CHANCE ENCOUNTER
I saw him in the psychiatry
ward of the local hospital. I a visiting psychiatry student…he a patient. How
was I to know that morning my life would forever be touched? It seemed to start
innocently enough. Shortly after the
war I did something that really meant something to me, something that I had
never thought I would have a chance to do—I enrolled in college and put my life
together, made myself something special. And after fumbling a bit with one
subject after another I went into psychology and found my passion.
After general college I had
moved onto a private school, and there I was placed in a class of seven
students whose interest lay mainly in the war and the aftereffects of it. With my addition there were 4 males in the
class: Tommy, Rich, and Howie, and 3 females: Trish, Angela, and May. Of them I
was the youngest, so of course when discussions came about concerning the war
and the psychological effects for soldiers, other little things that they
figure someone my age wouldn't really have understood, I'm written off for the
major discussion. Sometimes I reflected on if they only knew how little they
themselves truly understood, but I didn't feel like becoming the curiosity of
the class just to take part in a discussion so I had yet to say anything. But
that is how I found myself, outfitted in hospital scrubs, a visitor tag on the
light blue top, walking down an impersonal, harsh, white hallway of a hospital.
Someone slammed into the
thick plastic window to an observation room that we were just passing,
screaming soundlessly from within the room, face contorted with anguish, and
the three girls along with Rich jumped back startled, while Tommy, Howie, and
the instructor took a step back. I blinked and continued to follow the guide,
who hadn't even batted an eye so used to this she must be. The instructor
followed behind us again after everyone had settled down, as if to protect us
from some escaped lunatic. I refuse to giggle, only smile indulgently.
"Some of these people are
here until they can be moved permanently to an institute," the guide began,
glancing back, dark green eyes meeting mine and we shared an amused moment
about what had happened moments before, then she continued. "While others are
here temporarily, awaiting some sort of decision from a judge or a doctor or a
family member. The others that aren't here just for a short time, from perhaps
grief of a loved one having died or depression or something, tend to be in and
out. Legally they are sane, so we can't move them anywhere without a court
order, and that's usually not a problem because for the most part they just
snap every so often, and nothing major comes from it. The truly dangerous one's
are behind those double doors ahead, top level security, and we will not be
going down there for this small tour."
We walked a little longer,
occasionally stopping to speak with a nurse or a patient, sometimes glancing in
on activities that might be going on, and by the reactions these little tours
weren't a regular thing but they happened enough not to cause a stir. As we
passed through a section of the ward devoted to people who have their own
private rooms, be it money or necessity, we heard a noise that tugged painfully
at my heart if for no other reason than I recognized the sound from my days
earlier, some of that pain my own, my guilt, my sorrow. It was a long anguished
moan, sluggish sounding as if the person slept while it came from them, so that
they were unawares, then a soft murmuring of someone desperately trying to
escape a nightmare. The group was drawn toward it, curiosity, fear, uncertainty
etched onto pale faces, faces of people who had never really known the extent
of the human's capacity to feel pain and torture.
"Don't worry, he's not
dangerous, it's only these nightmares he has from the war time. How appropriate I should say, for I
understand it this small group in some way or another will be specializing in
the aftereffects of the war. Well, I hate to say this, but this person is the
embodiment of the war experience." We stopped outside a door like all the
others and she turned the knob a bit, pushed. Moving out of the way we saw from
where we had crowded into the doorway the slight figure in the bed, asleep,
panting heavily, sheets twisted. He moved and I recognized him, 8 years as it
was after the war he had not changed all that much. Heero Yuy; I must have
whispered his name.
The guide smiled slightly,
looking with pity and kindness at the figure. "I see you recognize him from the
coverage he had after the war, and yes, this is Heero Yuy. We think it had
something to do with the training he had been put under, combined with the
stress from the war he had to fight at such a tender age, his inability to
adjust to life without the war, and something he won't speak of concerning a
system that enabled him to fight by affecting him psychologically. He's such a
sad case..." she went on to explain some of his past, what had been gathered.
She spoke of scars, physical, mental, emotional—I know of these things, I have
my own, perhaps more, certainly no less. Long sleeves, jeans, and a goofy smile
don't hide his like mine though. My heart goes out to my fellow ex-pilot.
She has stopped to let us
ingest this, then says in a soft voice, "We try so to comfort him, but he can't
accept the touches in his sleep, throwing them off, as if they're not what he
wanted, and when he's awake he's stony, cold, hiding..." she trails off. I can
supply the rest, 'the perfect soldier', but I don't. Instead I allow myself to
remember the strong silent boy I once known and then I decide to walk away, to
save him the indignity of being ogled by a bunch of strangers. This is set in my mind just as he begins to
whimper again, clawing at the bed sheets, and I catch some of his words before
I can move. I know if I had stayed still, albeit weakly, by the door, or if I
had walked away like I had intended, hearing his anguished pleas, I would have
been a cruel and inhuman person.
"No, not him, leave him be.
Stupid...oh, stop please, no, leave him, he doesn't know, the blood, the hair,
he's dying..." I move swiftly by the nurse, dodging her hand as she tries to
stop me, and ignore the gasps from my peers and my instructor. They don't know
what I know, they don't know how to ease this pain, but I do, and I will. They
don't know I'm the reason for this nightmare, that he's reliving something
past. It must be God, or fate, or just plain dumb luck that enabled me to be
here for my friend as he had been there for me so long ago, just after the end
of the war. I don't intend to ignore
the summoning.
I settle at the edge of the
bed and with the practice of a thousand nights before now I pull the young
Japanese man, no longer a boy, toward me and settle his head in my lap, fingers
running through hair that is still as disheveled as it had always been. As I
had known he would he calms immediately and a small smile touches his lips, one
that only I can see because I know him so well.
The nurse is left stunned with her hand
holding the radio halfway to her mouth, I imagine calling a doctor or security.
Despite the fact I have made more progress in helping him now than they
probably have in the entire time he has been here, and I know this is true for
it is evident in her face, she still tries to stop what she sees as
inappropriate.
"While you may have the heart young
man, you are not qualified to handle this, and I do think he would feel rather
offended if he knew what had just happened."
That's where you're wrong,
I think, but I don't say this. Instead I run a hand lightly down the bare arm,
pretending not to have heard her words, and whisper to Heero softly, for his
ears alone, although the others can hear most certainly. "Wake up, sleepy-head,
you were having a nightmare."
Everyone holds his or her
breath and the nurse lifts her radio again from where it had slowly began to
lower, most definitely to call security by now, whether for Heero who I'm sure
they know reacts violently to things he doesn't like, or for me, I couldn't be
sure. It didn't matter; I wouldn't abandon him just yet. They will have to drag
me away kicking and screaming.
"Come on, open your eyes,"
I murmur, watching the eyelashes flutter open, glazed Prussian blue looking up
at me, then slowly clearing. Recognition flickers through them but it isn't
complete, yet complete enough for him to allow me to draw him closer and
continue to smooth back his hair as he regards me with calm eyes.
"Duo," my teacher hisses,
having recovered enough from his shock to manage a reaction. He says my name as if I'm in grade school
and my name is enough to make me shudder in fear, to realize the power that he
holds over me. Not likely, but I would be willing to bet every penny I currently
possess that I could make him shudder by saying his name alone. I won't of course… but I could.
"Duo?" Heero asks, tasting
the name as he says it. I nod and take his hand, examining the nails and
fingers, and then look back at his face, still holding his hand. "Duo." It is
said this time, not asked, but it is more puzzled than the first, like he is
trying to place it in his mind.
"Yeah, Duo Maxwell, and
you're Heero Yuy," I tease lightly. There's something in his eyes, I smile
tenderly, try something else, "I run...I hide..." He cuts me off with a small
smirk, "...But you never lie. Am I dreaming, was it a dream, the war,
everything..."
"No Heero, there was a war,
but it's finished and there's peace now, and nothing has been a dream. Everything happened, you fought, you won,
and you're still alive."
He nods and reaches up to
hesitantly touch my nametag with his fingers, looking up at me as his
fingertips trace my name, "Duo Maxwell," he murmurs. "Why?"
I pull the nametag from the
shirt and put it in his hands, and he lets it stick there as he studies it,
feeling the adhesive as it clings to his fingers as they move. He smiles as he reads the name again, the
title beneath it. "Duo Maxwell.
Visitor. Why?"
"I'm a psychiatric student.
After I finished my last year of high school I found myself obsessing over the
war, all the effects that it had on people, and I wanted to make a difference
like others had done, were doing. Besides, I needed a career, and working with
scrap metal will only last as long as the machines that have to be taken
apart."
I realize after a moment
the others are still there, and that the looks I am receiving still range from
shock to outrage, and it dawns on me that not one thing had been said from
either of us that hinted that I was more than an over eager psychiatric student
who wanted to be known for helping someone others thought unreachable. It made
me smile inwardly.
"Hn."
"Don't you 'hn' me, Yuy.
I'll kick your ass into the middle of next week and back again." That small
amused smirk settled against his lips and he murmured only for my ears, "Duo no
baka." I smiled and breathed back to him, "Hai, Duo no baka."
"Uh...Duo, this really
isn't appropriate..." the nurse tried again desperately, this probably being
the first time she's ever had to deal with this sort of thing, and I take pity
on her as Heero sits up fully to glare. Yep, still the patented Heero Yuy
glare-o-death. With a smile I pull Heero back against me and note with some
amusement his reflexes have slowed, slowed enough for me, even after 8 years,
to grip his arms to his sides tightly before he could flip me over his shoulder
or perhaps fling me across the room. He relaxes though, settles back again. And
just as I think it's safe and free him I find myself pinned to the bed, him
leaning over me, still smirking.
I look up into the familiar
cobalt eyes and feel the tight steel grip of his hands pressing my wrists down
into the mattress beneath me. My eyes narrow and I feel the faint patter of my
heart as it speeds up in an old familiar pattern often associated with the rush
of adrenaline, fear...excitement.
I
flex my arms slightly, just to see, squirm a bit in general, then in a quick
blur of action throw my hands up, toss his hold off my arms, causing his
unexpected tumble forward with a soundless cry of astonishment. Pushing him off
I roll over and clamp my hands around his wrists, gripping as tight as I dare.
He's panting, but it's even
and controlled, too even and too controlled to be anything but his own
choosing, and that is all the warning I am given, more than anyone else. I find
myself straddling his knees, arms twisted around my back, and cool blue eyes
twinkling with barely concealed merriment. This is a familiar dance between us.
Counting on flexibility I
hadn't tested in at least 5 years I push my body back against my arms, ignoring
the protest of long since used muscles, one leg snapping out and the toe of my
boot inches from Heero's throat, stilled with such unnerving ease it is
impossible to believe I wanted a different outcome. Then it happened, so
quickly all that I knew was one moment I was in control of the situation, the
room began to spin, then I found myself crushed by a powerful grip, cheek
against the rough yet so soft sheets, the creases pressing haphazard patterns
into the skin of my face. Arms behind my back again, wrenched up and twisted in
a pillowcase (so that's what that sneak had been doing with his hands moments
ago), one knee digging almost painfully into the small of my back, the rest of
Heero's weight holding my legs. I could get out of it, but it would involve
dislocating a shoulder and causing a few unnecessary bruises. Was I the idiot
who said he was sluggish?
"So?" Heero asked
conversationally, ignoring the panic he was about to induce in the nurse and
the rest of our little troupe. "What happened to Deathscythe?"
"The same that happened to
Wing I suppose, except I'm such a sentimental fool I had a coffee table made
from some of the metal before it became scrap. Parting is such sweet sorrow, eh
Hee-chan? Mind letting me up before they call security. Getting myself kicked out of a hospital is
something I gave up years ago."
Heero pulls back, letting
me sit up fully and straighten my clothes. "I have a puppy name Shinigami who
resides in my apartment with me, and that's about all for me. And you," I
looked about me with a small frown and I know he grasps every nuance of my
expression, and has read the disdain for his current situation.
"This is only temporary,"
Heero offers, looking to the nurse to have this confirmed. She's flustered, but she nods a bit dazed,
and answers almost mechanically, having given up on trying to make sense of the
situation. "Yes, that's right. He'll be released in two days if he doesn't
check himself in, which he won't."
Heero nods, proud of this,
and this strikes me as somewhat pitiful, pathetic, for someone who used to take
such pride in being able to hack into the most complex computer systems and
leave without a trace of ever having been.
He looks at me with his head cocked to one side. "And the others?"
I looked down a moment,
shrugging slightly. "Uh, Quatre's doing just fine, and Trowa has settled
himself, part time circus part time Quatre's house, although he's currently
thinking of taking a position of head security for Quatre, personal body guard.
Not that Quatre really needs that, eh. Wufei...is Wufei, still with Preventers,
and he spends a good deal of time with Sally. Of all of us I think parting with
his Nataku was the hardest."
Heero fell silent and I
glance up, seeing the nurse still standing there, unsure, but willing not to
interfere as long as Heero doesn't seem aggravated by the 'meddling kid. Her
face clearly reads that she doesn't think I'm much more than that, somehow
who's obsessed with the war, who's done quite a bit of research, and who is now
hoping to break my way into the field by showing what good I can do for this
poor lost soul. I find no reason to
correct any of the misconceptions as Heero pulls my attention back. "And how
are you? The war, everything, how have you noticed it affecting you?"
"I'm adjusting to my life
now, but I can see you're not. The Perfect Soldier hadn't been equipped to deal
with living without fighting, you don't know how to survive, am I right?"
"Always to the heart of the
matter."
"Always to the heart," I
tell him, touching his chest lightly with my fingers.
He smiles, his version of
the smile and then looks away slowly, shaking his head. "Of all places to run
into you, I never would have imagined…" he lets it drop, I know what he meant
to say, and I turn his face to look at me.
"You don't deserve this,
you were just a kid, all of you were just a kids," I tell him softly.
"And you-."
I cut him off, "What about
me? I think everyone in the war has nightmares, whether or not they fought or
they were spectators. I visited Quatre nearly a year ago, stayed less than a
week with him. It was the place on the east coast, I know you've been there
before, he remarked on it once. I was given the room halfway, halfway,
across the mansion and you know what, his screams woke me up every night. The
first night, and the only night I did so, I got up and found his room, went in
to wake him up. I couldn't bare the sound. I touched his shoulder and I felt
the cool barrel of a gun against my temple, it had been under his pillow, and
it scared me. What scared me even more was that I had to stop myself at the
last second before I broke his wrist to take the gun and turn it on him.
"His anguish is reflected in his
soulful eyes, in the weary manner that he breathes. He has tried so hard to
atone for the guilt that is shared by every one of the people who fought in the
war." I begin to count them off on my fingers as I name them. "He has the
Winner Industries, which is desperately working to stimulate the economy of
both earth and the colonies, there's the charities he donates to, the charities
he has begun, he has put into effect programs to provide jobs, programs to
provide homes, to provide relief, dear god I can't even begin to name them all.
It doesn't help, and he told me that he will know he has paid for his actions
when he dies a thousand deaths over."
Heero was silent, but my
eyes asked if he wanted to know the rest, if he wanted me to continue, to let
him know how the others were. His eyes told me he had to know, he owed that to
them if nothing else.
"I tracked down the other
gundam pilots as well, to see how you all were fairing, and you were the only
one that had disappeared. Trowa, he wasn't too hard to find, he's part of the
circus still, why, because he has nothing else to do. He drinks too much and
has let his life fall apart around him, he has nightmares as well, but their
silent sufferings, and he has taken to sleeping pills just to get a full night
sleep. Only when he's around Quatre does he seem to have any will to continue,
and the only thing that keeps him disappearing completely is Catherine, who has
no problem telling him to pull his act together. He's withdrawn, but not enough
that I don't see the fear in his eyes. Not the fear of dying, the fear of
having to live.
"Wufei mourns for the
injustice of everything that has happened, for the deaths that have not been
avenged, for the wrongs not made right. The losses weigh heavy on his heart,
his wife, his family, his colony, and his home. All of it sacrifices made in
pain, sacrifices that were cheapened by the result of the war."
I slam my fist into the
mattress, finally getting out my frustrations with the effects the war's end
has had. "And damn-it, he's right, it did. The loss, the pain, the suffering,
the fear, the destruction, none of it matters. The soldiers were nothing but
whores to the system, the deaths—thousands, millions—forgotten for petty
differences."
"We all have scars Heero."
I pull up one of the sleeves to show him something he knew would be there,
small scars that dotted the skin left and right, haphazardly, from various
missions, fights, and from living on the streets. "Every single one of us, and
some of us have new ones." I take his arm and trace the line that I had never
seen before, the one that stretches from his wrist to about a third along the
arm with my eyes. "So this is what happens when you take the self-destruct
button away from Heero."
He shrugged sheepishly. "It
seemed right at the time," he mutters.
"It's a sin to kill
yourself."
"It's a sin to kill." I
could see the regret in his eyes at seeing the stricken expression on my face.
"I mean...I didn't..."
I took his hands. "It's
alright," I comfort, squeezing the hands in mine, then fixing my eyes on those
hands, studying them, noticing the differences. They were bigger than mine,
always have been, but still callused, still Heero's hands. Hands I know as well
as my own, that have lifted me up when I was too weak to walk, that have
bandaged me when I have been hurt, brushed my hair to relax me after missions,
held me back when I lost control, held me close when I screamed with my own
nightmares.
I shook my head slightly,
to clear it, and he seemed to notice the braid, or lack thereof. "Your hair…"
he trails off and I smile a bit. "Is still there, I just have it pulled back
and twisted up and tucked and folded and pinned and everything else imaginable.
I saw that flash of worry and that, right there, is life. And right now that's
all I can do for you until you decide you want to live. I want you to remember
that you're not perfect, that you're not a machine, you're just human and
you're allowed to be human."
"Duo, but I feel like a
machine, I don't feel human," he whispers.
I study him a moment,
knowing that Heero needed me more than he would ever admit, perhaps than he
would ever know. I lifted his unresisting hand up and press it against my
cheek, turn the arm and press a light kiss to the soft flesh of the wrist, felt
the upturned, still healing skin of where he had slit them. It reminded me of a
time I had contemplated the very same act in the very same way but had chosen
to seek help and save myself instead. A sound grabs my attention and I turn,
seeing my instructor pushing the rest of the students on, his having realized
this needed no audience, or perhaps for some other reason. But he did not move,
even as the nurse walked away, speaking quietly into her radio set, but looking
relaxed enough I was not worried. I had forgotten they were there. I raise a
finger to my lips, "Shh." With that I reach into my boot and pull out a small
pocketknife and hold out my hand to Heero, asking for his. He looks between me
and the pocketknife, which I had opened, then slowly holds his hand out to me.
Taking his hand I press the
tip of the knife into the skin and he winces as blood begins to trickle from
the cut I have made in his palm. "Can a machine bleed?" I ask him, eyes focused
intently on his. He watches the blood a moment, transfixed, then shakes his
head, taking the knife from my hands. I'm not worried, and my attitude probably
puts my teacher at rest, who I had sensed had been about ready to sound an
alarm.
Heero takes my hand and
with a look I grant him permission for something I know he is about to do. He
cuts into my palm, looks up at me. "Don't give up on me?"
"I won't, if you don't give
up on yourself." He presses his hand to mine, palm to palm, blood to blood,
holds them there a moment, then pulls back and nods slightly. "Prove to me," I
whisper, reaching up and unclasping my crucifix, putting it around his neck.
"Prove to me you can make it. I want this back once you get on your feet, so
when you're ready to return it, come visit; I'm in the book. If, once you get
out of here you need a place to stay, don't hesitate, but don't give that back
until you're ready to live, do you understand?"
He is silent, then whispers
two words I know mean more to him than any promise he could have ever made:
"Mission accepted." I leaned in and kiss his mouth lightly, pull back, ruffle
his hair one last time, then walk away without a second glance, feeling the
lingering heat of his hand in mine, of his uncut hand settling on my lower back
as move away.
I pass my instructor and he
falls in step silently next to me, hands me a handkerchief, and when I look at
him I saw a deep sincere respect in his eyes. I know I have a lot of questions
to answer, but for now I am content with the way things are, and accept his
handkerchief with a grateful smile, pushing down my sleeve, hiding the scars,
but never forgetting that they are what made me the person I am.
THE NEXT DAY IN CLASS
With a sigh I push open the door to the classroom, to our
regular meeting, and I'm not in the least surprised to see six pairs of eyes
lock onto me, and to notice that the teacher refrains from doing exactly that.
Easing into the chair in
the small semi-circle the group always arranges I rest my arms on the desk, my
notebook under my folded arms, studying the cuff of my jacket. Slowly the six people
looked away from me and the teacher clears his throat. "I almost hesitate to
ask if there are any questions from yesterday," he begins.
Silence, curious yet heavy,
and no one dares to look at me, although that is what is undoubtedly on their
minds. I shrug my jacket off and for once am wearing something other than a
long-sleeved shirt, a tank top actually, perhaps in memory of what Heero used
to be, perhaps just because it shows the scars off perfectly. That is what I
really want, to bare that to them. I lifted my hand slowly and my instructor,
Mr. Michaels, glances over at me.
"Yes, Duo?"
"I would actually like to
tell you my story, if you're interested."
The hush that follows is
fleeting, then several people murmur their desire to know, and I began to
explain how I came to be who I am, voice soft, eyes fixed down, but each began
to lift as I progress through what I decide they should know. I tell them about
my childhood, about the plague, about Solo, about Maxwell church, the war, the
braid, everything up to the last bit of the fighting and the parts that I play,
the four friends I made during the tragedy. Today my braid is not tucked up in
the cap it usually is but is down, and would be trailing onto the floor had I
not drawn it up into my lap naturally upon sitting. I end my story with seeking
help at the end of my fighting, of finding reasons to live, and of the new
significance the braid holds every year on the date that the war and the pain
officially ended, the ritual that I had started seven years ago of cutting five
inches from my braid.
Five inches, for the five
of us gundam pilots. To remember and to
be grateful with my personal sacrifice.
The first inch I take for Heero,
who was who I had first met and who had seemed to hold the largest impact on me
out of them all. The second inch is for Quatre, the quiet Arabian whose
innocence moved me in ways I could never imagine, and who is just as tainted as
the rest of us, who reminded us by simply being who he is the reason we were
fighting. The third inch I take for Trowa, who feels so much and shows so
little, another someone with no name but who has taken a name and forced
himself to survive, someone who could in many ways reflect a mirror image of
parts of my soul. The fourth inch is claimed by Wufei, who's stiff, rigid mask
and his desire for justice comes from his tortured soul, who is honorable and
kind, although he would have you believe other concerning the latter, and who
taught me that lying to oneself is the worst possible lie, which is why I take
an inch for myself. I force myself to understand that it is not my fault that
things happened the way they did, and that at some point I needed to learn to
live for myself and not for others who are merely ghosts in my memory.
After I finish my tale
there is a soft, respectful silence, and I allow it, for once not putting my
mask in place, and I wait to see how they judge me.
Although I don't know it at
the time within a month I will become a psychiatrist and within two months of
that my own counselor urges me to write my story down, to get it out on paper,
and to my surprise it is published, under anonymous, all the names changed, but
a best-seller nonetheless within a week. Those who know me and read it know
that it is my story, the one I told that day long ago in a classroom of curious
college peers, but while that is my story there is a lot I leave out.
I don't put in the
conflicts we sometimes had as a group, the fights and harsh words exchanged
after the heat of battle when adrenaline and anger were so high and the pain
was foremost. I touch on the everlasting bond we all share, more than friends,
more than brothers or comrades, but something deeper and truer and beyond all
normal comprehension. But I don't go
into the perimeters of that, of the intense moments we shared after one too
many drinks, of the strained companionship of being thrown together and
adjusting to living with another being that has to be considered in all things.
I don't touch on the stolen kisses in the dark of the night or the comfort in
another's arms, nor do I tell anyone else's story, although it is sometimes in
there only to show how it shapes my actions and how it continues to shape who I
am.
I am Shinigami, the God of Death,
do not fear me.
6 MONTHS LATER
I stand slowly and put down
my notes from the session earlier, a young girl who had lost her family in the
war and had been orphaned before being taken into a foster home, to answer the
doorbell. I had quickly risen in my profession a month after graduating, mostly
because of two things, one I had only counted on fleetingly and the other I
never would have guessed. The first, my own experiences, those I had opened up
about, and the fact that I could relate and accept things that I dealt with
personally. The second my reputation for pulling the great Heero Yuy back to
himself. I hadn't counted on that, but it had spread like wildfire in the
hospital and reaching out until anyone who was anyone knew about it. Imagine
that coming from that day so long ago. I never had.
As for Heero, I haven't
heard from him since that day, but I think about him a lot. My hand bears an
entirely new scar now, the one from our pact, and like the other scars I think
of it as a battle wound, but this battle was my first, and probably only
(physical one at least) that comes from my new calling in life. I hope I have
changed his life for the better.
Shinigami comes sliding
down the tiled hall and smacks into the front door, rump first, as his nails
provide no traction, and I laugh at the surprised blob of black that is my dog
as he looks around puzzled. Hauling him back away from the door, sparing a
moment to scratch behind his ears, I stand and pull the door open, flicking on
the porch light.
My eyes widen and I can't
help but grin as I see who's standing there, in the rain, holding out a golden
crucifix to me.
Heero returns the smile and
I take the chain from his cold, wet fingers, only to have him take it back and
lean around me to return it to where it belongs, dripping on me as he secures
the clasp, but I don't care and pull him inside, into a hug. He hugs me back,
running his fingers through my loose hair, and when I pull back I see his eyes
shining with life. "Well?" I ask, tapping a foot impatiently on the tiled
floor.
"Mission accomplished."
I can't help the giggle
that escapes me. "Oi, that's great Hee-chan. Tell you what, I'll get you into
some dry clothes, make some coffee if you want, get you something to eat, and
you can tell me all about it."
"I'd really like that," he
says softly. "I would really, really like that."
