Disclaimer: I don't own it folks, ya'll know that by now!

Author's Note: Hey! Well, check it out, this is my first 1x2 fic. Like so many others, this is a one-shot, and it's not completely unique. There are a lot of stories out there with this theme, but I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you all find an equal joy in reading it. Happy Readings!

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Kneel at His Alter

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When I was a kid they'd make me go to confession, and I always had a hard time figuring out what it was I was supposed to be ashamed of. They used to tell me to kneel before the alter and praise my heavenly Father, but I was never sure what I should be grateful for. I didn't know what to do with faith; I'd never had any before, so I would do the one thing that I did know. I appealed to His mercy but not in a confessional, or at that proud alter, but in my narrow bed, under the well-worn covers. It was the only place where the darkness was thick enough to grab in handfuls, and it was the only place where I felt even the slightest presence of the deity I was supposed to love unconditionally. I used to ask Him for one thing, another chance. One more chance to go back and do things right: to smile at just the right time, to take back that angry right hook, to share just a little bit more, to have made it in time to save a life. It was my only prayer to a God I was not well acquainted with. I just wanted him to give me another opportunity to do things differently, to turn back time and space so that I could live without my regrets.

I never asked for anything else because the way my life was going, that prayer was all I wanted. The street life, the massacre, the war, unstable peace, and my inevitable involvement in a lifetime of after war speeches and shallow politics, I did not want any of it, so when I felt the need I would ask Him for one more chance to change it all.

I did the same thing the night that Heero got shot on a routine Preventer mission. All hell broke loose when Zechs called Une and told her that his partner was suffering from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. I was walking home from a bar down the street from my apartment, a little worse for wear, but not too bad. Howard and couple of his boys were in a drinking mood, and I was more than happy to come along for the ride. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket, and when I picked it up Quatre was nearly hysterical with the news. I hailed a cab in record time and paid the guy extra to speed to the hospital. The mass of people hounding the secretary was terribly familiar to me, and I felt bad for the woman. When Quatre, Une, and Relena were involved, it was always a trip for whoever had to deal with them. I didn't interrupt them, choosing instead to wade my way through everyone to get to the only few people I knew would be sane at the moment. Trowa, Wufei, Sally, and Noin were all carefully removed from our buzzing group of friends, conversing quietly amongst themselves. Trowa spotted me first, and he motioned toward me, greeting me with a haggard smile. I did not have to ask.

"He is in surgery, Duo. We've heard no word of his condition," Wufei supplied.

I nodded. Years of practice kept me collected on the outside, but inside I was shaking, frightened, and numb. Nothing could happen to Heero, or I wasn't sure what would happen to me. Quatre knew, he always had, and Trowa was quick to catch on. Wufei took his time in noticing, but he was supportive and sympathetic when he did. Maybe the only person who did not know my feelings was Heero himself, and to lose him so suddenly from a wound he had battled a million times in the past? It could not happen. So, I sat down in an uncomfortable vinyl chair, put my elbows on my knees, cupped my chin in my hands, and waited. I waited through the frantic activity, Relena's uncontrollable sobs, Quatre's demands for a status report, Une's harping on the hospital staff, Wufei, Trowa, Sally, and Noin's quiet mutterings, and Dorothy and Hilde's constant queries as to my state of well-being. The only person as quiet as me was Zechs. He had isolated himself in one corner, arms crossed, and head down, lost in thought.

A couple hours passed and Dorothy and Hilde decided it was best to take Relena home. Quatre sank down in a chair next to me, having given up his earlier position of outspokenness, and Une had taken her leave of the hospital to go back to HQ. Noin convinced Zechs to come home with her and get some rest, and Sally kissed Wufei good-bye on the cheek, understanding that now was a time for the four of us. Left alone together, Wufei took a seat next to Quatre and I, while Trowa maintained his watch guard position against the wall. None of us spoke because there was not a whole lot to say, but I was relieved that things had died down. Another lapse of lethargic time passed, and Trowa didn't move, Wufei only sighed periodically, but Quatre began to rub at his temples. His brow furrowed, and I knew something was up. Trowa did too. Without my even seeing it, Trowa wound up kneeling in front of Quatre, gentle voice asking what was wrong. This, of course, got Wufei's attention, and we all waited with a certain amount of anticipation for him to answer.

"It's . . . okay," Quatre said softly. "He's okay. There's pain, confusion, but he's alive and it's . . . going to be okay."

We all stared at him for a moment, baffled, but his pale hand reached out for my shoulder, and under his touch I felt some relief trickle through me. He was sensing Heero. Not a minute later the surgeon appeared. Heero was alive and relatively stable, and we could see him one at a time. I decided to go last, and the others understood. They each had their turn and decided to depart, leaving me alone, which I was grateful for.

I felt an immediate bout of claustrophobia as I entered his recovery room. It was small, the beeping and humming sounds from the machines breathed a certain life into it. The thought made my skin crawl, so I tried to abandon the idea and made my way to Heero's bedside. I'd seen Heero in the hospital many times in the past, so I should not have been so affected to see him lying there, but I was. How could a man with such naturally tan skin look so terribly pale? Why was such rich, unruly hair suddenly so thin looking and matted? Smoothly sculpted lips appeared dry and off kilter in their meeting; strong hands looked wane. The strongest person I had ever known was lying before me, vulnerable, weak, and injured, but he was alive. I slid into yet another uncomfortable vinyl chair, I carefully laced my fingers into his.

"I'm here, Heero," I told him. "I'll always be right here, whether you understand that or not."

That's when he squeezed my hand. I was so stunned I couldn't respond for a moment, but when I regained myself, I squeezed back. Heero was alive, he was going to be okay. For all I was worth, I tried not to cry, but when I bowed my head to pray tears rolled down my cheeks. And for the first time in my life, I thanked the Lord for all that was given to me, I praised him for my lessons, and I begged him not to change this, I appealed to his mercy to continue breathing life into Heero's feeble body, to continue let me loving him.

Three weeks later, Heero was fast on the way to recovery, and I was going to be moving in with him to help over see his care. The Monday before he was released from the hospital, I awkwardly approached a church that acted as a single representation of cleanliness and moral fiber in one of the slummier parts of town. I was even more uncomfortable upon entering the church. I felt out of place, as though my sneakers didn't belong on the burgundy carpeting and my black jacket was too informal. My eyes followed the oak pews that stood in rows like solemn soldiers and led up to the brightly lit alter. Stain glass windows depicted Christ on his eternal cross, and it was as though he was meeting my gaze, so I averted my eyes.

Nibbling reassuringly on my lower lip, I quietly ambled to the confessionals and slunk inside. Just like in Heero's recovery room, I felt a little claustrophobic, and it was too quiet. There was only the sound of my unsteady breathing, so I was grateful when the small door slid open, and the father greeted me. I was nervous, but for the first time I did have something to confess, something to feel ashamed of.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been . . ." I paused to do the math. "It's been ten years since my last confession."

I could practically see the smile on the other man's lips. My voice was softer and quivered just a tad. It was obvious how nervous I was, but I forged on.

"Father, I must be frank with you. I'm one hell . . . er, sorry, heck of a sinner."

I mentally cursed myself when I heard the older man snicker. "Relax my son," he said. "God loves even the least devout. You may cleanse your soul in His house."

It was my turn smile as I shoved my hands in my pockets. "That's just it father. I'm not seeking his forgiveness. I just . . . wanted to say something."

"Then speak, child."

"Like I said, I'm a sinner. I've killed people, many people, and I'm in love with another man. I drink and cuss a lot, and even when I try not to lie, I sometimes do. But my confession today, father, is more of a thank you and an apology. I've only ever prayed for a second chance, and He never answered. I get it now, and I guess I owe Him one."

There was a pause on the other side as the priest deliberated. "I see," he replied. "And the apology?"

I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. "This is my last confession, and probably my last prayer. I've only ever wanted one thing from the time I was a kid, and it turned out to be wrong. I never trusted Him, but He gave me what I didn't know I wanted. So I think He knows the map better than I do, and I'm going to let Him steer for a while. Do you think He'll understand?" I asked.

Another pregnant pause was my answer, and then the faceless man replied, "Go in peace, son, the Lord is at your shoulder."

He closed the little window, and I slumped against the wall. 'Yeah,' I thought. 'I get that now.'

-Owari