breath, exhausted.
Duo settled back into his seat, pulling the chair closer to the bed. He leaned forward, studying Heero's ashen face sternly. The young man still hasn't opened his eyes.
"...hospital?" Heero rasped in a tired, breaking, voice.
"Yeah," Duo confirmed bitterly.
Heero let out a small cough. He kept his eyes closed as he rasped: "...why?"
Succumbed by sudden fatigue, Duo rubbed his face tiredly with both hands, groaning quietly. He lowered his hands, took a deep breath and released it slowly while leveling his gaze on Heero. He studied the man's closed eyes, focusing on how his thick dark eyelashes curled slightly upwards, contrasting his pale skin. Despite the harsh demeanor, Heero seemed so delicate at times; maybe he was.
"What's the last thing you remember?" Duo asked quietly.
"...dunno..." Heero slurred. "...November?"
Duo let out a small chuckle/snort. "Yeah, sounds about right," he muttered.
"...the rest is just... bits and pieces..." Heero murmured, shaking his head weakly. He struggled to open his eyes, blinking dazedly. His eyelids fluttered up and down a few times before he managed to keep them up. He turned to Duo, a pained mixture of guilt, shame and apprehension showing on his bleary face.
"How... bad?"
"Bad," Duo replied in a cold, biting tone. "Real, real bad. Trust me, you dun wanna know."
Heero's eyes fell on the dark bruising around Duo's neck.
"What happened to your neck?" he asked, reaching a hand up slowly to brush his fingers gently against the bruising. Duo grimaced and pulled back, leaving Heero's hand hanging.
Heero grimaced. He stared ahead for a moment, looking like he was trying hard to recall something. He shifted his gaze up towards Duo, frowning. "Did... we..?"
"Yeah," Duo sighed, "We did."
"Did I..?"
"Yeah, you did. Congratulations."
"And I let you..?"
"Yeah... you did. It all sorta went downhill from there."
"I'm sorry," Heero let out in a pained whisper, casting his eyes down shamefully. "I'm... I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, you should be," Duo grumbled; "You owe me big for this one. You better come up with a real fancy note if you ever wanna make it up to me. None of that gloom and doom shit. I want a nice one, like you used to write... telling me I have a great ass 'n shit."
Heero smiled weakly. "I'll take that under advisement."
"You better," Duo muttered, crossing his arms over his chest; "This was our one year anniversary, you know. And you totally blew it."
"Those were... extenuating circumstances..."
"Yeah, well, I still want my damn note."
"Fair enough..." Heero agreed and then closed his eyes drowsily. He fell silent, drifting to sleep. Duo observed him with a pair of pained blue eyes. He reached a hand up and carefully brushed Heero's long bangs out of his eyes, his fingers hovering gently over pale skin. Heero opened his eyes, turning towards him and Duo was now gazing at a sea of raging blue. God damn those eyes, he mused irately; he couldn't stay angry with those eyes for very long. There was no fighting the fire that burnt inside.
"Why am I... here?" Heero asked quietly.
Duo pointed at Heero's chest.
"You tried to dig the pacemaker out with your bare hands," he explained reproachfully. "Made a real bloody mess of yourself too."
Heero frowned. "But it was... removed..."
"I know that!" Duo snapped; "You, apparently, forgot!" He snarled, glaring at Heero with hard, unforgiving, eyes. "How long have you been doing Magic, Heero?"
Heero's face hardened into a similar glower. The intense blue in his eyes burnt fiercely. He was going on the defensive now.
"Since last Christmas," he retorted spitefully and Duo scoffed, annoyed.
"Don't fuck with me," he warned; "I mean it – since when?"
Heero held his angry gaze for a moment before turning the other way. He sighed, dropping the badass act.
"...couple of weeks," he mumbled, closing his eyes tiredly. "I... I just wanted to get through the holidays..."
"By doing drugs?! What da Hell?! You gotta know bet—"
"Don't judge me," Heero snapped, turning his head back to glare at Duo angrily. "You don't get to judge me."
"Da Hell I do!" Duo exclaimed, scowling madly. "You read my notes, you know I've been down this road myself. I get to judge you all I fucking want! I told you before, Heero, when we first got started on this – I'm nothing like her. If you don't want a judge and jurors, then go back to her. She'll hug you and try to kiss your aches away, but you and I both know that that don't do shit. So yeah, tough love is what you'll get from me... especially when you start doing crazy shit like this. Deal with it, or ask me to leave," he concluded his speech by glaring harshly at Heero, daring him to answer his challenge.
Heero held his fierce gaze firmly for a tense moment, before breaking eye contact and glancing down at the bed, abashed. He didn't say a word, didn't dare ask Duo to leave. He never did, no matter how many times Duo dared him to.
"Why didn't you just talk to me?" Duo groused; "And if not me than her... You wrote about how you guys were talking again... why didn't you talk to her? Why not talk to Wright? You stopped seeing him all of a sudden... You shut everyone out just when you needed them the most."
"...I know," Heero admitted quietly, staring down at the bed. He was circling the blue wool blanket with his finger.
"Why?" Duo implored, despaired.
"...I don't know..." Heero mumbled, staring numbly at his finger against the blanket. "I... We had this big fight and I... I went out for a walk to cool down and... I don't know. I didn't want you to leave... I wanted to get better. The Jameson wasn't enough... I couldn't... It wasn't enough and I... I was chasing you away..."
"That shit really messed you up, Heero. I hardly recognize you the other night, and that's coming from a guy who's seen you at rock bottom."
"It was probably the cheap kind..." Heero murmured quietly, keeping his gaze cast down to the bed, "You can buy it in every damn street corner... There was this guy on third who used to sell the good stuff, but you guys booked him a while ago..."
"Jesus, Heero..." Duo heaved a sigh, gazing at Heero with a pained expression.
"I'm sorry... It won't happen again."
"I'll make sure it doesn't." Duo assured him firmly. "I'm gonna put you in a program. Get you clean."
Heero finally turned to face him again, hurt.
"I'm not an addict."
"Not yet, you mean."
"It was just a slipup."
"Believe me, it wasn't," Duo sighed. "You need help."
"You're my help."
"Then let me help you."
Duo leaned forward, taking Heero's hand. He looked him in the eye, trying to convey his concern.
"Let me sign you into a program. We'll go together... there's one at my church. I'll be your fucking sponsor, how about it? Finally something we can do together." He finished with a sad little smile.
"I rather we didn't..." Heero mumbled, pulling his hand out of Duo's gentle grasp. "I'll be fine. Christmas is over."
"Yeah, 'til next year. And you won't be fine then either," Duo countered; "We'll never be fine. We're as fucked up as they come... a match made in Hell..." he joked sarcastically, earning a small amused smile from Heero. He smiled back.
"And you know what? I've been thinking," he said, "a New Year's resolution: we get one question for each note. One question we can ask about the note and the other has to answer."
"...why?"
"Because you can't just write those kinda things and be done with it. I'm not saying we'll always have to ask a question, but we haffta answer if asked one. It'll do us good."
"...you sound like my therapist..." Heero accused in a tired, worn-out voice. He closed his eyes, sighing resignedly.
Duo smiled. "Glad to know we're on the same page then."
Heero snorted sarcastically and opened his eyes. "Fine," he said, looking intensely at Duo. "One question. Answer mandatory."
"Good," Duo nodded, smiling. "And you know what else I've been thinking?"
"...do I really want to know?" Heero muttered in dismay.
Duo ignored his cynicism and kept smiling softly at his lover. "From now on we'll forget all about Christmas in the city," he declared; "Next year we'll go to Barbados or something. I ain't stickin' around here for another white Christmas. We'll hit the beach, get real wasted and just have fun. It'll be like our thing... going someplace warm each Christmas. We'll keep at it 'til we're old and gray and finally settle down in South Beach or something... Sounds good?"
"...better than a DAA program..."
"Great!" Duo confirmed and leaned back into his seat, pleased. "Then it's settled. Oh, and you still haffta join a group."
"...fine..." Heero mumbled blearily as he raised a hand up to cover his face. "Anything else?" he asked, sighing.
"No... I think that about covers it," Duo said, shrugging. "Quit while you're ahead, right?"
"Give me your phone," Heero said and uncovered his face, reaching his hand out. Duo frowned, looking at Heero's outstretched hand and then back at his face. The young man was waiting tensely.
"Why do you wanna phone?" he asked, confused.
"Just give it," Heero grunted, gesturing with his fingers.
Duo scowled, annoyed, but reached into his jeans pocket and gave Heero his cellphone anyway. He placed it in Heero's hand and watched him bring it to his face, hiding whatever he was doing from Duo's sight.
"God, you're not calling her, are you?" he moaned whiningly. "I already told her you're in here. You really don't wanna do this right now. She'll bite your fucking head off. The bitch even threatened me with the visa thing again!"
"I'm not calling her," Heero said calmly, still busy with the phone. It looked like he was typing something. "I'm paying my dues," he said and handed Duo his phone back. Baffled, Duo stared at his cellphone for a moment, then at Heero's expectant blue eyes. He took the cellphone from Heero's hand and looked down at the screen. Heero had typed in a text message: I love you, Duo. More than I could ever say. No questions asked.
Now Duo was smiling like a damn goon.
"You son of a bitch..." he laughed, almost crying.
"Fancy enough?" Heero asked calmly.
Duo chuckled, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, pretty damn fancy. Well, for you, I mean."
Heero reached for Duo's hand and held it gently. "Do you want to ask me a question?" he asked quietly.
"Nope, I'm good," Duo laughed. Jesus, he hoped he wasn't blushing. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"You sure?" Heero asked, smirking, and Duo chuckled.
"Yeah, well..." he shrugged casually, toying with the phone between his fingers, "I got this in writing." He smiled, gesturing with his phone at Heero, swaying it left and right playfully.
"...'sides," he added as he took Heero's hand in his, leaning over his lover. He looked into Heero's eyes, smiling gently.
"I think some things are better left unsaid," he whispered, his lips hovering a mere inch from Heero's. The young man studied his face quietly for a moment, his blue eyes running across Duo's face, committing every single part of it into memory.
"Yeah," he finally agreed, huffing the word against Duo's lips. "Probably..." he whispered and raised his head off the pillow, sealing Duo's lips with a small, grateful, kiss.
* * *

[i] Drunk in Public

[ii] Writer E. B. White as quoted by TM Luhrmann. See bibliography.
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