Regarding pairings... Some mystery arrangement involving Wufei Chang (you'll love it; trust me) + established Duo/Trowa + established Hilde/?

Warnings include bombs and bombings, language, assorted violence, same-sex pairings, Wufei being pissy 24/7

A NOTE ABOUT TooT-verse CHARACTER NAMES:

Gerald Yukitani (a.k.a. Heero Yuy)
Joseph "JC" Cross (a.k.a. Duo Maxwell)
Tristan Armstrong (a.k.a. Trowa Barton/Noname/Nanashi)

More pointless ramblings from the author:
Actually, I got the idea for this story many years ago. It wasn't until I started writing Two out of Three that I finally knew what I was going to do with it. So, here it goes…!

Book cover by Sarasan of
A.K.A. t_shirt1x2 on LiveJournal

Chapter 1: Rubber Bullets and Good Friends

The explosion rocked the cars parked along the street, blowing away anything and everything smaller and less tenacious than the average alley cat. The cats themselves had long since followed their sense of self-preservation and scattered. It was a lamentable (but not unexpected) pity that many of the bystanders did not possess similar inclinations.

A mushroom cloud of smoke and flame belched up from the interior of a nearby parked car. Its owner had foolishly left the windows down because, apparently, the weather forecast had not called for homemade explosives and a 90% chance of random insanity. How disappointing. The Doppler was wrong yet again.

I'd seen more impressive displays of combustion in my time. In fact, during the war, I had personally ignited more than a few. However, in this day and age, bomb-wielding civilians were rare, thus spontaneous combustion on city streets was rare. So, naturally, both would occur as I made my way home from work after a 14-hour shift.

I leaned away from the shrapnel-imbedded vehicle that was serving as my cover and fired a shot at the lunatic in the street. As my initial announcement of "Preventers! Put your hands in the air!" had been answered with a flaming projectile at the car that was now smoldering in the street, I discarded conversation for something a bit more communicative: my gun.

I wasn't even sure if I was firing at a man or a woman. The blue-feathered bird suit completely disguised the homicidal moron's identity. It also had the morbid side effect of making every handmade bomb that the perpetrator lobbed at the windows of nearby buildings and parked cars seem like free merchandise tossed to sports fans by an enthusiastic team mascot.

The bullet just missed the bird bomber as the creature suddenly launched into a manic dance in the middle of the detritus-littered street. Or perhaps it was an epileptic seizure. There was no point in hoping for the latter; there did not exist enough dumb luck in the universe for that to be the case.

Taking aim yet again, I fired another of those damnable synthetic bullets the Preventers insisted on using in place of actual lead. Yes, we were all friends now that our police force used air-pressure-propelled "rubber" bullets. Of course, this was the cause of the city's recent crime-wave. The policy change had been whole-heartedly embraced by the public, and even more so by the criminals. And only when the public accepted the logic of this would we be given our real firearms back.

I was not holding my breath, however.

This bullet found its mark and my mouth stretched into a grim smile of satisfaction as the bomber crashed to the street in a blur of fluffy blue polyester feathers. Before he could do anything more ambitious than twitch, I'd already charged into the street and successfully dragged the bag of explosives beyond his reach.

Gun still trained on the perpetrator, I barked, "Preventers! Stay down with your hands where I can see them!"

The suit twitched, but I'd had more than enough time to accomplish my goal. Descending on the sprawled individual, I pinned each arm in its bulky sleeve with a booted foot and ignored how ridiculous I looked, straddling a lunatic in a crayon-blue bird suit. The indignity couldn't be helped; it just wasn't feasible to attempt applying handcuffs properly due to the costume's bulk. If I'd had a partner I could trust, taking the imbecile into custody wouldn't have been an issue.

I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to handing the situation over to the local police. I reached for my cell phone.

The perpetrator inside the costume chose that precise moment to finally come around. He yanked forcibly at his trapped arms.

I growled, "These bullets might not have been designed with the intent to kill, but they can and will make you wish you were dead. Continue resisting arrest and you'll discover exactly how that's possible."

The birdman heaved a great sigh of defeat and smacked his stuffed beak and plastic eyes into the pavement. This time, when I reached for my cell phone, I was not interrupted as I keyed my ID number and the corresponding situation code into a text message and sent it off to Preventer Dispatch. The perpetrator continued to wiggle restlessly inside the costume. Perhaps he was allergic to polyester. Now that would be justice.

As the moments marched past and bystanders began to hesitantly emerge from the depths of the buildings lining the narrow street, as the wail of sirens drifted into the too-quiet residential neighborhood, I suddenly felt an inexplicable chill go down my spine. Something was not right here. The suspect wasn't saying anything and in the three years, four months, and seventeen days I'd been an active Preventer agent in the field, I'd never encountered a bloodthirsty lunatic who'd been so subdued when apprehended.

He ought to be screaming about God's will or wailing about the government's crusade against him, but he said nothing.

The dread coiling in my gut uncurled and licked affectionately at my ribs. The sirens were close now – perhaps two blocks away – but something told me that if I waited… if I waited…

Something was wrong.

Despite the fact that it would make my balance even more precarious, I reached down to yank off the head of the costume. The motion brought me just close enough to hear two whispered words of warning: "Fuck you."

The next utterance I heard came from myself as I swore in my native dialect.

And then the birdman's head jerked once more – this time with single-minded purpose. Like he was biting down on something. A detonator, perhaps?

A residual instinct from my pilot training had me diving off the prone maniac and away from the backpack of bombs just as the street was lit by a small super nova. The concussive force of the blast slammed me up against the side of a nearby delivery truck. The last thing I remembered was trying to cover my head as the pavement rushed up toward me.

From the fact that I awoke sometime later in a hospital bed with an array of bandages engulfing my brow and a splitting headache, I surmised that I hadn't quite managed it.

"Agent Chang. Where do I start?"

I glared blearily up at Director Une, hating the fact that I was lying down and she was looming over me and there wasn't a thing I could do about it that wouldn't result in the loss of more of my pride. I refused to pass out or vomit in her presence. I also refused to let her berate me when I'd only done what had been necessary.

She began. "... not on duty... call for back-up was not prompt enough... five civilians injured... property damage... and a dead suspect."

Damned administrator. Of course she could cast stones now. I bit back my furiously indignant rebuttal and focused on glaring up at the ceiling as if it could diffuse the pressure that was trying to stomp my skull apart from the inside out.

I ground my teeth together in frustration. Despite my determination to ignore Director Une's admonishment, the last part stuck in my mind like a splinter from a wooden chopping block. Damn that self-righteous lunatic for dying on my watch. I wouldn't be able to beat the fear of the ancestors into him after all.

In a controlled tone, I answered the director's methodically delivered speech with, "I did the best I could."

Director Une countered bluntly, "Your best wasn't good enough. We're a peace-keeping organization, Agent Chang. Not a bunch of comic book action heroes."

I didn't justify that remark with a response.

"I can't even blame your poor performance on Yukitani's most recent replacement this time."

The mention of my long-time partner brought me to yet another deficiency of the universe: my latest partner. I suppose Lucrezia Noin was an able agent. Possibly. But I could afford to be generous now that she was on maternity leave and out from underfoot. I briefly envisioned how things might have gone if she'd been walking down that street with me earlier and I ground my molars together so hard they actually creaked in my jaw. She would have insisted on negotiating. On empathizing with that lunatic. On listening to his demands.

Damned woman. It was fortunate that she'd decided to "experience the joys of motherhood." Otherwise, I'd likely be experiencing the joys of giving Agent Noin a much-needed reminder of the fact that she was an agent of the peace and charged with the wellbeing of thousands of local civilians.

"I'll expect you in my office on Monday morning," Une continued. "We'll discuss your report and the deficiencies of your methods then."

My deficiencies? I drew a breath, felt a fiery protest churn in my gut—!

And bit back the words at the last possible moment. I would maintain my control. After all these years, it was my only companion. I would not surrender it willingly.

She didn't wish me a pleasant convalescence and I didn't wish her a good evening. I ignored her as she clicked away in her shiny, leather heels.

I fumed, despising the fact that I was already going over the entire incident in my head, looking for faults in my own actions. Damn Yuy for resigning. And damn this head injury which made it impossible for me to hold onto my rage. My strength gave out in a shamefully short amount of time and I slumped back against the stiff hospital pillow in ill-tempered defeat.

A sigh rushed past my grimacing lips; it was going to be a long and un-restful recovery. Just as soon as I could get out of here and back to my apartment, that is. Scowling, I reached for the call button in order to set that plan in motion.

I checked myself out of the hospital as soon as I managed to intimidate the doctor into signing off on my chart and was home before the news channels could come up with the required minimum amount of drivel to broadcast to the ignorant masses. Having the director come down to the city hospital just to lecture me was bad enough. I wanted to be on familiar and defensible territory before the networks managed to bribe one of the orderlies to repeat what he or she had supposedly overheard.

Despite having an unlisted number, I turned off the ringer on my phone and commenced with screening all incoming calls the instant I crossed the threshold. If the director contacted me and ordered me to give a statement the following afternoon, I was not going to be able to hold onto my temper. I was not in the most generous of moods to put it mildly. Anyone who knew me at all would know better than to contact me now.

The incident inevitably made the evening news.

And the eleven o' clock news.

And the intercolony news. At which point, I turned off the TV for the remainder of the night and following morning.

I confined myself to the various comfortable surfaces in my apartment, but I didn't rest. Could not rest. Resented the very fact that my body required it.

I was in the process of deciding between instant ramen and microwavable fried rice for lunch when the phone's message service clicked on. I paused in my perusal of the cupboard's contents and then growled when I heard the voice of someone I knew wouldn't give up until I'd bowed to the inevitable.

I glared at the videophone through the archway. It was tempting to make him talk until he was cut off, but I knew he'd only continue calling back again and again and again repeating the same directive until I put us both out of his misery. I marched over to the desk, turned on the viewer, and opened the connection with the punch of a button.

"Armstrong," I greeted grudgingly. "If you're calling to cash-in on my newfound celebrity, I will not be pleased."

On the screen, Trowa Barton gave me a very small smile. "You, displeased. Now that I'd have to see to believe" was his quiet but wry reply.

I grunted. Ever since the man had gotten married, his sarcastic sense of humor had become a regular event. I countered, "As you can see, I am in one piece."

He nodded. "And, as Duo would say, grumpy as hell because the suspect died on you."

My knee-jerk reflex was to remind Barton not to use his husband's given name over an unsecured channel, but I knew he wasn't sloppy. The reprimand was redundant and unnecessary. It was also something Yuy would have said and it was not my job to fill his shoes. "There is that."

"But with that concussion, I'm not sure you would have been able to do much to him if he had lived."

"Have I never warned you about underestimating me?"

"You have. Once or twice."

"That you admit to recalling."

Barton shrugged, admitting to the truth of that statement. "Duo and I are going to be in the neighborhood this evening, so—"

"No, you won't," I refuted. "Your vacation time started two days ago. Aren't you both in that shameful land of debauchery that Cross was nattering on about?" Last I'd heard the Nile River had become an overpriced, overdeveloped resort-infested excuse for tourists to overindulge in imitation French cuisine and off-Broadway musicals. "Are you planning to fire yourselves out of a Beam Cannon?"

A third voice, muffled by distance, interjected with annoying cheer, "Haven't actually left yet, buddy! We're still packin' our socks!"

I gave Barton a droll look, before requesting intervention with a single word. "Socks?"

Maxwell barked out a laugh and suddenly there he was, draping himself over his spouse's shoulders and grinning at me. "Hell yeah, man," he replied enthusiastically. "Can't have any awkward moments when we put our best foot forward, eh?"

I bit back a groan, thereby denying him the satisfaction of having pried such an undignified sound out of me. "Your very sad and deficient excuse for humor is more painful than a concussion."

Maxwell cackled and winked at me. "You'd know, I guess."

Barton grinned. "Personally, I thought that was a good one."

Maxwell ruffled his hair gleefully. It didn't matter how often I'd seen this sort of byplay over the years, I still expected Barton to take exception to Maxwell's irreverent behavior. Of course, he never did.

I harrumphed. "That is why you are married to him."

"Point."

Maxwell butted in again. "So, are we bringing over goopy, day-glo orange Indian curry or deep fried chicken skin in a paper bucket?"

I think I may have turned a little green.

"Right. Fresh salads it is then," Maxwell concluded and then disappeared. Perhaps because he'd spotted something shiny.

"You checked our schedule?" Barton asked, hauling the conversation out of the physics-defying realm of what I called the Maxwell Abyss and back onto its tracks.

I gave him a condescending look. "Of course, I did. Which is how I know that you've long since missed your flight."

"Rescheduled," he amended. "After we saw the news report."

I calculated precisely when and where they likely would have encountered it. "As you were waiting to board the plane?"

"Where else?" Barton replied mildly. "What kind of dressing do you want on your non-goopy and chicken-skin-free salad?"

I sighed. "I should have known you'd be this determined to disrupt my convalescence."

"Yes, you should have."

Maxwell reappeared, waggling his brows obscenely. "Well if you didn't get yourself injured every other week..."

It irritated me that he was right. Ever since Yuy had left the Preventers to be Winner's chief of staff, I'd seen far too much of the local emergency room and Po's domain at headquarters.

I objected on principle: "Giving hyperbole a try, are we, Cross?"

"No more than you, Chang."

"Well, that's comforting. For a moment, I thought I was talking to Winner and his evil twin in disguise."

For some reason, Maxwell found that highly amusing.

Barton retorted with a smirk, "Get your eyes checked."

"After you," I growled. "As you can see, I'm fine."

"Despite your best efforts to the contrary," Barton argued.

"Despite your best efforts to force me to wash my hands of the both of you!"

"So you can wallow in guilt," Maxwell deduced, a smirk curling the edges of his mouth.

"Is that what I'm doing?" I doubted. "I'm sure you're mistaken."

"Naw, I don't think so, buddy," Maxwell mused. When I opened my mouth to argue, he held up a finger in warning. "One more protest and we'll come bearing the latest B-action movies."

I loathed action movies. "And if that isn't enough to convince me to cease and desist?"

Maxwell chuckled darkly. "I'll leave that to your formidable psychic talents, Madame Swami."

I ignored the jibe aimed at my bandage turban. "Would you like to know your future, Cross? I can see an irritated Chinese man punching you in the nose when you show up on his doorstep."

He rolled his eyes. "Hell, I could have guessed that."

"Then why are you wasting my time? I'm hanging up. You're cutting into Winner's pound of flesh." By my estimate, he would be calling in precisely ten minutes, no doubt to pick up where Barton and Maxwell were about to leave off.

Barton raised an eyebrow. "In that case—"

The last glimpse I had of them both was of Maxwell's toothy grin and Barton's hand as he reached for the disconnect button.

I smirked back at the blank video screen. For a moment, the peace and quiet seemed especially peaceful and quiet. I would never admit it in the presence of witnesses, but their call had served a purpose. I leaned back in my chair, gingerly angling my chin up until I was trading stares with the ceiling, and let out a deep breath. Maxwell has always had an exceptional talent for assisting me with the letting off of no small amount of steam. I wondered when exactly he'd recruited Barton to help him with that.

They were both good friends in spite of the fact that I was not a particularly demonstrative with my appreciation. I was well-aware that I seemed ungrateful, but I was far from it. I was, perhaps, a bit bitter: to say that Barton and Maxwell had a partnership that was enviable was a gross understatement. Once, I'd thought that perhaps I might have earned an unbreakable variety of trust and loyalty from someone. But no. Clearly I hadn't. After all, I was currently without a partner.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I was doomed to repeat the same disappointments in my life, over and over again. Long ago, I'd had the chance at that kind of deep and meaningful companionship, but I'd been too young to appreciate how a partnership of that sort might develop in the future. We'd both been too young, too stubborn, too weak to bend and too self-centered to compromise. If I regretted anything, it was the loss of her life. She hadn't had to die. Things might have been different if I'd stood beside her despite disagreeing with her decision to fight, to go to war, to try and be something she wasn't.

Meiran hadn't been a soldier any more than I had been and it made no sense at all that I'd survived the war while she had been sacrificed to it. Khushrenada should have killed me in the final battle. No – he should have killed me after our first duel. I'd lost and he'd let me live with the shame. Perhaps he'd known how badly it would break me. A more devious foe, I'd yet to encounter. Sometimes it felt like I was continually fighting, like I'd never stopped, like I was never going to be able to put down the sword because to do so would mean accepting a right to life that I hadn't earned.

I wondered if Maxwell could sense that somehow. Perhaps that was why he was determined to induce an aneurysm for the sake of distracting me. On the Maxwell scale of diversions, he'd no doubt consider it sufficient to the task.

I took a second deep breath and kept my eyes closed. As I sat there with my hands on the armrests, I contemplated as little as possible. Perhaps one minute later, just as I'd decided that, should Barton and Maxwell get lost – or rather, distracted by each other – on their way here, I was definitely having fried rice for dinner, the voice mail started up again. This time, it was Winner.

With a smirk, I returned my attention to the video phone, feeling far more smug than a concussion warranted. It was both an annoyance and a comfort to have such predictable friends.

"Wufei!" Winner exclaimed the instant the call connected. "What happened?"

I appreciated that he didn't ask after my condition. It gave me something to growl about. "Why, yes, I am fine. Thank you for inquiring."

The interesting thing about Winner was that it didn't matter if he was in the same room or halfway to Mars, his reaction to my snide comment was the same. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me a laser-blue stare. "Thank you for anticipating my next question. Now, what happened?"

If it hadn't started throbbing sometime after Maxwell had threatened me with B-action movies, I would have shaken my head ruefully. Instead, I expressed my irritation by tapping my fingers against the desktop as I obligingly began the tale. It started out as a mundane story of a certain Preventer agent making his way home after work. He'd passed by the east-side park on foot—

"That's not on your way home," Winner pointed out astutely.

I briefly considered telling him that I'd moved, but falsehoods required too much energy to maintain for however many years he'd remember this conversation, so I amended the tale to incorporate the intention of the aforementioned Preventer agent to confirm that the neighborhood's motorcycle gang wasn't harassing the park-goers—

"That's not your job," he interrupted. "Were you in uniform? Where was your partner?"

I sighed. At the rate we were going, I'd perish of starvation before I actually told the part which explained my current headwear. "It is my job," I retorted. "I'm still an agent of the peace."

"And?" Winner prompted like a pale terrier with a dirty sock.

I disliked the fact that my subtle rebuke hadn't landed the anticipated hit; Winner should have winced. He should have offered a token apology for accepting a damned political career in space and taking my partner of nearly three years with him.

"You were in uniform, weren't you?" he persisted. The man was relentless.

"I was wearing the Preventers windbreaker," I admitted through my teeth. "And, before you ask, my partner—" If you could call her that. "—began maternity leave on Monday."

"Ah," Winner replied in an enlightened tone that I did not care for. "So, you weren't supposed to be in the field. No wonder the director is furious with you."

"What makes you think she didn't congratulate me?" I retorted crossly.

Winner gave me a sympathetic smile that made my fingers curl into fists. "You wouldn't be screening your calls otherwise."

I glared.

"Just let it go, Wufei," he counseled softly. "What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Perhaps Gerald—"

"No!" I leaned forward menacingly. "Yukitani does not need to know any of this." The last thing I wanted was for Yuy to start second-guessing his change of career. I had no intention of verbalizing it, but he and Winner could do a lot of good for the colonies, representing their interests full-time such as they were, and it was a worthy path to walk. Learning that I'd been injured yet again and left partner-less was not going to benefit anyone.

Winner nodded. "Understood." And then he just studied me.

I took a deep breath and counted to five before I let it out.

"Are you still meditating every day?" he asked delicately.

I was, but it hardly made any appreciable difference. I spent most of the time working through my fury at having to clean up all the little messes my non-Yuy partner du jour had left in his or her wake. They were – each and every one of them – walking cyclones. I no longer left the temple feeling refreshed and centered. There wasn't enough time in the world for such an achievement.

"Well, I'd tell you to take a vacation and come and visit space," Winner continued, "but, as it turns out, we'll be in town soon."

"The summit?" I deduced, relieved that I had an opening to a new topic of conversation.

"Yes. Let's all have dinner."

My eyes narrowed. "You know that Cross and Armstrong postponed their trip." It wasn't a question.

"Er, yes. It was JC who called to say which hospital you'd been admitted to."

I sighed again.

"Wufei, you need someone to watch your back," Winner informed me with irritating sincerity.

It was more complicated than that, which he was well aware. I needed someone competent who understood the psychology of a former Gundam pilot. I needed someone I could trust. I didn't argue any of those points. I said, "Which I'm sure the director will discuss it with me on Monday morning."

It was either that or a demotion. I doubted she'd ask for my resignation. I didn't care to contemplate the turn my life would inevitably take if she did.

Winner capitulated, "You're right. I'm sorry. It's not my job to point out the obvious when it comes to your work."

He didn't sound very contrite, but hearing the words spoken with confidence actually soothed my ragged nerves more than a genuine apology would have.

"When is your flight getting in?" I asked, accepting the peace offering and leaving the topic behind.

"Monday. 1410 hours. We have something scheduled for that evening, but we'll be available for a very late dinner."

"Fine," I agreed. I opened my mouth to say something else – a message for him to pass on to Yuy – but nothing came out.

It was at that precise moment that someone knocked softly on my front door.

Winner smiled. "Tell JC and Tristan I said hello. And take care of yourself, Wufei."

He disconnected the call without the fanfare of a farewell and that small thing cheered me. Goodbyes were unnecessary in the case of open dialog between friends and, by not wishing me a goodnight, Winner was telling me that the window was open as always. Should I experience the inclination to continue our discussion, all I had to do was call. I undoubtedly would later, after I'd ejected Maxwell and Barton from the premises with orders never to return.

I levered myself out of my chair and answered the summons before Maxwell could hotwire my security system and force his way in.

Although I braced myself for a blast of Maxwell enthusiasm, he was surprisingly serene, breezing his way across the threshold.

"Hey, man. We brought paper plates and sporks," he informed me, indicating the supermarket bag in his grasp. "Only the best for such a memorable occasion!"

"Memorable?"

"Tro's gonna cook for us."

Oh dear ancestors, save me.

"Relax, Wu. You'll live. Scout's honor."

And then Barton appeared in the hall with a second, larger bag and I resigned myself to some sort of mercenary mash or other. To my surprise, Barton made fried rice that was so palatable it called for a second serving.

"When," I interrogated, "did this happen?" I lifted a plastic sporkful and speared my self-invited guests with a meaningful look.

Maxwell chuckled and proceeded to rub my face in my own disbelief. "Told ya."

Barton replied, "A few years ago. I took a few cooking lessons from a master."

"I… beg your pardon?"

Maxwell smirked. "Do you really wanna know? It's, like, the sappiest thing ever."

"On second thought, you are right," I agreed, thankful that he'd warned me off the topic. "I don't want to know." But due to Maxwell's well-known enthusiasm for home cooking, I could imagine. Despite the hazy picture I conjured, I was still startled; I never would have predicted that Barton would learn how to cook just for Maxwell's benefit. That spoke of something highly personal. Given the man's clear devotion to his spouse, it shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. An odd warmth exploded deep in my chest. I would be forever grateful that Barton's patience was endless and that Maxwell could always be trusted to see reason... eventually. Without either of those traits, they might never have become the formidable pair that they were. It was doubly rewarding to know that I'd played a role (albeit a small one) in that. I suppose this little visit was their way of repaying the favor.

Returning my attention to the serving on my plate and the takeout salad Maxwell had come bearing, I acknowledged as much: "It is excellent."

"In that case, I'll leave the rest with you," Barton announced, standing.

I watched as he began measuring portions out of the wok he'd unearthed beneath the counter, sealing each in one mismatched bowl after another. There were five in all. Apparently, I was destined to eat a considerable amount of fried rice this weekend.

"When is your flight?" I asked.

"Tuesday evening," Maxwell answered and I winced.

"Thank you both," I volunteered. "You did not have to sacrifice so much of your vacation for my sake."

Maxwell huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure we did, because like the Sun, the Moon, the colonies, and all the stars in the freakin' universe revolve around you."

"Duo," Barton admonished him.

"What?" he retorted feistily.

Barton glanced over his shoulder at him in silence.

Maxwell had the grace to sit back in his chair and look vaguely apologetic. "OK, yeah, maybe that came out wrong. What I mean is… Aw, hell. You're our friend, Wufei, and we did this as much for our own peace of mind as anything else."

I felt my mouth twitch with a smile. "And having to come back for a funeral would have killed the mood?"

Maxwell let out a bark of laughter. Barton was stubbornly silent. "But seriously," Maxwell replied, affecting a somber and stern expression, "don't kid about shit like that or I'll kick your ass."

"Cross, the only way you could possibly kick my ass is over my dead body."

"Thank you for making my point, Wu-bear."

I growled.

"You have no excuse for dying on us now," Barton contributed, pointedly lifting the sealed containers before placing them in the refrigerator.

"Yeah, so suck it up, pal-y."

I sighed.

"They give you stitches or butterfly clamps?" Maxwell asked after a moment, gesturing to his own head as he eyed my wrappings.

"It is merely an abrasion," I replied. If it hadn't been so close to my hairline, I might have been able to manage keeping it covered with a sizable adhesive bandage.

"Huh. Well, there's always next time," he continued.

"Next time?"

"Yeah. For the Awesome Scar. Capital A, capital S." He winked. "As if any other souvenir from an encounter with a blue bird bomber would be as cool."

"What?"

Returning to the table, Barton supplied, "He has a thing for capital letters and primary colors."

Like most other children his age.

"Ignore him," Barton concluded.

Maxwell took exception on cue. "Hey!"

"Yes?" Barton replied.

Maxwell smirked. "I thought you were ignoring me."

"I've instructed Wufei to do as I say, not as I do."

"Hah. Tryin' to keep me all to yourself, eh?" Maxwell grinned with a sickening amount of delight and Barton's mouth curved into a small, secretive smile. Now this was a detail I genuinely did not want to know.

I followed Barton's advice and disregarded Maxwell as he collected our paper and plastic dinnerware for disposal. "I've got these, babe. You do the surprise thing."

"Roger that."

"Surprise?" I scoffed. "If either of you has smuggled action films into my home—!"

"Relax," Barton interjected, reaching into one of the paper bags as Maxwell filled up the kitchen sink with a completely unnecessary amount of soap bubbles.

Despite the edict, I did not relax. I braced myself for "Man versus Martians" or something equally insipid. With a smirk, Barton lifted a novel from the bag and placed it in front of me on the table. "The newest Boyd mystery. Make it last the weekend."

I smirked back. "With pleasure."

As Maxwell washed up the pan and cooking utensils and Barton dried, I opened the cover of the novel and began to read. I grunted absently when, approximately ten pages later, I heard Maxwell announce their imminent departure. They locked up behind themselves.

I listened to the sound of the door closing and paused before turning the page. Glancing up from my book, I considered first the food in the refrigerator and then the peace and quiet surrounding me.

Yes, Barton and Maxwell were true friends.

I considered my unfinished conversation with Winner. He was a good friend as well.

I turned back to my novel before I could think of Yuy and start wondering who his next replacement was likely to be. It wasn't a topic that required my attention until Monday morning and, as I had the option of putting it out of my mind for two extraordinarily restful days, I endeavored to do precisely that.