Drip
by Skandranon
He was never really at peace, but in meditation he could shut away thoughts of the world, and at least pretend to be one with the universe. He had first learned the act from his tutors under protest, but these days, with the war all around him, he chased after a moment's inner silence like a needed drug. It kept him propped up when the rest of his mind hung beaten dead by guilt, fury, regret.
Lately, though, he had found himself chasing a different type of silence.
He peeked from under his eyelashes and subtly watched Maxwell pack his explosives. An important mission had come up, and he and Yuy were off to fight the good fight, or more accurately, slough through sewers under a military compound. Wouldn't be back for days. What a shame. Wufei would surely miss the fellow's boisterous, tawdry-imagery filled pattering, and the migraines it induced. He kept such thoughts to himself, though, and maintained the appearance of meditation. It wouldn't do to gloat.
He returned Yuy's minimal nod on their way out, and immediately left the living room for his own quarters. It wasn't that he'd stayed in the main rooms to watch them pack. No, surely not. No reason to...
Okay, he could be honest with his own head. Duo was going to be gone for days! Only Barton in the safehouse, the quietest pilot. The image of lengthy, restful sessions of deep inner peace stretched out into his immediate future. He could already feel the muscles unknotting as a singular braided menace and his overproductive tongue traveled ever further out of range.
He slept in that night, allowing himself an extra hour instead of rising at dawn to inspect his Gundam. He let himself forgo the usual protein shake at breakfast for Winner's hot chocolate mix instead, an act that seemed horribly sinful and nagged at him as he sipped the sweet brew. Finally he mixed in half a shake to ease his conscience.
And then he meditated. And it was blissful.
The days stretched on, ever more peaceful. The quiet sounds of the small house became familiar to him. Meals alone with a book, and him able to seriously contemplate without distractions. Every kata of his martial training refreshed him like fine spring water. Outside the war raged, but here he unwound and unfolded in the friendly solitude.
And then it had been a week, and Yuy and Maxwell were late. Wufei gauged Barton's unconcerned reaction, and his own knowledge of Yuy's advanced skill, and decided to consider the extra days a gift to him from the Gods. Just when he thought he'd have to face more of the useless American noise, he was granted further reprieve. He was grateful and unworthy.
And then it was two weeks. And a strange thing began.
*drip*
He twitched.
*drip*
He opened his eyes mid-contemplation to stare at the faucet in the kitchen. Yes, it had a slow drip. This hadn't bothered him yesterday. Nevermind. He pulled his tranquility back around himself like a blanket, and focused on the flickering flame of a candle in his mind.
*drip*
The candle sputtered out and he glared at the sink. This was not acceptable. Concentrate again.
*drip*
He gave up after ten minutes and went looking for a wrench. It took some doing, but eventually the leak was halted, and he returned to his rapturous silence.
*tick*
He hadn't even known the house had a clock! Did the thing spontaneously materialize, just to mock him?!
He abandoned meditation for maintenance on his mech. But even in the hanger, he could swear he could still hear the clock.
And so it went. The clock was shoved into a closet and muffled with a pillow. The humming television was unplugged. The water pipe to the fridge ice box was unhooked. But still, tranquility eluded him.
Yuy and Maxwell were four days late. This was the key, he eventually admitted, much as it rankled him. The pair had slowly become a fact of his world. They were almost-but-not-really-friends. A bit more than acquaintances. Acquaintances you became concerned for when they were late. There was probably a more specific word for it, but he didn't want to think any further in that direction than he had to. Better to rely on oneself.
But still the days wore on, and his nerves slowly frayed, despite his efforts to hold together. He found himself longing for a mission and targets to take out his frustration on. He settled for the safehouse's clock, and took it out and shot it. He brought back the remains like a prized kills. Barton raised an eyebrow, an extreme gesture for him. Wufei pretended not to notice.
And then they were back. Yuy systematically stomping the snow off his boots in the doorway, Maxwell roaming the house exuberantly as if he had to greet each room personally. Not a scratch on them. Apparently they'd got sidetracked by something or other, couldn't get back to the safehouse by deadline, nothing to worry about.
Wufei returned Yuy's minimal nod of greeting, used less acid than usual in his dry response to Maxwell's catty teasings, and retired to his room to meditate, away from the sudden influx of noise. Tension unwound from his back, and he would never admit that to anyone.
He settled into his pose and prayed the American would keep it down enough for him to relax. He just needed a moment quiet to himself, now that he didn't have to picture the other pilots dead in the snow...
Suddenly his bedroom was far too quiet.
He had never found silence an issue before. It unnerved him. He glowered at the stark white walls and insanely wished for a ticking clock to focus on.
A whisper of sound echoed from the kitchen. He found his feet dragging him from his isolation. He passed the others without acknowledgment, as they laughed and shared cocoa, and set himself up in his pose in the corner of the living room, out of view but in hearing range.
And then, with the chatter in a western drawl comfortably in the background, he managed to find his center, and sank gratefully into oblivion.