A/N: The long awaited kind of sequel to A Conversation of Clowns. It's random, and came to me when I should have been doing work, or at the very least writing more of Dickensian Streets, which I will get round to eventually, never fear. I hope you enjoy this – please leave a review of what you think!

Socks and Terrorism

I am an international terrorist. Screw that. I am bigger than that. I am wanted not only by every country on Earth but by the five major colonies Spaceside and by two separate armies. I go by the name of 02, the God of Death and Shinagami. I have killed more soldiers than I can count and I am sitting here sorting out socks.

Even freedom fighters have to do their washing.

Actually that's not true. I've never really done much washing in my life. Neither have the others I think. Well, to be honest, look at it – Quatre had, like, a million maids and sisters running after him and picking up his socks. Ditto, I'll bet with Wufei. Heero was cared for in that respect, unless that whacked-out Doc thought it would be a good part of his training (yeah, right). Trowa…well….maybe. Who knows? Man of mystery, our Trowa. And me? Yeah, right. Get a clue. Didn't have any proper clothes until I joined the Sweepers. Prison clothes don't count.

It's kinda amusing. I mean, I know how to pilot the most advanced mobile suit known to man. I can salvage anything from space or sea. I can calculated the exact measurements to blow up a four storey building and leave the garden hut at the bottom still standing (I was proud of that one). I can speak various languages. And I can't get a damn washing machine to work. Don't laugh. It was damn complicated! All those dials and crap. 30, 40 or 50? Wool wash or final rinse? WTF?

Didn't help when everyone else piled in, wondering what was taking me so long. Out came the help manual, which was no help. You see, apparently you have to wash the same types of fabrics with the right colours as well. Don't ask me why – well actually we found out why later. Anyway so what do you do when you have to wash white trousers with a black shirt? Lyrca shorts with wool turtlenecks? Silk lined waist coats with fine cotton tank tops? Damned if I know.

Eventually we got impatient and stuffed the whole lot in and whacked the dial onto…you know what? I can't even remember I was that hacked off. Mistake. Big one. Let's just say, 'Scythe got some brand new silk rags to clean him with, and the next teddy bear Heero gave Relena was wearing a very small dark blue polo neck.

Thankfully that was some time ago. Now I'm sitting in one of the nicest safehouses we've had. Up right in the Rockies, a wooden ski cabin with a view for miles – so we can see the bears or Ozzies coming. Only me and Tro at the moment. I had a rough mission gone wrong. Really rough, almost didn't make it. Poisoning really is as bad as it sounds. But thanks to Tro-man, and Wufei, I pulled through. The others are all on separate missions. Trowa got back late last night, looking done in. Sounded rough. He conked out on the sofa. Still there now, all wrapped up in a blanket – aren't I nice? So I'm sitting on the rug, in front of the fire, sorting out everyone's socks.

And it's making me sad.

I'm reaching out for a plain white sock. A sports type. Thick soled. Heero's. Completely impersonal. Nothing there. Just a functional piece of clothing for the Perfect Soldier machine. I find its match and put them to one side of me, wincing as I do so. On top of the whole poisoning thing, that hag Une though it was amusing to pin my hands to the desk with her daggers…psycho. The wounds had largely healed up, but not quite enough to pilot a suit. Hence why I'm sitting here, not running around blowing stuff up.

The next sock I find is black, with a little Chinese character stitched in. Chinese isn't my strongest language, something Wuffles is forever using against me, but I think it means honour. I find another, but the symbol is different. Not a perfect match. I root out more, until I have a little row of black socks with little characters stitched in. Honour, justice, family, clan, pride, learning, wisdom, discipline, peace. Typical Wufei, dressed in what he believes.

The vision of him sitting there with his needle and thread, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth as he darns his socks, makes me snort with laughter. Trowa stirs slightly and I quieten. I look again at the socks. Someone has done this for him. Someone who cared and knew him inside out. Someone from that big clan of his. His mother? Grandmother? Sister? His dead wife, whose name he calls upon in the heat of battle? I hope so. I pair the socks off and set them aside.

The next one I pick up has to be Quatre's. A light tan colour, new and soft. Quality as always. I can't help but smile as I find the other. We have a lot to thank Quatre for. This cabin was his family's. But it's not just his money. Quatre is much more than that. His generosity proves that more than anything. I can allow him his fancy socks.

The next one I pick up has to be one of mine. Thin, worn and a grey blue. I chuck it into 'my pile'. The next few are easily sorted, until something makes me pause. A bright red and green pair with a smiling Father Christmas on either one. Who the hell? Heero's? The very thought makes me chuckle. Somehow even I can't pull off the thought of the Perfect Soldier threatening to kill people with Father Christmas peeking out over the top of his yellow sneakers. I turn them over carefully in my hand. They're nice socks. Good quality. Quatre? Somehow, it fits. I can see someone in his family, maybe that sister of his, Nina, giving them to him as a loving joke. After hesitating for a moment, I chuck them onto the 'Quatre pile'.

I sort through the rest more quickly. Absorbed in my task, I jump as a small noise reaches me. Stretching out my hand for my gun, I look around and then sigh in relief. It was Trowa.

He had turned over in his sleep, his left arm falling off the side of the sofa. He really does look banged up. His cheek is bruised and swollen and a deep gash runs down his forearm. That reminds me. Looking down at the piles of socks, I sigh. There's only four piles. Frowning, I examine them again. My pile looks a little larger than the others. I know I don't have that many socks. I pick them up, examining them more closely. They're all mismatched and faded, worn through on the bottom, toes and heels. I stick my hand in one, one that used to be black but is now more like grey, and wiggle my finger through a hole in the toe. I really need new socks. And do you know what the rub is?

I can't afford them.

I look back at Trowa and then back at 'my' pile. Looks like the clowns share more than masks. I wouldn't be surprised if Trowa didn't have the cash for socks either. Neither him nor me hit the ground running when it came to life. Chewing on my lip, I pause, thinking about the other's finances. Truth be told, I don't know how much Heero or Wufei have access to. Heero has no family and Wufei's have all been killed. I sort back through the piles of socks, sticking my hand in each pair and looking more closely.

Looks like we're all struggling on the sock front.

I'm sitting here looking at the stupid pile of socks, feeling irritated with my sudden melancholy. It's a pile of socks, damnit! I've been sitting around on my ass too long. I need to get back out there and do something. But, y'know, that's just what makes it so unfair. We're international terrorists, freedom fighters, pilots and soldiers. We're fighting two armies and two governments, with a handful of rebels, a few colonies and some crazy scientists backing us.

As it is, we're pretty much holding the fort alone at the moment. We're sixteen years old. Thousands of pounds are being pored into what we do, and we struggle even then with what we get. We have our budgets and we have our equipment, but I don't know about the others, but as much as Old Man Pestilence likes me, pocket money is scarce and I don't have time for a paper round.

Jeeze, I'm willing to die for my cause and they don't give me enough money to buy a pair of damn socks.

I get up and check on Trowa. Still sleeping. Going over to my laptop, I flick it on and type in a distance phrase. I read the necessary information and get my supplies. It's lucky that Quatre's sisters like knitting, that's all I can say. Feeling determined I sit down to work.

Two hours later, I'm still sitting here and Trowa is still asleep. I've got the hang of my task – it's harder than it looks, but I'm moving more quickly now. A pile of completed socks is sitting by my side, and they're looking pretty damn good.

A sudden noise makes me turn. A very sleepy looking Trowa is stirring.

"Well, 'bout time, Mr Sleeping Beauty," I chirp.

He reached up a hand to rub his eyes, looking disorientated and confused. It seems odd to see him without his normal blank mask, but you can't keep them on all the time, now can you?

"Time?" he inquires.

I glance at my watch. It's battered and scarred.

"Five o'clock," I inform him. His eyes widen slightly as he works out the length of his rest.

"Ya looked like ya needed a good rest," I supply as I stand up and stretch my stiff body. "Wanna drink?"

He nods once and sits back into the warm blanket covering him.

He's still sitting there, all wrapped up when I return from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of tea. I hand one to him and wrap my hands around the other, sitting back down on the floor. He sits up straighter, wiggling slightly to get free of the blanket, and notices for the first time the socks littering the rug by the fire. A puzzled expression enters his eyes as he looks at them, his eyes lingering on the pile nearest to me. Something like a blush creeps into his cheeks.

"Duo, what are you doing with my socks?"

I look at the sad little pile of worn and holey socks. And smile.

"Tryin' ta work out which is yours an' which is mine." I pick one up and slip my hand inside, poking a finger though a hole. "Yours or mine?"

"Yours. What about the others?"

"Aww, I've sorted them already," I point to the little piles. "They're a little more distinctive."

He takes a slow slip and looks at the piles more closely. I watch his gaze travel to the needle and the two balls of wool and scissors sitting next to me. The penny drops and the circus performer looks mildly incredulous. He looks at me, eyebrow raised.

"Duo, are you darning?"

"Yup."

The silence that follows is loaded. I pick up another sock.

"I just thought tha', y'know…I don' have much cash for this kinda thin' atm, an' everyone's are lookin' a bit thin if ya get me, so I'm sittin' on my ass until I'm fit, an' this works th' hands an' all that dexterity stuff, prob good for me, ain't it…so…yeah…" I tail off, feeling a little foolish. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.

A small smile quirks at Trowa's lips and he leans over to snag a completed pair of Heero's. Wriggling a hand inside, he looks at the darn on the heel.

"Good job," he comments.

It was a bit of humanity in the midst of desperation, some respite in the onslaught of war. Trowa leant back, his eyes sliding shut for a moment as peace crossed over his face. My's thoughts darkened as I can't help but remember the last time I spent time with Trowa, sitting in front of a fire. Man that wasn't fun. Speaking bluntly it had been unbearable, breath-taking agony. And that wasn't because of the company. Trowa had been a blurred haze of worry and his face so taunt with strain and hidden fear; it made me relieved to see him relax now.

I owe him so much. We all owe each other so much. The debts are going to be huge if we make it though this. After that ordeal from hell, I think Trowa was there. I don't know, I was barely lucid at the time. Sally told me he stayed to check I was ok and then had to run straight back into battle. Missions always come up at awkward times. Sod's law. Don't think I've seen him properly since then. War is kinda life consuming. And I still haven't thanked him. Thanked him for my life, for the risk, for those dim, pain-riddled conversations, for that hoarse voice I can only half remember urging me to hold on and to live…

"Thanks."

Ha! Get that. We both spoke at the same time. I see a brief flash of amusement in his green eyes, mirroring mine. I know what I'm thanking him for, and I can see he understands. His thoughts were on the same track. His eyes flicker towards the darned socks and I suddenly understand his own gratefulness.

Understanding between two clowns. What more is there to say? Saving lives and mending socks. Infinite and incomparable. To live and to keep living. The bonds of soldiers, brothers and clowns. Inexpressible.

The End