Sucker Shot

“Gah!”

Quatre’s head swiveled sharply, blue eyes intent on the sudden disturbance just outside his sunroom. One hand continued trailing glissandos while the other strayed to his gun, stashed in a built-in holster he’d had built into the piano months earlier. Swearing and angry thrashing preceded an irate Wufei. Quatre relaxed and returned both hands to the keys. His scales tripped into sudden silence on his first glimpse of the proud Asian.

“He didn’t?” Quatre asked, knowing the answer before asking. The evidence was glaringly obvious on Wufei’s face. The other leveled his eyes at Quatre, not deigning the question with any answer. “Do you think we should warn the others? I me”
”

“Let them find out on their own. It’ll be over faster if they aren’t prepared.” Wufei was quite serious. Quatre sighed. The darker teen was right, the faster he got it out of his system, the better off they would all be. Wufei started in surprise. Quatre turned, expecting one of the other pilots. Trowa, holding a damp cloth to his forehead, passed through the other end of the sunroom, disappearing outside. Quatre looked back to Wufei.

“Two down.” Quatre sighed. “I suppose I’ll be next then.” Wufei snorted in agreement, one hand reaching up to scratch at his temple.

“I’m going to get this thing off.” Wufei stalked off, mumbles of dire consequences for disfiguring his aristocratic features trailing off behind him. Quatre grimaced slightly and resolutely returned to his piano practice. No sense in worrying about something like this anyway. He never heard the soft click or whoosh of the release. All he remembered, blinking into the suddenly dark room, was the soft popping of the dart hitting its target and clouds rolling in for a quick su sto storm above his crossed eyes.

**

Heero stretched idly, his shirt tightening all along his slim frame. Duo absently thumbed his nose, smearing grease along his check and lip. That completed the image he had been slowly cultivating all morning. The American’s braid was loose and disheveled from crawling all over his Gundam, his shirt discarded in the slowly increasing heat of the hangar (yes, Heero had turned up the heating system), and now the slightly dirty face (Heero had already managed to get a few artful swipes along Duo’s arms and belly) combined into quite an appealing picture. He’d had to keep Duo’s attention focused on him for nearly three hours—Pilot 02 was rather fastidious, making this scene all the more delicious for it’s rarity—and the teasing had paid off on both ends.

Heero didn’t pay notice as Duo disappeared down the side of Deathsycthe. He was, however, slightly surprised to find himself tumbled into his cockpit much faster than he had expected. Duo must haveped ped and run and the kiss stealing his breath managed to make his partner’s speed irrelevant. He shifted so that his legs weren’t hanging in space, Duo ending up straddling his waist as the braid swung forward to comfortably settle beside Heero’s ear. One hand reached up to tug at the band holding the hair away from him, Duo’s hand intercepting him and pinning him down. Heero arched into Duo’s grinding hips.

“Fucking tease,” Duo hissed, nipping across Heero’s jaw and up to lick an ear. A sharp snap of hips, supposedly punishment for his teasing. Heero gasped softly, giving Duo that small triumph. Duo’s free hand snaked down to clamp on Heero’s hip, pulling them closer as he lightly tongued the juncture of neck and shoulder. Heero squirmed, his breathing erratic and eyes unfocused. Duo watched approvingly as Heero arched up again, his head turning to the side. A beautifully displayed neck should never be put to waste, and Duo lashed forward and bit. Heero gasped, his release catching him almost off-guard, then moaned as Duo’s hips pressed forward again, and he felt answering shudders in the other pilot’s body. Duo’s groans were muffled into Heero’s shoulder, and he collapsed quite suddenly on Heero. He ignored the soft whoosh of air he’d forced out of Heero’s lungs. He was much too comfortable to move anytime soon, and he closed his eyes. For a moment, just a moment.

The slight chill stirred him to awareness, and he blinked in wonder that Heero had managed to squirm out from beneath him without waking him. The soft click of a hammer being drawn, and his whole body was turning and scrambling to fall out of the cockpit. He might have made it, if Heero wasn’t blocking the way, blue eyes gleaming strangely from the backlighting. The gun must have been silenced, for he heard nothing after the click of the hammer falling. His purple eyes stared blankly as Heero turned and disappeared.

**

Trowa looked up as Heero swept into the lounge. He resisted the urge to rub at the mark beneath his bangs and watched warily as the newcomer’s eyes swept over the room. Quatre smiled weakly from behind his newspaper, and Wufei refused to acknowledge the Japanese pilot existed. Heero cocked his head, listening to something, and a faint smile settled on his face as he crossed the room to a window near Wufei and ducked out onto the ledge. Trowa blinked and listened. He heard the ominous beginnings of a war cry just before the door was kicked in, and Duo, resplendent in a rather slipshod fashion, stood in the doorway with a sawed-off shotgun and a manic expression. Quatre didn’t bother with manners, scattering his paper as he dove behind his desk. Trowa watched the scene unfold as Duo sighted Heero on the other side of the window and fired off a shot. His aim was rather wild (Trowa never quite believed the accident story), and Trowa unobtrusively joined Quatre behind the desk.

Wufei spluttered indignantly, his red training gi now liberally covered in garish green paint. Duo blinked from Heero to Wufei and back before turning tail and vanishing down the hall. Heero stepped off the ledge before Wufei could notice his remaining presence (they were only on the second floor after all). Wufei’s lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. He calmly reached out and pulled out a small box of blow darts. Quatre’s wide eyes followed his slow, slinking progress out of the room with a small pang of trepidation.

“Do you think we should stop them? Those were his aphrodisiac darts.” Trowa shook his head.

“Let them have their games, Quatre.” Big blue eyes turned to him, sparkling in sudden laughter.

“Do you want to play, too, Trowa?” Trowa fingered the red, circular mark on Quatre’s forehead and nodded. Quatre opened a usually locked drawer of his desk and pulled out a set of paint-tipped, blunted arrows and an accompanying bow and handed Trowa a set of retractable throwing knives. Replaying the scene of Duo, half-dressed and smeared with grease (and likely semen), wildly brandishing his paint-gun with a sucker dart still quivering on his forehead hit a strangely primal chord in Trowa, and testing the balance of his knives, he grinned ferally with Quatre aey mey moved out as a pair to hunt down their fellow pilots.