Disclaimer - Gundam Wing doesn't belong to me. This is all for fun.

Third Time's the Curse:

What is it about third dates that turns apparently nice, normal guys into ravening sexual predators? Is it just me?

Date the first had been very nice...Ben was a friend of a friend of Hilde's and she'd talked me into letting her set us up on a blind date. He got bonus points for being tall, and for striking just the right balance between slender and buff, for having burnt sienna hair and Lapiz Lazuli eyes. Hey, I live with an artist - I can tell the difference between turquoise and aquamarine...

This is apparently one of the prime indicators that I'm gay. Yeah right. Like there was ever any doubt.

He'd picked the movie - some pre-colony classic directed by a guy called Alfred Hitchcock which I'd originally thought might be more Trowa's scene than mine, but I ended up loving it ...Oh, and he did all the gallant shit like opening doors and insisting on buying me half the snack shop. Not that I like to be treated like the girl or anything, but, according to my Oracle of Dating, the guy who proposed the date is obliged to act in a chivalrous and gentlemanly fashion and pick up the tab. The other guy just sits back and enjoys the ride. Well. In a manner of speaking.

After, we went for coffee and cheesecake. He'd obviously done a bit of research with Hilde on my likes and dislikes and we got along pretty well. He didn't quite get my jokes but laughed along obligingly. Those incredible eyes lit up when I told him about living with two other guys but he didn't immediately start asking about whether we were into threesomes and whether he could watch / participate / take photos.

Date the second was very unplanned. The guys were out of town for the weekend and I was getting bored rattling around the place, talking to my orchids, and hacking into old messages on our answer service, thinking that maybe one of my roommates had been up to something they hadn't told me about and left incriminating evidence. Not a hope.

Ben 'phoned just when I was getting ready to leave for lunch at a nice little restaurant by the harbour and I invited him along. Nice, easy conversation over seafood platters - we knew some of the same people and he was hoping to get his Masters at the Florida university where I'd done mine. The walk along the beach was his idea - going for a paddle was mine; it seems senseless to be by the water and not get even a little bit wet. I could tell he only came in to humour me, could imagine him talking about me to his friends later - "Duo's amazing, just so free spirited and impulsive" and could imagine him speculating on what all that free spirited impulsiveness would be like in bed. I guess it was pretty romantic when he reached for me; the two of us alone with those little lacy waves curling about our feet and seagulls whirling overhead, but all I could think about was that any late diners would have a bird's eye view of the two of us.

Ben didn't seem to notice I wasn't that into it - his hands were all over the place and he was murmuring how incredible I was, like I'd actually done something, rather than stand there and let him see how far his tongue would fit down my throat.

We didn't see each other for a week or so after that; I was tied up with a project deadline and Ben was busy with classes and a part-time job but we spoke on the 'phone a few times and he invited me out on the Saturday night and told me to dress up.

The restaurant he'd picked oozed class and utterly ludicrous prices, and straight away made me feel guilty about how much the evening had to be costing him. It also specialised in Thai and Malaysian chilli-based cuisine; a problem for me as spicy food rips my stomach to shreds. I ordered the mildest dish on the menu and still needed copious amounts of rice and water to get through half of it. I couldn't even be bothered asking for one of the fancy, gold-embossed menus to keep.

Ben was all fired up about having scored VIP passes for the nightclub we were going to after dinner; Steel had only been open a few weeks and was already being hailed as the hottest gay hang-out on the Eastern Seaboard.

I hadn't the heart to tell him I'd actually been there a couple of times but Leon the bar-tender foiled that sneaky little plan by practically vaulting over the bar to hug me.

'Duo! It's so great to see you again!' He let me go to peer hopefully over my shoulder. 'Aren't your friends with you? Where's that gorgeous blonde?'

'Not tonight,' I said quickly, ' but I'll tell him you said hi, and this is my new friend Ben.'

Ben cut in then, asking some question about the drinks list, so I just sat on a barstool and scoped the place out. It was the first time I'd been to Steel on a Saturday and it was a bit more extreme than on week nights. Most of the guys were in black leather and had accessorized with what looked like barbed wire and broken glass.

'Duo,' Ben's voice cut through my thoughts, with a slightly annoyed inflection, like he'd been trying to get my attention for a while. 'What can I get you to drink?'

Ordering a soft drink in a hard core gay bar seemed kind of lame, so I got one of those imported Belgian beers Tro likes, figuring I could make it last most of the night if I sipped slowly enough.

'You never said you'd been here before.'

Oops. Why does life have to be so bloody complicated? I'd been trying to be nice but there was no mistaking the hint of petulance in Ben's voice.

I took a quick swallow of beer and then smiled up at him through my lashes, aiming for light and flirty. 'It's the first time I've been here with you, isn't it?'

That seemed to work all right; Ben leaned over to kiss me on the mouth and I could taste the brandy he'd been drinking.

'Not the last, I hope'.

I was still doing the slow beer-sipping thing while Ben downed a couple of brandies and pulled me on to the dance floor. So seductively easy just to sink into the music and alchohol and the feel of Ben's body against mine. This time I kissed him back, pressing closer, feeling his need for me. Someone wants you, the gleeful, insidious little voice gloated inside my head, even if HE didn't...

I stumbled a little bit at that and Ben laughed down at me, with an expression that was a freaky-weird mix of indulgence and desire. I could practically see the thought bubble above his head shrieking SCORE! in huge neon pink letters. His right hand had been rubbing slow, lazy circles on my back, dipping just a little lower with each rotation and now his fingers dropped beneath my waistband, not really slow or lazy any more.

'Ben. Not here. Please.'

'OK.' Another predatory kiss; a squeeze with those fingers that was just on the right side of painful and we were making our way toward the exit. The feelings in my head were still rattling themselves into some sort of order as we fought our way across the melee on the dance floor. We might have made better time if Ben hadn't been mauling me en route, and by the time we got outside, and he suggested me going back to his place, I knew what I wanted. And didn't want.

It got just a little bit ugly after that - if Ben had taken a swing at me, I knew a hundred different ways to disable him, but I've never handled the verbal abuse thing too well. In the end, the bouncers got him to leave and I just slumped on the sidewalk, trying to ignore the stares of guys still queuing to get in.

Not an awful lot to do, really, when you're still standing and waiting in line at one am. Nice to have a bit of laid-on entertainment. Most of the stares were on the sympathetic side but there was one big, dark skinned guy who was smirking openly. The sort of expression that told me I'd deserved every word Ben had called me, and then some, and that if I were his boyfriend, he'd teach me proper manners. The guy with him was younger, smaller, with honey-brown hair nearly as long as mine but worn loose. And one of those heavy, studded collars that are regulation wear for guard dogs. And a look on his face that would have suited some poor, abused puppy.

'Duo! Are you OK?' That was Leon, positively oozing concern, compassion, curiosity and all those other things I was in no state to deal with.

'Can I call you a cab? I could 'phone your friends if you want...'

'God, no.' Alright, realistically, I couldn't actually stay plonked at the roadside all night.

Focus, Maxwell. Options. Think of options. A cab was out of the question; not only would I have to bribe the driver obscene amounts of money to drive so far out of town but I would have to spend over an hour listening to a total stranger's view on politics, religion, sports and who knows what else? And that was best case scenario; worst would be if he recognised me and insisted on holding forth on whether he believed ex-Gundam Pilots were the saviours of mankind and should be deified, or war criminals who should be executed. I supposed I could take a hotel room but really I just wanted to go home.

I fumbled in my jacket pocket for my keys. 'I can drive. Maybe you could get someone to fetch my car? It's on the 2nd level.'

'You're OK to drive? You're sure? I can take you home in an hour when I finish my shift.'

'I'm fine, Leon. You saw me at the bar; I didn't even finish one beer.'

'That's not what I meant,' he muttered, and then caught my eye. 'OK, if you're sure'.

He stayed with me while one of the valets took my keys and vanished into the underground car park.

'Don't mind that bastard, Duo, OK? If he ever shows his face in here again, I swear they'll be picking bits of him out of the river 'til Christmas.'

'Yeah. Thanks.' Leon gave me an awkward hug, and I think we were both relieved when the valet showed up with my car.

My Florida car, the colour of sunshine and sunflowers, is a vintage Lambourgini. My happy car. Even though it was a cold night I left the top down on the drive home, with Gundam Rock blaring on the stereo. Took it tamely enough through town and opened the engine on the coast road home. I probably would have broken all our speed records, trying to outrun the echoes of Ben's voice in my head, except I had to stop about halfway there.

Once I'd finished retching I just leaned against my car and concentrated on breathing. About a year after the war, after my little incident, I'd been in pretty intensive therapy. One of my exercises against panic attacks was a meditation technique - eyes closed, imagining the ocean ebbing and flowing in sycnh with my breath. In, out. In, out. In, out.

I finally stopped shaking and drove home, fairly slowly, with a nice violin piece Quatre had given me playing, and was shocked by the relief I felt to drive over our bridge and hear the heavy security gates close behind me, locking out the rest of the world.