Mister Maxwell, tell me about the other pilots.

What about them?

Many people, including administrative staff within the agency and prime political figures, see you as a little…

Crazy? Neurotic? Totally fucked in the head? I can keep going…

I was going to say unstable. But the fact that you suggested similar words implies that you've noticed.

How could I not have noticed? We're all fucking batshit. Can't survive in a world without guns and death and constant fear for our lives. 's why we had to join Preventers. We don't know any other way to live. Yeah, we tried… and Quat prolly coulda done it. He's the most… stable, as you put it. Other than his dad dyin' an' all. He has family, support systems… he has somethin' to go back to. Tro has the circus, an' Catherine, but they're not home to him. I think Trine is the only one keepin' him stable these days.

Trine is…?

That's his other side's name. He's a bit edgy, a bit bitter. More volatile than Trowa, more reactive. Damn good agent though. That's usually who we see on missions. 'Ro…. Fuck, not much I can say about him. An assassin without assignments is a loose cannon. Ya know people used ta call him the Perfect Soldier. Even tho' he'd fuck up missions an' lose his shit because of it. He was just so damn… fierce. Like he was born to it. The guns an' the mobile suits and the undercover shit. He needs this job more than any of us. Needs a purpose. I should know. But he also needs us.

Why's that?

The same reason any of us need the others. We need someone to understand. Someone who's been there.

There are plenty of veterans out there, Mister Maxwell. Thousands. You aren't alone.

Pardon me sayin', miss, but it's not the same. Yeah, they fought like we did. But they're scared of us. Terrified. Even if they pretend they're not. Wanna know why? Because we did shit no one else would do. We didn't give a fuck who we took out as long as we got the mission done. We didn't give a fuck if we survived, if our buddies survived, if our Gundams survived. Well… we prolly protected the Gundams more than we protected ourselves. We were expendable. Paper dolls. Replaceable. The Gundams were one of a kind. Well. Five of a kind. You get the point. Thing is, we went into it knowin' we wouldn't make it out. We did shit no one would have asked another human being to do, let alone a fifteen year old. We're kiddy killers, miss. Not killers who murder kids, but kids who were raised to kill. And that scares the fuck outta everyone. Kids are supposed to be innocent, protected. Not these little hellions who could look ya in the eyes as they knifed ya in the ribs.

Is that why you refuse to partner with anyone other than another Gundam pilot?

It's not a matter of refusing. I don't get the chance to do that. They won't come within ten fucking feet of Shinigami – that's me – in battle rage, and none of 'em know how ta bring me out of it safely. It only took a few scared shitless mission reports before they left me to my own devices. An' I picked Heero. Always will. He needs me. Needs someone to talk him away from the edge, needs someone to remind him that it's okay to be human. 'Ro's my partner. We're better together than we are apart. Same with Quat and Tro. Quat's a bit leery of Trine but they're gettin' there.

What about Agent Long? Pause. Why are you laughing, Mister Maxwell?

Why am I… nevermind. Just nevermind. I don't wanna sound harsh but… Wufei never wanted ta be one of us. He was a lone wolf… lone dragon, I guess. Didn't mind our company but preferred his own. Even now… last I heard, he hadn't had a permanent partner in months. Only person who ever sticks around is Sally Po, but that woman has the tenacity of a damn pitbull. Would take a more stubborn man than Wufei to shake her.

Something else, Mister Maxwell?

Time's up, Doc.

Punctual as always. I'll see you next week?

Sure thing.


Duo stretches as he steps out into the hallway, one hand gripping the collar of the regulation jacket slung over his shoulder. He always thought it was a little silly, making them wear uniforms when they stuck out like a sore thumb. The higher-ups didn't much care for his opinion, though. A familiar figure lounges against the far wall, attempting to appear casual. He couldn't be further from it, hooded eyes glittering dangerously beneath dropped lids, body strung with the tension that constantly lined his still-slender body.

"You know you don't hafta wait for me, 'Ro."

Heero shrugs, lifting one shoulder in an almost imperceptible gesture. He is still relatively non-vocal, though it had been years since anyone had considered it wartime. He speaks to Duo, carries on almost-normal conversations, but asking him to engage in any sort of small talk is like pulling teeth off a predator's jaw. Many skills are part of a soldier's repertoire. Chatting with strangers and fitting in properly with society are not involved.

As always, Duo rolls the strangeness off of his shoulders and slips into his jacket. He wanders down the wide hallway, Heero automatically falling in behind him, half a step back and slightly to the side. Protecting his back, even within the most efficient law-enforcing organization the world had to offer. Duo doesn't mind – doesn't bother to object to his partner's habits. Heero is always going to react like that, like a cornered predator, like a feral animal put on the defensive.

He says hi to people as they passed. Some shy away from him, despite his friendly smile. Some offer a skittish wave and quicken their footsteps. Some pause long enough to inquire as to his health (though he isn't foolish enough to actually answer that question with anything other than the expected 'good, and you?'). And some, a rare few that he secretly admires for their bravery, say hi not only to him but also to his stoic, constantly glaring partner. Not that Heero ever acknowledges them.

Heero doesn't acknowledge, well, anyone. Sometimes Duo hypothesizes that Heero only speaks to him because they are roommates. He has that silent communication going on with Trowa, and he and Wufei exchange honorable telepathy or something when they are in the same room. And Quatre… well, Quatre could carry on a conversation with a brick wall, same as he could. He and Quatre just talked, to fill the stillness.

It's only as they head down the stairs to their home gym, Heero checking the corners and twitching at shadows, Duo bouncing two steps at a time, that Heero finally speaks. "How was your appointment?"

"Oh, ya know… same shit, different day. Asked why we only work with each other."

Heero toes open the door to the basement, flicking on the lights and ducking behind the frame. He glances out, eyes scanning the room, and nods an all-clear to Duo before moving in the direction of the treadmill. Heero preferred to run outside, but would fly through a couple miles of cardio on the treadmill as a warm-up before strength training. Duo snorts under his breath, watching his partner's impeccably well-muscled body shift into motion. That beautiful bastard.

He wanders over to the weights, hefting a few in his hands as he lets his muscles decide what they can handle today. It is a heavy day apparently, and his body eagerly stretches into the tug and drag of the metal. On the other side of the room, Heero strips down to his bare chest, tossing his shirt over the rail of the treadmill. Sweat gleams on his tanned skin, beginning to trickle down in rivulets to the band of his mesh shorts. His brow furrows in thought as he paces along the belt.

"No one else wants to," he comments quietly, the words somehow stretching across the equipment-filled room to his ears.

Duo pauses in his repetitions, glancing over at his partner. "What?"

"To partner us. The only people who willingly agree to work with Gundam pilots are the other Gundam pilots." Their eyes meet across the room, Heero's gaze curious but unaffected. Heero never was as fixated on acceptance as the others.

"I know," Duo confirms, resuming his workout. "That's what I told her."

"Why is it our job to make friends? We're like animals in a zoo. You keep the lions with the lions… because if you let them out, they destroy the sheep. And the sheep know it."


A hand on Duo's shoulder shakes him awake, and Heero catches the knife arrowing for his eye socket. Duo grins sleepily up at him, yanking his wrist free of Heero's grip and tucking the knife back into its place beneath his pillow. Heero is never disturbed by the way he wakes, alert and lethal, knife or gun or brass knuckles heading straight for the vital parts of whoever disturbs him. And he doesn't have to worry about locking his door or setting an alarm, because Heero's reflexes are more than capable of halting his unprovoked attacks.

"What is it, 'Ro?"

"Mission alert. Undercover. They need us for briefing."

"'k. Gimme a second to wake up," he mumbles, scrubbing sleep from his eyes.

He sits up, the covers falling to his waist and puddling around his… he glances down, flicking his gaze to Heero's retreating back, and palms his morning wood back into his boxers. Heero leans against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest with a neutral expression on his face. He's already dressed, regulation Preventers uniform draped neatly across his athletic form. The sleeves of his button-down are cuffed at his elbows, precisely equal, exposing his muscular forearms.

Duo winces and scurries to the bathroom, snagging his uniform from the door. He's always had a weakness for nice forearms, and Heero's body is a goddamn work of art. He won't fuck Heero, wouldn't even dream of it, not with the amount of emotional damage the other boy carries on his shoulders. But fuck if his body cares about that reasoning. Logic wouldn't touch Heero with a ten-foot pole, but certain parts of his anatomy would enjoy being well-acquainted with the Asian boy.

Fuck off, brain. He wrenches the uniform over his limbs, resisting the urge to do more than begrudgingly tuck his half-hard cock into its proper place. His libido grumbles, rousing from sleep, perking up with interest as he meanders back into his bedroom. Heero stirs, unfurling from the door like a dangerous shadow, and stalks toward the living area. Duo tucks in his shirt, giving his erection a promising caress, and then ruthlessly shuts down his sex drive. Now is not the time.


Heero's hand grazes his back as they slip into the conference room, a pair of lethal wraiths. It might have affected him more, especially considering his morning mental acrobatics, if he hadn't known that Heero was checking for the gun concealed in the waistband of his pants. Heero always checked him, ghosting a hand across spine or ribs, flexing a foot into ankle or shin, ensuring that his gun or at the very least his knives were somewhere on his person. A tiny smile curls Duo's lips. He might be a PTSD riddled psychopath, but he had his ways of showing affection. Protection and neuroses, mostly. Check the locks on the door at least three times. Six locks, half locked, half unlocked. Even locks on odd days, odd locks on even days. Check the corners in every room. Sleep with a weapon nearby. Hide a weapon in every room. Two exits or a back-up. Always have a plan.

And Duo lived with it, not only because he had the same soldier instincts as Heero, but because it made him feel safe. There was comfort in safety rituals, in the familiar habits of war and danger. Knowing that, if the worst happened, Heero was prepared and would be there before he asked.

This new mission was no exception. They always called Heero and Duo in together. Heero and Duo, Quatre and Trowa. Wufei was usually occupied with training, hand-to-hand combat, manned vehicles, and survival tactics. He got called in every once in a blue moon, when his expertise was necessary for the mission.

He slumps into a chair near the back of the room, Heero standing at attention behind him. His braid coils down the arm of the chair, tail nearly brushing the floor, and he snags the length of hair before it can actually touch. His own little neurosis. The braid is like the nation's flag – don't manhandle it, don't deface it, and don't let it touch the ground. Treat it like it's holy. Quatre shakes his hand in passing, offering pleasantries to Duo and a nod and a greeting to Heero. Trowa pauses in front of Heero, tilting his head. After a moment, the two tip their chins ever so slightly. Heero resumes his attentive pose and the two newcomers take their seats.

Quatre leans over to murmur something to Trowa, and Duo wonders for the millionth time if the two are officially coupled yet. According to Quatre, they've slept together a few times – post-mission euphoria turned need for release. Usually after particularly difficult assignments, ones where they lost part of their crew. There was something life-affirming about fucking in the wake of death, and Duo couldn't blame them. After all, their sex lives were like their work lives – no one wanted to deal with the Gundam pilots except each other. It considerably narrowed down the options for a social life.

Duo could sometimes get away with releasing his hair from the braid and going clubbing. There was always a drunken man at a bar who was willing to look past the battle scars and the mecha calluses on his hands. He couldn't risk it often, though. It always left Heero strung out and nervous when he disappeared for those hours, and he didn't dare tell him where he was going. It was kind of a deal breaker to have a terrifying Asian bodyguard shadowing your every step.

Une strides through the door like she's summoning her knights for battle, and everyone sits up a little straighter. Taking her place at the front of the room, she drops a stack of paper on the table.

"Thank you for coming in." They all nod in acknowledgement. "I have a new assignment for all of you. It will be an undercover operation. I'm sure that most of you have heard about the series of clubs being established across the country. High scale, catering to the upper echelons, very exclusive. The main club is called Firefly. We suspect that these clubs are a front for a vast weapons manufacturing and drug fabrication organization."

"Which drug?" Duo pipes up. He's usually the one sent in on substance issues and drug busts, since he has enough street kid left in him from L2 to pull off the undercover. It's not something he enjoys being good at, but at least his past is serving a purpose.

"It's called Serenity," Une reads from the sheet of paper.

The breath hisses from between Duo's teeth, and the team turns to face him. He lifts one shoulder, a wince creasing his features. "That's bad stuff, guys. It's synthetic and gives a great ride, but it's been killin' people left and right. Kids, mostly, because it's dosed for adults an' the dealers don't bother to cut their stash for the littles. They don't care as long as they get money, an' enough people are desperate enough that they'll try it. Nasty substance."

"Exactly," Une agrees. "We're not sure how far-reaching the weapons manufacturing and selling is, but the drug is extensively wide-spread. The further it gets from their base of operations, the more it gets combined with other substances. We've plotted the map of Serenity-related deaths and there's a web spreading out from a few center points. All of these cities have Firefly-connected clubs in them. The owner is rumored to be highly dangerous and volatile, which is why we're sending in special ops – you. It's just recon for now."

"What is our cover story?" Quatre inquires.

"You are all highly recognized by anyone connected to weaponry. There's a definite chance that the leaders are veterans. That being the case, we'll send you in as you are. Renegade pilots, too accustomed to fighting the system to submit to peacetime. Rumor is that they're interested in the ZERO system as well. Heero, Trowa, either one of you could use that as leverage to gain their trust."

A tiny shiver wracks Heero's frame and Duo shifts the angle of his body, reaching out to press a gentle touch onto Heero's wrist. The other boy stills, absorbing the support, casting him a grateful glance.

"Time frame?" Heero snaps out tersely.

Une doesn't flinch, used to his lack of conversational courtesies by now. She glances down at her notes, shuffles them around, and finds a piece of correspondence. "You're going to need to go in at night, when the club is open, sooner rather than later. This is a time sensitive issue. We don't want the weapons operation getting any larger than it already is, and we certainly don't want that narcotic to remain on the streets. I'll leave the specifics up to you, but I'll need a mission report in no longer than seven days."

"Mission accepted," Heero murmurs.

Duo shakes his head, braid twitching against his neck. He tips a salute to Une as she passes, offering a quick wave to the others. Business completed, Heero is already shifting restlessly behind him. He rarely stuck around for the socializing part of briefings, but he would linger as long as Duo was in the room… which meant that Duo could either stay and chat, which would saddle him with an increasingly jittery roommate, or find an outlet for Heero's energy, which would make him much more tolerable.

As always, Duo chose the second option. There was no point getting Heero all wound up just so he could catch up with the other pilots. Since they would all be on assignment together, there would be plenty of time for him to find out what Quatre and the tall shadow had been up to. And he could always phone Quatre once Heero was uneasily unconscious for the night. He rises smoothly from his seat, flipping his braid over his shoulder, and chirps a goodbye before ambling out of the room.


Duo leans over the balcony railing, purple eyes fixed on the flame-rippled sky. He can't see the ocean from their house but he can hear it, a soothing static of sea crashing into rocks, withdrawing with a low hiss, returning again with renewed fervor. The wind tangles playfully through his mane of hair, tossing it around his face. He tucks a lock behind his ear, lips twitching in distaste as his fingers catch on a snarl. He should have braided it before he came outside, but…

He sighs. The case is already getting to him. Drug assignments are rough, especially when they involve kids. They're rough on all of the pilots, but none of them seem to react like he does when they pull up to a deserted alley to find another tiny, crumpled body abandoned on the pavement like so much trash. He clenches his fists.

What he really needs is to be back in the cage, away from this political, red-tape bullshit. Away from the rules and the uniforms and the nose-to-the-grindstone job. He rubs at his knuckles, the scar tissue catching on the pads of his fingers, the slightly sunken bone leaving divots for his wandering touch. He missed MMA. It was the one hobby he was good at, now that Deathscythe was gone. He'd been so dedicated to his buddy – could make that mecha move in ways it was never designed to do. Could hack any transmission, any firewall, or complicated network from that Gundanium cockpit. It was frowned upon for Preventers to get in trouble for computer mischief though, and Deathscythe went into the sun with the other Gundams half a dozen years ago.

And now he couldn't even resort to fighting. He was good at it. Damn good. So good that his handicap placed him in the weight class above his proper position. They tried to start him in his own class, reckoning that a scrawny, malnourished kid from L2 couldn't do much damage. It only took a few devastating knockouts, a few utterly obliterated opponents, before they realized that he was too lethal for the smaller fighters.

People feared him in the cage. Feared him but also respected him. They didn't mess with him in the locker room, like some of the seasoned fighters would occasionally rough up the newbies. They didn't fuck with him but they didn't run from him, either. He could walk out of the cage, stalk past the stretcher carrying out his unlucky opposer, and find fighters waiting to shake his hand, waiting to compliment him on his technique, waiting to ask if he had time to work with them on a move. It was real, there. No one cringing when his velvet eyes lit on them. No one trying to back out of fights with him. They knew going in that they would lose, but they never backed down out of fear.

He snarls, scuffing his hand across his nose, remembering times when that skin would come away streaked with blood. He always let them get one hit in, figuring that it would be the first and last. They knew it too – they'd usually go for his face, his ribs, trying to leave a lasting mark. It was a badge of pride to have the outline of your fist bruised into Shinigami's skin. It was the 'but' that they could brag about. Yeah, I only went half a round with Shini before he fucked me up, but did you see the shiner on him?

But he couldn't flee back to the comfort of the cage. Heero needed him. Relied on him. He kept Heero sane, kept his edgy partner from going head-long into missions that would have him emerging in a bodybag. He was the anchor to Heero's raging storm, the person who understood and accepted all of the ritual and paranoia that kept Heero's PTSD in line. He couldn't risk getting damaged in a fight and being out of commission if Heero got called in for an op. Which left him with nothing. No coping skills. No fighter family. Just his fellow Gundam pilots, dead kids on street corners, coworkers who couldn't look him in the eye, and a fuckton of unresolved fury.

He spins around, two steps away from the brick of the building, arm rising to deliver a punch that would do enough damage to drag his head back together. He pulls out of his emotional dive as Heero appears, silhouetted in the glass doors. Duo's body stiffens, every muscle tensing, and he desperately tries to stop the spiral. A compassionate glow lights Heero's deep blue eyes as he steps forward, slipping into Duo's space. Duo tries to back away, his face torn with panic.

"Heero, don't," he gasps out, his voice strangled.

Heero steps closer, mouths 'trust me', and slips his wrists into Duo's hands. Duo's grip tightens convulsively, calluses scraping over the myriad of scars marring Heero's skin. He's abruptly reminded of that horror movie night, the midnight when he realized just how much Heero needed him. A blood-stained carpet, sheets stiff with crimson, the nightmare ambulance ride, his fingers trying to shutter the shredded gaps in Heero's forearms, the sickening white of the hospital walls, the ebony stitches straggling up his partner's arms.

They all have their ways of coping. And Heero is offering him all of the war-bred pain tolerance, all of the agonizing hours of 'training' under Doctor J's experimental drugs and procedures. So he takes it. Takes Heero's offer at face value and clamps down on his partner's wrists, fists clenching until the bones creak and shift beneath his fingers. Heero doesn't wince, doesn't shift even slightly. Instead, his face smooths out beneath the grinding pain, a fuzzy haze creeping into his Prussian eyes. Duo clamps down until Heero's fingertips begin to blue beneath the strain, knuckles white and bloodless. Heero's mouth parts, lips forming an almost erotic 'o' of pleasure. It's the giving in more than anything else that enables Duo to step away.

He pries his hands open, letting his fingers graze over the bruises rising on Heero's arms. He doesn't meet Heero's eyes as he mutters a thank you, slipping past him to escape into the bathroom. Locking the door, he sinks onto the floor, the chill of the tile dripping into his skin. He leans his head against the comforting solidarity of the door and swallows repeatedly, trying to force down the nausea. He can't afford to lose control now, not with so many people relying on him. But goddamnit, he almost just snapped his best friend's wrists because he was losing it.


The bathroom is dim and sullen when a hesitant tap rattles the door. Duo lifts his head from his knees, points bleary eyes at the offending noise. He rolls his wrist over to read his watch and curses silently. The mission. They had to meet Quatre and Trowa soon.

"Duo…?"

"'m coming. Hold on a sec."

He levers himself to his feet, flicking on the light. He almost reaches out and turns it back off when his reflection grimly rises in front of him. Mussed hair, flyaways escaping from his braid, haunted amethyst eyes. Walking, talking hot mess. And I'm 'sposed to go out in public and look attractive. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tugs the door open and comes nose to nose with Heero.

Heero takes a tiny step back, just enough to be out of his space, and Duo swallows, hard. Heero gestures at himself and then glances at Duo for approval. "Is this okay? I didn't really know what to wear. It's not… mission gear."

Duo scans Heero's body, slams his libido into a tiny, tiny, box, and pinches the bridge of his nose. How exactly do you say "I would fuck you in a heartbeat" to your partner, who has little concept of social cues? Instead, he manages a suitably neutral smile and offers, "You'll be fine, 'Ro."

Heero plucks at the fabric of his skintight jeans, frowning down at the dark fabric. "Are you sure? Quatre suggested this outfit, but… I'm not… it's … not what I would usually wear."

Which is a damn good thing for me. Duo looks him over again, under the guise of double-checking, and the heat drains out of him as his eyes catch on Heero's wrists. Heero always cuffs the sleeves of his button-down shirts, preferring not to potentially have fabric in the way of his hands. But tonight, with bruises blossoming like blood flowers beneath his tanned skin, that just isn't an option.

"You need ta roll your sleeves down," Duo comments quietly.

Their eyes meet, and there is no accusation in Heero's ocean blue gaze. A line appears between his eyebrows, lips pressing together slightly. He fingers the wide cuff of his sleeve but doesn't move to unroll it. "I… that would not be a good idea," Heero murmurs.

"Fuck, 'Ro. I don't want ta hafta explain to Quat and Tro why my fingerprints are bone deep in your arm."

Heero shrugs, unwilling to retreat from his position. Vulnerability is a trigger for him, always has been, and his need to have his hands free and unhindered is a non-negotiable issue.

"Heero, c'mon…" Duo attempts, eyes plastered to the sickening imprint of his own hands.

"Not. Happening," Heero states flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

Duo tosses up his hands in frustration, stalking past Heero into the center of the room. His eyes light on the box tucked beneath his bed, corner just barely visible beneath the dangling blanket. It's the box he desperately hopes Heero will never find, because he doesn't relish explaining to Heero why he owns a riding crop when he never engages in horseback riding. However… he casts a furtive look over his shoulder, finding Heero staring stubbornly at the wall, and drops to one knee beside the bed. Nudging the top off of the box, he slips slender fingers inside and brushes past a few objects. Slick, buttery soft leather meets his grasping hands and he pulls out the slender cuffs, smiling fondly as he secures the lid once more. Drawing himself to his feet, he toes the box further under the bed and clears his throat.

Heero spins on heel to face him, mouth set in an unyielding line, jaw set for an argument. He holds up his hands, dangling a leather bracelet from each palm. "They'll cover your wrist. They won't hinder movement."

"May I?" Heero asks. At Duo's approving nod, he moves forward, gliding into Duo's space. The leather falls into his palm and he flexes it between his fingers, examining the stainless steel buckle and the ring that would tuck neatly into the strap when around his wrist. He hands the cuff back to Duo, a thoughtful expression on his face.

It's a combination of puzzlement and curiosity that Duo has seen before, indicating that Heero is processing something beyond the obvious conversation in the room. Oh, if he had any idea… And he has to clench his fists on a surge of desire as acceptance dawns in Heero's eyes. His partner turns his wrists upward and offers them to him, an eerie knowledge in his level stare.

Duo draws in a deep breath, steadying himself, and wraps the leather around one set of bruises. He buckles the cuff quickly, ignoring Heero's softly indrawn breath as his fingers brush the sensitive pulse point. Fastening the other cuff, he checks Heero's fingertips for circulation, jerking his hands away when Heero's nails curl instinctively into his palms.

Fuck, I hope I make it through this without fucking up. I need to get laid. And not by him.

He peers up through his bangs, assessing Heero's mood, and nearly loses his balance as his knees liquefy. Heero's face is a mask of serenity, the same blissful peace that he wears in the wake of a bout with the razorblade. Duo has seen it enough times to recognize it. Loss of control, willing surrender… submission, his mind whispers, and he yanks himself away from the heat of Heero's body.

"I need to get ready," he snarls, and urges Heero out of the bedroom before his hands act without his consent.

Alone in the room, he drags a hand through his bangs and fights down a scream of frustration. The list of reasons not to drag Heero into the bedroom and fuck him into kingdom come is becoming considerably shorter, but top of that list is one bloodstained night in the hospital and Heero's desperate grip on his fingers as they led him away to surgery.