[Fic] Conversations Redux
Author: Ellie
Pairings: 1, 2
Warnings: Language, angst
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and its characters are copyrighted to Sunrise, Bandai, Sotsu Agency, and associated parties. The characters of these works are used without permission for the purpose of entertainment only. These works of fiction are not meant for sale or profit.

Notes: This is a complete re-write of an earlier story, Conversations About the House (hence the title). Since I cannot write a sequel, as requested, with a happier ending, I'm trying for a complete rewrite. My guess is that it's not going to resemble the original story at all. Please pay attention to the warnings at the beginning of each section, because they are subject to change.

In an effort to keep the story moving, I'm going to try to do micro-updates (a la Kracken). New portions are in bold.


AC 202

"I told you to get lost." Heero glared at the persona non grata sitting in the passenger seat.

"You should know I don't take your threats seriously," Duo said, buckling himself in. His clothes were soiled and rumpled, his chin bristled with stubble, and he stank of old cooking oil and cigarette smoke. Heero cracked the window.

What Heero wanted to say was: I don't know you at all. Because how can you know a man when all you see is what he can do, not who he is? Duo may as well have been a hammer or a Swiss-army knife. Whatever he was, whoever he was, Duo belonged to the discrete section of his life that Heero had sought to, if not forget, at least overlook. Heero did not know what the others had done with theirs, but he had hurled his medal of "honor" out of the very first airlock he found.

So why the hell was Duo here, demanding favors? If he needed a place to spend the night, there were plenty of hotels, hostels and homeless shelters in the city. There was no good reason for Duo to tail him back to his car. But there he was, arms crossed and lips pressed tightly together, as if he were holding back a flood of words that once said, could not be unsaid.

"There's an inexpensive capsule hotel not too far. Go-"

"No," said Duo.

Heero sucked in air through his teeth and reached for his wallet.

"Don't," said Duo.

Heero fisted the keys in his lap. He counted to ten and then, as he was counting back down to one, Duo's stomach let out a rumbling growl, which Heero's, to his chagrin, answered. Breakfast, it sourly remind him, had been a long time ago.

"I'll buy you dinner," he said, shoving the key into the ignition. Duo made no reply; he just stretched his chilblained fingers towards the cold air blowing out of the vent.

Dinner neither improved Heero's mood nor loosened Duo's tongue. They sat side by side at the counter in relative silence; Duo slurped his noodles like a native. The cook, who had long ago given up on engaging Heero in conversation, poured steaming broth into bowl after bowl of soba noodles without a pause in his discussion with one of the regulars on the strengths and weaknesses of the Nippon Ham Fighters' new lineup. Heero caught people staring at Duo, but chalked it up to curiosity and Duo's bedraggled state. The noodle shop was far enough off the beaten path that white foreigners were still an oddity.

"Hey- You!" Over Duo's bent head, Heero could see a bespectacled man, his face flush with drink, digging his forefinger into Duo's bicep. For the space of a heartbeat Duo's chopsticks froze in midair. Then the moment was over, and soup and Duo went flying at the man. Heero's hand shot out, but it was too late; the tips of his fingers just brushed the back of Duo's shoulder as he fell to the floor, taking the man down with him. Heero leapt after him, and pulled him off before anyone landed the first punch. With his free hand, Heero thrust his jacket at Duo and shoved him in the direction of the door. He turned back to the man on the floor, who was now picking bits of noodle off of his stained shirtfront. Heero handed him a stack of napkins. The man started to say something, but clammed up when he saw the badge at Heero's belt. Swallowing his irritation - Duo would provide better answers than this guy, anyway - Heero waved him away.

"Your friend's not welcomed here," said the cook as Heero settled their bill. "I don't serve his kind."

The cook's sudden onset of xenophobia surprised him, because the noodle shop was located near a buraku and permanent residents - Koreans, Chinese, Filipinos - used it as a regular meeting spot. The cook had served them all without a word. Heero asked, ""Americans?"

"Terrorists," said the cook, handing him the change. Heero had forgotten what the people of Earth had not: the image broadcast round the world as OZ took Duo into custody. When the history books were written, it would be Duo's face, and Duo's alone, inked onto the page. Heero pocketed the money and left.

Duo was sitting on the curb outside. At Heero's approach he pushed himself to his feet. There was still a defiant set to his jaw, a sneer in his squared shoulders. I could tell him to go, thought Heero. I could tell him to go, and he would. A word, small and hard like a stone, settled on his tongue. For the first time that night, he looked at Duo - shivering, clad in a flannel work shirt patched neatly at the elbows, laconic, with a day-old black eye (how had he missed that?) and nothing but the clothes on his back - and discovered, to his dismay, a hairline crack in his resolve. Whatever had happened in the intervening years, they were still blood brothers. Heero could not turn away from Duo the way he had turned from his memories.

"Let's go," said Heero, shrugging into his jacket. He strode off toward the car. Behind him, he could sense more than hear the light tread of boots as they hit the pavement.

tbc