Disclaimer: I do not own any version of Gundam. I do not own any characters from any version of Gundam. I have no relations to any version of Gundam. I have no permission from the owners of Gundam to write this, nor am I not making any money from this. Disclaimers are a pain to write. Thank you.

Pairings: 1x2, 3x4, 5xnot decided

Timeline: During the war, but not following exactly the events of the war in the canon series. So… semi AU?

Rating: NC-17 later.

Warnings: Self-mutilation. Angst, angst, angst.

Summary: Wufei and Heero played a joke on Duo as revenge for all the times Duo pranked them – but they went too far, and Duo… changed. For the worse. They can find no way to get the old Duo Maxwell back, though not for lack of trying. Heero, for one, will never give up, since he's come to realize exactly how important to him Duo is. Unfortunately, his realization's a bit too late…

One Joke Too Far

Chapter One

"Duo?"

"Hey. Q. Need to use the bathroom?"

"Yes, but if you're not done, I can find another bathroom."

"Would you mind? I'm really sorry."

There was something different about Duo's voice… "Not at all, it's no problem."

"That's good. Sorry, Quat."

Quatre frowned at the door. There was something wrong with Duo, and his heart was telling him it was something very wrong. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Okay, then… Oh, dinner's ready soon, so come down in five minutes or so?"

"Sure, thanks."

Duo listened to Quatre's footsteps retreating from the bathroom door, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Roughly, he swiped at his eyes with a shrug of his shoulder, the sleeve darkening with moisture. Then he unfolded himself, standing up, and looked around him, smiling ruefully. "Ah, this is going to take some time clearing up… I do hope I didn't stain anything. Blood's awfully hard to get out of cloth when it's dried."

He looked down at his own thighs and made a face. "Damn, I guess that means no more shorts anymore. Oh well, the scars will be a reminder, at least." He crossed over to the full-length mirror next to the sink, ignoring the pain tearing at his thighs, and stared at himself. Reddened eyes, blood-covered legs, and skin too pale from blood loss… he looked like shit. That wasn't anything surprising, though, he felt like shit. His whole life was currently shit, as a matter of fact.

"At least I missed any big veins or anything. Wouldn't do to die and let… them…" His voice trailed off. Then he violently shook his head, which only made him dizzy. When his head had cleared somewhat, he completed his sentence, smiling at his reflection cheerfully. "Wouldn't do to let them have the satisfaction of seeing how much they affected me, huh, Duo old buddy?"

He laughed a little at himself. "Not like anyone's going to answer… hey, isn't talking to yourself a sign of insanity? Or is that having a voice actually answering back? I suppose if there's a voice in your head that would count as insanity, but if you're just talking to yourself and there's no answer? Is that insanity? Hmm… maybe I'll do a little research someday."

He began to turn away, but then paused. Slowly he turned back, staring at himself – or actually, staring at his own eyes. They looked… dull. Dead. The light didn't seem to gleam off them, as it should. Instead, it seemed to Duo as if the light was being sucked in.

"Well, that figures," he murmured, straightening. "Something died in me, something big. So there has to be a physical change, or else I'd have felt cheated. Might as well be my eyes, since they're my best feature, I've always thought. Wonder if anyone else will notice? It'll be hard to explain away, if they do…"

He turned around again, and stared at the drips of blood on the floor. "None of them near the floor mat, good. But where's the knife…? I knew I threw it somewhere… there." Bending down, he picked up the small razor and dropped it in the sink for washing later. Then he tore off some toilet paper and began cleaning up all the blood.

"Sheesh, I did this? Man, I'm really lucky I didn't get anything important, like nerves or big veins," he muttered, irritated with himself. "I'm making damn sure I'm never going to be this weak again, otherwise I just might die like this one day. Imagine the shame! Shinigami should only die an honourable death, in battle or saving a friend or at the hands of a better opponent or something."

He flushed the tissues down the toilet, checked once again that the bathroom was clean, then turned to the sink to rinse the knife. It was one of his own knives, so it was easy to clean, being simple in design by having no design at all. All his weapons were the same; there was no point in having a flashy weapon since it didn't serve any purpose except to give you a hell of a time trying to get all the gore out of it after it was used.

Drying the knife with a cloth, he set it aside for the time being and looked down at his blood-encrusted thighs. "Damn…" he murmured. "I'll have to bandage them if I don't want them to crack open and start bleeding again on the next mission." He sighed, then gingerly peeled off his boxers, careful not to stain them, and tossed them next to his jeans. Then he took off his t-shirt, dropping it on top of the pile of clothes, and stepped into the shower. Keeping his braid out of the way, he began carefully washing his cuts.

They bled a little, but he felt no pain

When all traces of blood were gone, he dried himself, and then sat on the covered toilet seat with the first-aid kit they always kept in the bathrooms in Quatre's larger safe houses. He efficiently bandaged his thighs, keeping the wrapping thin, so as to hide their presence. Done, he set the slightly less round roll of bandages back into the box and replaced it exactly as he had found it. Then he put on his clothes, and surveyed the small room. Did he miss anything…? No, there was no trace of his self-mutilation attempt. Good. He wouldn't want Quatre to worry.

He picked up his knife and stuck his head out of the bathroom, checking to see if there was anybody walking in the hallway. No one, good. He hurried out and quickly made it to his room, where he slipped on his boots and slid the knife back into his right boot. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror, and flashed himself a bright grin. "That's right, Duo, keep smiling, 'cause you can't hurt any more than you've been hurt."

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his room and made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, where he could smell dinner. When he entered the cheerfully lit room, he noticed Trowa balancing five plates on his arms, crossing the short distance between the stove and the table where the others were seated. "Hey, Tro, need help with those?"

"No," was the simple answer as Trowa reached the table safely, and Quatre helped him unload the dishes. "I have a better sense of balance than you do."

Duo pouted. "Aw, that's mean, man!" he protested, but sat down without further ado. "Looks and smells great! Outdid yourself again. Would you mind cooking tomorrow, too?"

"It's your turn."

"Surely you don't want to eat my cooking?" Duo's eyes were wide in mock-disbelief.

"No shirking. Eat your food."

Duo saluted him. "Yes, sir!"

They ate in relative silence, enjoying the food – Trowa was the best cook, and they always looked forward to the days when it was his turn to do so. It was only when Duo put down his bowl of rice (they were having Chinese) that Quatre spoke.

"Duo, want some more?"

The braided boy made a face. "Nah, I'm quite full already."

Quatre persisted. "You're too pale, Duo, you should eat more to keep your strength up. Are you sure you're feeling fine? You sounded weird in the bathroom just now."

There was a distinct muffled snigger. Quatre blinked at Wufei, surprised, while Duo turned a blank stare on him. "Sorry," the Chinese pilot murmured, face straight.

"What is it?" Quatre asked, confused, sneaking a worried glance at Duo's expressionless face.

"He sounded weird, did he?" Wufei still did not look up. "Perhaps because he… swallowed his own medicine."

The sound of a chair scraping the floor was harsh in the otherwise suddenly quiet room, and everyone looked up at Duo, who had abruptly stood. He flashed them a cheerful smile. "I'm full. Don't worry, Quatre. It's nothing, just a headache. I'll be in my room, and I'd like it if no one comes in, thanks."

He left quickly, and they heard his door close after a while. Quatre immediately rounded on Wufei. "Okay, what did you do?" he hissed, glaring at him. "You did something to Duo and I want to know exactly what it is!"

Wufei shrugged, a smile playing about his lips. "It's nothing, really. Just a little joke on Duo, to pay back all the times he's played tricks on us. He has become increasingly irritating these past few weeks."

"Well, I think it's one joke gone too far! What did you do?"

Wufei jerked his head towards Heero, who was quietly eating. "I let him do it. He's the victim most of the time, after all."

Quatre turned expectant eyes on Heero.

The Japanese pilot looked up. "See for yourself. It's in the video recorder in the living room."

"You taped it? Whatever it is."

A shrug. "Wufei's idea. He hasn't watched it yet, though."

"You can watch it first," Wufei offered. "I still have a mission report to write up."

"Thanks," Quatre said, voice laced with sarcasm, but Wufei ignored him. The blond grabbed Trowa's hand and dragged him along. He found the recorder with no problems, and plugged it in to recharge. Then he turned it on, and watched as Duo's room came into focus on the small screen.

He had a very bad feeling about this.

Finally! The rewrite I promised. (: Five chapters all revised, and the sixth in progress.

And no, the fifth chapter isn't the April Fools chapter. I have repented of my sin regarding that one. I do apologise.

Ashen Skies
"It's nothing, really. Just a little joke…"