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Left Unsaid	By : ElleSmith Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male > Heero/Duo Views: 1020 -:- 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
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter 02: NYC
A gray December morning dawned outside a Manhattan apartment window, shedding dim gray light into a small, tidy, living room. A figure lay on the sofa under the window, curled under a heavy blanket, legs folded upwards because the sofa was too short for its sleeping occupant. A head of short, rich chocolate-brown hair was peeking out of the thick cover; spiky bangs sprawled in a mess over the pillow, concealing a face nuzzled between the cushion and the sofa's backrest.
Somewhere in the small apartment, a door opened. Feet padded quietly across the carpet as another figure moved beyond the living room, crossing the apartment. A cupboard was opened, hinges creaking softly. There was some ceramic clanking, painfully loud in the morning stillness. The sleeping figure nuzzled its head closer into the sofa, burrowing deeper under the warm blanket.
A drawer was opened next, utensils rattling with a sharp metallic jingle. The racket was soon followed by the intolerable roar of the coffeemaker.
Prussian blue eyes snapped open, glaring irritably at the sofa's backrest. A muscular arm threw the blanket aside in one swift motion and the no-longer-sleeping sofa's occupant shot up to a sitting position, glaring daggers in the direction of the kitchen. Dressed in a sloppy white T-shirt wrinkled by a restless sleep, his messy bangs spiking out in every direction, the young man looked no more threatening than a petulant little boy.
"It's about time you woke up," an amused female voice berated teasingly. A young woman emerged from the kitchen, dressed in Preventer uniform and holding two steaming mugs of coffee. She was a petite redhead, also in her mid-twenties. Her pale features were freckled and a subtle touch of makeup emphasized her bright-green eyes. She settled on a comfy chair by the sofa and placed one mug on the coffee table. She leaned back comfortably, holding her own steaming beverage with both hands, keeping them warm.
"Another minute and I would have poured a bucket of cold water over your head," she joked with a pleasant smile; "Really, Heero, I didn't take you for such a sleepyhead."
The smile vanished from her lips as soon as she was faced with Heero's icy glare.
"I'm just saying..." she explained apologetically, "...it's getting harder for you to wake up in the morning. You should talk to Sloan."
"Having difficulties waking up in the morning hardly qualifies as something to report to Sloan," Heero retorted with a sleep-heavy voice and reached for his coffee. He settled back into the sofa, the blanket pooling over his lap, and drank quietly, avoiding her prying eyes. She sighed, frustrated.
They drank in silence. Heero finished his coffee first and got up, throwing the blanket aside and revealing his blue boxer shorts and slightly hairy legs. A long white scar ran along the entire length of his left knee and up to his kneecap; traces of traumatic injury. There was a slight, nearly unnoticeable limp in his stride as he marched towards the bathroom and locked the door behind him.
Leaning over the sink, Heero splashed ice-cold water on his face. He rubbed his numb features repeatedly, moaning wretchedly into the wet palms of his hands. He straightened back up, his untrimmed bangs dripping icy droplets onto his face, and stared numbly at his reflection. There were dark bags under his bloodshot eyes and he was in definite need for a shave. He gaped at his unkempt image until his vision blurred and his eyelids threatened to flutter shut. He quickly caught himself and slapped his own cheeks, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the drowsiness fogging his mind. He leaned over the sink again, opening the faucet full-blast, clenched his eyes shut and shoved his head under the cold stream. When he finally pulled away, his hair was drenched and plastered flatly over his head, dripping and soaking his white T-shirt.
There were two toothbrushes by the sink: one red, one blue. He reached for the blue one and brushed his teeth furiously, a hard and angry expression on his sleep-deprived face.
*     *     *
Morning traffic was a bitch. As one would expect, crossing Manhattan was a slow and tedious task during rush hour. Seated in the driver's seat of a black SUV, dressed in Preventer uniform, Heero glared out the windshield at the endless column of cars up ahead. His fingers tapped on the wheel impatiently.
His redheaded companion sat in the passenger seat. She was looking at her visor-mirror, smearing pale-peach colored lipstick on her thin lips. Heero quickly shifted his glance back to the road, tearing his gaze away. He rubbed his stubble covered chin and released a quiet, irate, sigh.
"We could've beat traffic if you would have woken up on time," the young redheaded agent rebuked and snapped the visor shut.
"Duly noted," Heero grunted, clearly irked.
A cellphone started ringing a plain standard ringtone. It was Heero's car phone; a standard-issued device for all Preventer field-agents. Their calls were directed straight to it from their mobile devices while driving. The car phone kept on ringing, but Heero ignored it. His redheaded partner shifted her eyes down to look at the modern device hanging from the dashboard. The caller ID read: 'Her'. She turned to Heero, scowling.
"Are you going to answer it?" she demanded, annoyed.
"No," he grunted and the young woman shook her head in silent admonishment. She leaned forward and reached to turn on the radio. Mindless chatter immediately filled the silence. The cellphone was still ringing. Heero's hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel in a subtle display of anger, and traffic across Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive continued to crawl by slowly...
*     *     *
Even on a cloudy day the view from the top floor of Preventer's NYC office was impressive. Rising 52 stories above ground level, standing on the top floor and looking out of any window, one could enjoy a clear view of Lower Manhattan and the surrounding neighborhoods.
Sitting tensely on a comfortable sofa in a small office overlooking the southeastern part of Manhattan, Heero gazed out a large window and stared numbly at the view, his eyes glued to a small visible patch of the East River; he could somehow make out the Brooklyn Bridge.
A middle-aged man sat in a tall leather armchair opposite of the sofa, his legs crossed. His deeply receding hairline was turning gray at the sideburns. His pleasant features were those of a well-mannered man, temperate yet calculated. He was dressed in a simple gray suit and a pair of elegant golden-framed eyeglasses rested over the bridge of his nose. He was holding a large yellow notepad in his lap and leaning his head against his arm, clearly bored as he doodled absentmindedly; the pad was already filled with endless scribbles.
A large black and white clock hung above the door behind the man. It was a quarter to twelve, noon. In the thick silence of the room, the ticking of the clock was heard clearly. The man in the suit turned around to look at it, noted the time, and heaved a long sigh. He turned back to face Heero. The young Preventer agent was still staring out the window, a numb expression on his unshaved face. His posture was rigid; stiff shoulders, arms stretched forward tensely and his clenched fists resting over his kneecaps.
"How goes your effort to quit smoking?" the man finally broke the heavy silence.
"Fine," Heero replied automatically, never turning to face away from the window.
"If you're using a nicotine patch, I have to know about it," the man elaborated; "I don't want it to interfere with your prescriptions."
"No patch," Heero muttered, his fists curling inwards even more, tightening angrily.
"Really?" the man marveled; "You're going on will power alone?"
"It's enough."
The lengthy silence returned, before the man raised another question:
"Any breakthroughs in the investigation?"
Heero finally turned away from the window, his eyes searching for the clock above the door. It was seven minutes to twelve.
"None so far," he replied quietly, casting his gaze back down.
The man nodded. He turned a new page on his notepad.
"Before you go," he began with a sigh; "I have to run the check-list by you, alright?"
Heero nodded his consent and straightened readily in his seat, fists clenched over his thighs.
The man's pen hovered over the notepad, ready to write Heero's answers down.
"Is everything alright between you and Agent Shaw?"
"We're professionals," was the immediate, typical, answer.
"I never said you weren't. Please don't avoid the question."
Heero sighed, shifting uncomfortably. He turned to look out the window again, rubbing the stubble on his chin with annoyance.
"We're good."
"Are you sure?" the man pressed and Heero's face hardened into an angry glare.
"Why?" he demanded, turning to glower at the man; "Has she said anything?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Heero scoffed and turned to gaze out the window again. "I'm not used to it, that's all."
"You know that this is strictly voluntary, right Heero? Just say the word and I will put an end to this madness. We'll have you back on Cyber in no time."
For a moment, Heero just stared at the view, contemplating the offer.
"That won't be necessary," he finally said, his voice wavering ever so slightly.
"You hesitated," the man pointed out.
Heero cleared his throat and turned to face the man, looking at him evenly. "I did not."
The man sighed and leaned back into his seat. "And are the new prescriptions helping at all?"
"I'm fine."
"No side-effect? Mood swings? Drowsiness? Disorientation?"
"None."
"Agitation?" He studied Heero's scowling face for a moment and smiled awkwardly. "Right," he mumbled, writing something down. "How about nausea?"
"No."
"How's your appetite?"
"The usual."
"Nightmares?"
"Nothing new."
"Anxiety?"
"...under control."
The man took some notes, nodding gravely. "It's almost Christmas..." he said carefully; "Any episodes?"
Heero shook his head firmly. "No."
"You seem tired. Are you getting enough sleep?"
"Her sofa is killing me."
"Is that a 'no'?"
"I make do."
"Are you sure that it's just the sofa?"
"It's too small. Hurts my leg."
The man huffed in amusement.
"Are you sticking with PT?" he asked while writing something down.
"Yes," Heero hurried to confirm; "A few more sessions and I'm done."
The man nodded in approval and then looked up, his eyes searching for Heero's who in return avoided his prying eyes by looking sideways.
"Is there anything else you'd like to add?" the man asked hopefully.
Heero's eyes shot up to look at the clock above the door. He watched the large hand move until it was pointing 12. He looked back down at the man.
"No," he declared and stood up, heading for the door. He stopped by the man's armchair and held his hand out, waiting to receive something. Heaving a frustrated sigh, the man reached for a smaller notepad lying on the table next to him. The title read: 'Confirmation of Attendance'. He filled out Heero's name and the date and then stamped it with a green FFD stamp: fit for duty. He signed his name: 'Dr. G.D. Sloan' and handed Heero the note. The young agent accepted it quietly and turned to the door.
"Maybe next week we could do more than the check-list?" the doctor asked in a resigned tone, as though knowing it was useless.
"Maybe," Heero dismissed his request briskly and opened the door.
"I know it must be hard to change psychiatrists after so long," Sloan pressed on, stopping Heero at the doorway; "but I can be just as helpful as doctor Wright. If there's anything you need to talk about, I'm here."
Heero paused, just for a moment, and then nodded in acknowledgement. He stepped quietly out of the shrink's office and the door closed behind him with a final 'click'.
*     *     *
It was late afternoon. A light snow shower was coming down over Manhattan's Lower East Side as Heero parked his black SUV in front of a small convenience store. He raised the collar of his Preventer jacket up to shield his exposed neck from the icy wind and hurried inside. Mere minutes later, he was done with his grocery shopping and was standing in the checkout line. An old woman ahead of him was taking her sweet time, pulling an endless line of coupons out of her hefty purse. Heero let out a quiet, frustrated sigh. His leg was beginning to hurt. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and switched the shopping basket from his left hand to the right, trying to ease the pressure on his strained left leg.
He scanned the rows of display racks by the register; all packed with eye-catching goodies. His gaze shifted upwards to a locked glass case above the cash register; it was full of cigarette packs. He stared at it lengthily, his eyes fixated on a particular brand: 'Winston Blue'. Once he realized he'd been staring, Heero hurried to look elsewhere, his eyes searching the candy display rack and finally settling on a box full of colorful Skittles packs. He snatched a green one off the shelf and tore it open, throwing a few colorful candies into his mouth.
A cellphone started ringing; Heero recognized the plain ringtone as his own. He pulled the sleek device out of his jacket's pocket. The word 'Her' displayed boldly on the screen. He sighed and shoved the cellphone back into his pocket; it was still ringing.
His eyes fell on the magazine display. One in particular caught his eye: it was Time Magazine and on the cover was a photo of a stylishly dressed young blonde and blue-eyed woman gazing fiercely at the camera. The title read: 'Person of the Year: Relena Darlian' and below a subtitle: 'Why Senator Darlian could be the next president of the ESUN'.
Heero reached into his pocket, his finger searching for his ringing phone. He terminated the call and the device fell silent.
The old woman ahead of him finally paid and took off. Heero slammed his hand basket on the belt and quickly unloaded its meager content. As the cashier rang up his order hastily, his eyes drifted back to the cigarette display, seeking the pack of Winston Blue. Once he saw it, he looked away quickly and threw a few more Skittles into his mouth. After placing the open Skittles pack on the belt, he reached for his back pants' pocket and pulled out his wallet.
Among the many cards inside, was Heero's driver's license, tucked into the ID window. A faded passport-sized photo peeked underneath the license; its edges wrinkled and folded – an indication that the photo has been handled many times. Since it was inserted safely under the driver's license, the person in the photo could not be identified. If one looked closely enough, one would have perhaps been able to make out a hint of blonde locks of hair, but that was it.
As Heero pulled out his credit card from its slot, he noted that the photo was peeking out. He shoved it back under the driver's license, concealing it completely, and snapped the wallet shut.
*     *     *
It was a short ride home from the convenience store. Home was a plain and featureless apartment situated on the tenth floor of an old tenement building in an East Village neighborhood, just on the border with Manhattan's Lower East Side. It was a bare and tidy habitat, suitable of its owner, overlooking a busy street.
Heero set the grocery bag down on the kitchen counter and unpacked it systematically, sorting everything swiftly into place. He then took off his Preventer jacket, threw it on the small kitchen table and turned to unfasten the concealment holster he used to carry his compact service pistol.
He walked over to the refrigerator and placed the gun, still in its holster, on top. He nudged the sidearm forward until it was completely out of sight. He stood by the fridge for a moment longer, looking up wretchedly, before turning back to the worktop where he had left the empty grocery bag and next to it, the open Skittles pack. He yanked a drawer open; it was full of open Skittles packs in all shapes, sizes and colors of the rainbow. He threw the new pack inside and slammed the drawer shut.
His smartphone beeped, signaling an SMS has just been received. He pulled the device out of his Preventer jacket. His Prussian blue eyes shone solemnly as he read the message:
Eduardo's, 2000 hrs. Formal wear.
Heero threw the cellphone onto the kitchen table, sighing. He turned on his heels, about to leave the kitchen, but then regretted it and turned back to the Skittles drawer. He took a random pack out and shook a few candies into the palm of his hand. He threw them into his mouth and finally walked out of the kitchen, taking the Skittles packet with him.
*     *     *
As the dashboard clock display changed from 19:59 to 20:00, Heero stepped out of a NYC yellow taxi, dressed in semi-formal wear: black dress pants, a dark gray poplin shirt – no tie – and an elegant black jacket trimmed loosely enough around the waist to hide the weapon he carried underneath. The yellow cab drove off, leaving its passenger in front of a small Italian restaurant. He was a few steps from the front door when his cellphone started ringing. He pulled it out of his coat pocket just enough so he could see the caller ID – 'Her' – and shoved it back in, his finger pressing the button that would silence the call without hanging up. He entered the restaurant.
Agent Shaw was waiting for him in the small lobby, dressed for a night out: a classic black dress, fashionable high heels, elegant jewelry and her red hair gathered into a stylish up-do. She greeted him with a small smile as she approached and placed a delicate kiss on his clean shaven cheek.
"Heero," she welcomed him and he nodded in acknowledgment.
"Merida," he returned the greeting and offered her his arm. She wrapped hers around his and they followed the hostess inside as she guided them towards a table for two. The table was situated by a wall-to-wall window facing the busy street, exposing them to the eye of any passerby.
A waiter handed them menus and poured each a glass of red wine. Merida immediately reached for hers, while Heero studied the menu for minutes long, far longer than necessary.
"Just order what you had last time," she offered and sipped more wine. "It looked good."
"I don't like seafood," he retorted, eyes still on the menu.
"Then why did you order it?" she exclaimed.
"Because you recommended it."
Merida heaved a frustrated sigh. "Fine," she snapped; "choose something else, but just order already," she grumbled and emptied her glass of wine; "No one takes this long with the menu, and I'm sure you know it by-heart by now."
Heero lifted his gaze from the menu, glaring at her briefly, before looking back down. After another moment he sighed and snapped the menu shut, placing it on the table. He reached for his glass of red wine and took a small sip, staring ahead with a bland expression.
A waiter came to take their orders and they each ordered a different dish of pasta. More red wine was poured into their glasses. Merida raised her glass for a toast and Heero reciprocated reluctantly.
"Tell me one thing I don't know about you," she requested after two more sips; her glass was nearly empty.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," Heero pointed out solemnly and placed his own glass down; it was still full.
"I know that you don't like seafood," she joked, but her playful expression fell the second she met his reprimanding glare. She sighed and leaned forward, shrugging helplessly.
"Then tell me anything. We have to get a conversation going if we want to keep up appearances," she reasoned, "and I'm sick of always talking about myself. You should share something too. That's what people do on dates."
"I don't date," Heero shared just to spite her.
She rolled her eyes. "I admit you're not exactly dream-date material, but we have to make do."
He sighed, pulling back into his seat. His finger circled the rim of his wine glass, his blue eyes staring at it numbly as he contemplated something to say.
"I've recently given up smoking," he finally decided to share.
Merida smiled, pleased. "Really? How long have you been at it?"
He thought about it for a moment. "Eight weeks," he said and then added quietly: "I could kill for a smoke right now."
She laughed. "That explains why you're so cranky all the time."
He looked up at her, frowning. "This isn't cranky," he muttered; "this is brooding."
She laughed some more. "So you do have a sense of humor!" she called, amused. She leaned over the table and placed two hands at its center. "Lean forward," she whispered, smiling softly.
Still frowning, he asked: "Why?"
"Just do it."
Heero heaved another long sigh but did as she asked, leaning towards her and taking her hands in his, holding them over the table.
"See? You do know why," Merida remarked with a smug smile. "Looks like you've done this before."
"More times than I would have liked," Heero muttered, casting his gaze down uncomfortably.
"I thought you don't date," she taunted.
"I don't."
"So the 'Her' on your phone is... what? Your mother?"
He dismissed her guess with an offensive scoff.
"A jealous girlfriend?"
"Hardly."
"Ex-girlfriend then."
"I don't see how that's any of your business."
"Oh, that's a resounding 'yes'!" Merida concluded with a proud smile. "And how does that work exactly?"
Heero pulled back, letting go of her hands. "It doesn't," he mumbled solemnly, looking out at the busy street; "Never did."
The waiter returned with their orders. Merida looked at him curiously for a moment before pulling back as well, clearing the table for their dishes. They ate in silence, each concentrated on the meal. Once she finished her meal, Merida continued to sip more wine, watching her partner quietly. He had barely touched his plate.
"You're not hungry?" she asked with concern.
"Not really."
"I couldn't stop eating when I first quit smoking," she shared good-heartedly. "Doesn't it make you feel like pigging out?"
"No."
"Lucky bastard. No strange cravings whatsoever?"
"Skittles," he said plainly and took a small sip of wine, avoiding her curious eyes.
"Skittles? Really? Candy?" she chuckled.
He nodded, putting his glass down. He traced its rim with his finger again. "Yeah," he sighed; "Can't get enough of them. Especially the sour ones."
She laughed. "Well, just so you know you risk making a woman feel like a fat pig if you don't eat anything on date."
"Noted."
The silence returned. A waiter came to clear their dishes and offered a desert menu. Heero turned to study it far too eagerly. Minutes ticked by slowly, until Merida heaved a sigh for the umpteenth time.
"There's got to be something we can talk about," she mumbled helplessly. "We can't just eat and leave all under thirty minutes. What kind of date is that?"
"One we're eager to end," Heero whispered behind the shelter of the desert menu.
"Then you should look eager to take me home and have your way with me," she retorted tauntingly; "Otherwise, stop hiding behind the menu and get some conversation going."
Heero placed the menu down and turned to look at her, annoyed. "Fine," he grunted and after a short pause added: "You left your makeup case in my bathroom," accusingly.
Merida gaped at him, stunned for a moment before she got her wits back together. "I know," she replied calmly; "It saves me the trouble of carrying it around all the time. You can leave more things in my place if you want, I don't mind. Surely you need more than a T-shirt and toothbrush."
He thought about it for a moment, rubbing his clean-shaven chin absentmindedly. "A razor," he finally said, placing his hand back down, and she smiled.
"Good," she applauded; "Now we're getting somewhere," she muttered and reached her hands over the table again. Heero shifted uncomfortably in his seat and reached to hold her hands again. They looked at each other; his face stoic, her face struggling to sustain a smile.
*     *     *
It was early morning and dawn was breaking over Manhattan. A garbage truck beeped loudly as it drove down a crowded urban street and loaded trashcans into its filthy tank. A light drizzle descended from a cloudy sky, splashing water onto Heero's closed living room window. Inside, the TV was on, displaying senseless footage with no sound. The apartment was dead silent; only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant motor rumbling disturbed the early morning stillness. In the kitchen, the microwave oven clock displayed 05:10. Heero lay sleeping on his sofa, facing the open television set and curled under a wool blanket.
Somewhere further into the small apartment, a door opened quietly. Merida stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in the same attire she wore to Eduardo's the night before. Her red hair was undone and messy from sleep; black smudges of makeup under her eyes. She held her high heel shoes in her hand as she tip-toed quietly towards the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
In the living room, Heero stirred, moaning sleepily as he rolled over to face away from the quiet disturbance.
The bathroom door opened after a few short moments and Merida padded quietly towards the living room, headed for the door. She unlocked it, paused to put her shoes on and then left quietly, closing the door behind her.
On the sofa, Heero's eyes opened partially. He stared ahead groggily, listening to the silence. He heaved a sleepy sigh before nuzzling his face deeper into his pillow and drifting back to sleep.
*     *     *
A bright green pack of Skittles – extra sour – lay open besides a black keyboard. Sturdy fingers swept expertly over the keys before stopping and reaching into the open packet. Heero threw three colorful candies into his mouth and resumed typing, his gaze never leaving the computer monitor in front of him. The time and date display at the bottom of the desktop read 14:20, 12/17/204.
The young Preventer agent was sitting by his immaculately tidy desk on the eleventh floor of Preventer's NYC offices. His Preventer jacket hung from his chair's backrest, leaving him dressed in the standard-issue khaki dress-shirt and black tie. His desk, like all the others around him, was situated inside a small cubicle, all of which belonged to the local Criminal Investigative Division – Violent Crimes Section.
A small notepad also lay next to the keyboard. Heero was currently typing its written contents into a report on the CID's database. He filled out the necessary forms hastily, relying mostly on memory, though he did glance at the notepad every now and then. Just as he was reading a few lines he had jotted down at the latest crime scene, an object invaded his line of sight as it was pushed sliding towards him on his desk: a Starbucks paper coffee cup.
Heero looked up and was greeted by Shaw's familiar smile. She stood by his chair, looking quite pleased with herself.
"I didn't know whether to bring you lunch or breakfast, so I settled for coffee," she mocked goodheartedly, amused.
"Hn," he acknowledged the joke dismissively, but reached for the coffee cup nonetheless. He took a small sip, his eyes focused on the monitor.
"You left rather early," he commented coolly as he placed the cup down and resumed typing.
"You came in late," Shaw retorted vindictively.
Heero ignored her criticizing tone and kept typing, having nothing to say in his defense. He had arrived at around noon, to which he had no excuse other than the shameful fact that he could not drag himself out of bed (the sofa!) that morning.
"You didn't lock the door," he reprimanded her instead and she snorted dismissively.
"Unless you plan on giving me a key, sweetie..." she teased; "wake up and lock behind me next time."
When he gave no response, she heaved a frustrated sigh.
"Trouble waking up again?" she pushed the subject despite his obvious avoidance. "Did you tell Sloan yet?"
This time he stopped typing and turned his head up to glare up at her.
"Did you?" he accused and Merida's freckled face darkened with an infuriated scowl.
"Is that what you think?" she snapped heatedly; "Jesus!"
"You must have mentioned something when he asked about us," he insisted coldly.
"Yeah, well, only that you're a real prick! Jesus, Heero, if you can't trust me then we shouldn't be working together," she hissed angrily, obviously hurt. "Not on this case."
He frowned, thinking her words over, and then lowered his gaze down, subjugated.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly; "I was out of line."
Shaw sighed, shaking her head. "You're very cranky when you're tired, you know that?"
"I'm usually not," Heero mumbled and turned slowly back to his computer.
"That's why you should talk to Sloan," she persisted, almost pleadingly.
"I'm fine," he insisted and resumed typing. His words failed to convince her. She stood there for a moment more, studying him worriedly.
"No one is forcing you to do this," she said carefully after a while; "you know that, right?"
"I know."
"Surely we can find another agent who fits the profile. It doesn't have to be you."
"Yes, it does," he argued despairingly; eyes still on the screen, avoiding her prying green gaze. "I'm fine, really."
A long silence fell between them. Merida's eyes followed his fingers as they swept over the keyboard, typing away. When he stopped to grab his coffee, her gaze drifted across the tidy desk and stopped on a small stack of papers on its opposite side. One in particular stood out between the white sheets of paper. It was the edge of a magazine, only the corner sticking out. She recognized it easily by the trademark red frame: it was Time Magazine and judging by the hint of blonde hair belonging to the person on the cover, Merida deduced that it was the latest edition, featuring Senator Darlian on the cover of AC 204's person of the year issue. She turned back to Heero.
"Anyway, you're off the hook tonight," she declared with a sigh. "I got some things to do and we could both use a night off, right? Do us both a favor and get some proper sleep, will you? We need you to be alert."
"I will be," he promised, still typing.
Shaw nodded, clearly doubtful, and turned to leave. She took one step away from the desk when Heero finally turned his chair around to face her. He looked up at her and she studied his pale, almost gaunt, face worriedly as she waited for him so speak.
"Thanks for the coffee," he mumbled quietly, his intense blue eyes fixed directly on her, which made her feel awkward.
"Sure," she replied softly; "anything to keep you awake," she teased with a nervous smile and then finally left for her own station. Heero watched her settle at her desk a few cubicles down and then turned back to his computer. He picked up his notepad and skimmed over it, making sure he hadn't left anything out.
His cellphone, also lying by the keyboard, vibrated quietly, signaling an incoming call. The caller ID read: 'Her'. Heero ignored it and set the notepad back down. His eyes shifted briefly to stare at the magazine tucked between his paperwork. Once his gaze rested on it, he quickly looked away, snatched the Skittles pack from the desk and threw a few colorful chewy candies into his mouth.
*     *     *
For the first night in a while, Heero finally lay in his own bed. He was lying on his back, dressed in a plain tank top undershirt and boxers, just staring numbly up at the ceiling. It was snowing outside, the temperature just below zero, yet inside it was so hot that he had left his bedroom window open to let in some cold fresh air to battle the suffocating warmth of the building's central heating. Rising ten floors above street level, his apartment building was the tallest in the block, allowing him a rare and clear view of a dark patch of skies. Even on a clear night one could not see the stars in the Manhattan sky. The city's glow tinted the black heavens with a murky orange halo and only close object could be seen glimmering in the city sky. Most of them were aircrafts, but if he strained his eyes hard enough, he could see the distant twinkle of the L1 cluster colonies. On some nights, L2 would peek behind the dark side of the moon.
There was nothing but a dark cloudy sky that night, so instead Heero studied the stains on the ceiling, listening to the constant clamor of urban nightlife drift in through the window: cars drive by, police sirens, people talking far too noisily on their cellphone as they walked down the street, a boombox playing loudly... the sounds of the city all mashed together into a familiar, comforting, haze. The soothing rhythm was abruptly interrupted by the ringing of his cellphone.
The modern smartphone device was resting on his night table by the bed, wriggling left and right as it vibrated along with the persistent ringtone. The caller ID identified the caller as 'Her'.
Heero ignored the phone without even turning to look at it. His blue eyes were fixed on a particularly large stain on his ceiling; one that resembled a large winged figure. He stared at it dazedly, allowing his cellphone to ring on and on until the sound blended with the voices coming in through the window, forming into a soft and constant murmur, like waves washing upon the sand. Carried upon those waves, his mind drifted back into another lifetime. His vision blurred, seeing beyond the winged stain and into the past, to the first time he saw himself fight while piloting Wing... To the night when he first saw himself through Her eyes.
OZ attacked the boarding school he was staying at when he had first arrived to Earth. At the time, he had no idea that it was Her they were after. Figuring that they were there for him and his Gundam, he hurried to retaliate. Students and faculty escaped the battle zone, fleeing the campus hysterically. The only one who stayed behind was Her. She stood there, in the middle of a burning battlefield, and observed the fight with a pair of calm blue eyes.
She was not intimidated by danger. She was not appalled by the slaughter taking place right before her eyes. The enemy suits were inferior to his and he had crushed them like the insects that they were, right in front of Her watchful eyes. She stood there and watched him crush a whole squadron of mobile suits. Her eyes were looking at Wing— at him – in awe. Not trepidation, horror or condemnation – but wonder. Looking at her through the monitor, he felt shaken by what he saw, by the way she saw him... by the way she forced him to see himself. He didn't know what to do with that distressing feeling. Her eyes looked straight at him as though seeing through tons of Gundanium and steel. She would not avert her eyes, forcing him to face himself.
He hated her for it. He hated her because she was fearless, fierce... undeniable, and that scared him. She should have died for it... but when one of the school towers crumbled and nearly crushed her he didn't think twice and flung Wing's massive arm forward, shielding her from the falling debris. The fear had forced him to save her life. He couldn't believe how scared he was while waiting for the smoke to clear so he could see if he had managed to get to her in time. He could see her stunned features on the monitor. She couldn't believe he had protected her, and neither could he.
It didn't make any sense. It went against everything he'd been taught. She knew too much, she had to be eliminated. Why couldn't he do it? Frustrated, he had whirled Wing around and obliterated the last remaining enemy suit with a brutal, fatal blow. She had watched, never averting her eyes. She stood up firmly, not the slightest bit shaken by her near-death experience, and watched. It was a massacre, but she never wavered, never walked away. Never.
He had tried to fix his mistake; he tried to kill her by thrusting Wing's mighty arm and hand-shield her way, but stopped himself and diverted the blow in the last second, missing her by a few inches. She didn't even flinch. She didn't. Even. Flinch! She just kept looking at him with those eyes... those valiant blue eyes... eyes that never looked away, never judged, never looked down upon him in disgust. Those clear-blue eyes that could see straight through him... they were why he couldn't kill her; not then and not later when she became a tangible threat to the war effort.
Heero blinked, coming out of his daze, and his hand flung sideways towards the phone. He snatched it off the night table and finally took the call. Inhaling sharply, he pressed the phone to his ear and grunted a hoarse:
"Yeah?"
There was a hesitant pause, and then: "You've been avoiding my calls," a quiet female voice stated in a calm, yet clearly accusing, tone.
"Been busy," he muttered in a croaky whisper as he turned to lie on his side, facing the window. He stared out at the dark cloudy sky and waited for the woman to respond.
"I need to know if you're going to be here this year," she finally said.
Heero gazed dully out the window. He stared unblinkingly at the sky until his vision blurred.
"Heero?" she called his name softly, almost pleadingly. "Please come."
His fist tightened around the phone. He inhaled a quivery breath, struggling to speak in a steady tone, but failing:
"I... I don't know," he mumbled weakly, "there's... there's this case and..." He sighed, closing his eyes sadly. "Now is not a good time. Maybe next month..." he added solemnly and allowed his voice to fade into an awkward silence.
"Heero," she reproached gently, "You're going to miss her birthday."
He swallowed, hard, his eyes still closed.
"I... I can't go to DC right now," he murmured shakily, his voice trembling, on the verge of tears. "It's this case I'm... It's... it's important."
"You don't have to stay for the celebrations," she insisted; her tone clearly imploring him to heed her request. "We'll do something small, just us. You'll be out of here before the whole mess even begins. Before Christmas... before everything..."
"I'm sorry," he almost wailed, curling into himself, tears squeezing out of his clenched eyes. "I... I can't. It's... I'm... I'm sorry."
A suffocating silence stretched for an awkward moment, before the woman sighed.
"I understand," she said quietly; "Maybe next year."
"Maybe," he promised feebly and the silence resumed, long and tense. He sniffled quietly and finally opened his eyes. His gaze sought out the winged stain on the ceiling and once he found it, he stared at it quietly.
"Are you doing okay?" she asked after a while.
"Yeah," he rasped softly, his gaze on the winged stain; "You?"
She paused before saying: "Keeping busy."
He nodded, accepting her words silently, and continued to stare numbly at the stain, the cellphone pressed to his ear. After another lengthy silence, she spoke again:
"Listen, uhm, I might be in New York next month... maybe we could..."
"Yeah..." he hurried to reply; "maybe."
More silence, stretching longer than before. A car drove down the street, tires screeching as the driver hit the brakes, probably slipping on the icy road. The vehicle drove off and the silence resumed.
"Are you sure you're doing okay?" she asked carefully, concern in her voice; "I saw you on TV... are you on full active field duty again?"
"Yeah, yeah, I uh... yeah," he mumbled, closing his eyes again as he struggled with his words. "It's okay," he assured her after a while; "I'm good." He paused for a moment more and then added: "Even gave up smoking... for good this time."
"Really?" she sounded pleased, or surprised, it was hard to tell; "That's good to hear. Congratulations. It'll do you good."
"Yeah, I suppose."
His husky words were followed by an even longer silence.
"Well, listen... I have to go. I... I'll call you if I'm around, okay? I would really like to see you in person. It's been too long... Will you answer my call?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Good... thanks," she whispered in relief; "Well, goodbye, Heero. Take care. I'll see you after the New Year."
"Sure," he approved quietly; "see you then."
He hung up and turned to lie on his back. He lowered the smartphone down, though it remained clutched in his fist, and resumed staring at the ceiling with numb blue eyes. He soughed out the winged stain and gawked at it dazedly for minutes long. Gradually, his eyes watered. He blinked and his tears spilled, sliding slowly down his temples and dripping onto the white sheets. His lips trembled, struggling to hold back burning sobs. One nearly escaped his throat, but then his cellphone suddenly beeped, vibrating in his fist, and his breath hitched with surprise.
He raised the phone back to his face slowly, expecting to see a message from Agent Shaw waiting, but the sender was marked as N/A. Heero frowned and sat up, wiping away the wet traces from his cheeks. He opened the message. His bleary eyes widened in surprise and disbelief.
He was looking at a screen-capture image of some kind of an official document. A familiar face was staring directly at him from a miniature passport photo at top right corner of the screen. It was a young man, dressed in blue Colony police uniform, a dark and grim expression on his heart-shaped face. Heero's shoulders tensed. He recognized the file; he had seen it before. Someone has just sent him a screen-capture of Duo's L2PD's service record. Another message entered the open thread: Channel 6. 20 secs.
He stared dumbly at the words for five seconds more, before shooting out of bed and running towards the living room. He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on the TV, flipping frantically through the channels until he found channel 6. A newscast was playing and a sullen-looking news anchorman was speaking to the viewers:
"And on foreign news, a joint effort between the ESUN's DEA and local L2 police to stop the illegal substance exports to Earth has taken a tragic turn today on L2-V08744, where a joint taskforce's attempt to raid one of the colony's main drug-lairs and suspected drug lab has ended in a fierce fire fight."
The footage switched from the studio to live feed from L2. It was nighttime. The news cameras were pointed at a hectic scene full of police cars and emergency vehicles parked around a burning structure surrounded by a tall wire fence. Cops, firefighters and paramedics rushed in and out of the chaotic scene. It was a mess of blurry faces, lights and images; body bags, gurneys, fire and smoke. Armed men with shell-shocked, blood-streaked faces were ushered away from the prying media.
Heero stood rooted to his spot in front of the television, the remote in one hand and the cellphone in the other, his eyes searching the screen anxiously for a familiar face.
"Over a dozen casualties have been reported so far," the news anchorman continued; "Channel 6 sources report that at least three DEA agents, all ESUN citizens, and five local policemen, are assumed dead. We will have more details about that in a few hours."
Heero's hands began to shake. His heart thudded loudly in his chest as he his eyes scanned the hazy images anxiously.
The cellphone in his hand beeped again. It was another message.
He lowered his head down slowly, staring at the smartphone screen with dazed blue eyes. The last conversation thread was still open. A new text has just entered: Would you like to know their names?
This time, there was a reply number. Judging by the arbitrary digits, it was a disposable cellphone – untraceable.
Heero switched his anxious gaze between the TV and the phone time and time again. More footage of body bags was currently showing. He looked back at the phone and with trembling fingers typed back: yes. Send.
A moment later a reply came in: five names, none of them Duo's. Heero gulped a shaky breath of air. His breathing became irregular, sharp and panicky. His hand shook so hard that he dropped the remote. The horrific sounds of his distressed breathing drowned the words coming from the TV as the newscast continued playing.
Another SMS soon followed: Relieved?
With a loud, shuddering gasp, Heero collapsed against the nearby sofa. He flung his hands forward to stop his decent, leaning heavily against the armrest. He folded his head in, chin against chest, and struggled to breathe. He was still clutching the phone in his fist, his fingers clenching and unclenching around it with each quivery gasp he took. Sweat broke on his face. He closed his eyes, his gaping mouth fighting for air. His limbs shook; arms and legs no longer able to support him. His chest felt as though about to explode. He gasped, a short and painful intake of air, fists flying up to his chest. Finally, he collapsed to the floor, curling into himself as he rolled over, groaning agonizingly. His trembling fingers fumbled clumsily with the phone, searching the contacts list for a person to come to his aid.
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