Good morning, Mr. Yuy. How are you feeling today?

Fine.

Fine isn't a feeling. We've discussed this before. How are you feeling?

…indifferent.

Indifferent toward what? Your job? Your peers? Your coworkers?

Yes.

That wasn't a yes or no question, Mr. Yuy.

If I feel indifferent toward all of those groups, the answer is yes.

I see. Why are you feeling indifferent toward your job?

It's just a job.

Is it? Then why not get a different job? A less dangerous one, perhaps. I'm sure your skills could translate to a number of other careers.

It's what I'm good at.

Don't you think it reflects on your character that this job is what you perceive as being your talent? Undercover, secrecy, constant stress, occasional job-related deaths...

I am a soldier. It is what I am good at.

Very well. How have you been doing with your anxiety? The medical staff reports fewer incidences of panic attacks and a significant decrease in self-injury.

The reports are accurate.

So you are feeling better?

Better is a subjective term.

Let me rephrase. Are you feeling more in control of your anxiety?

I … I have help.

Someone is helping you control the panic attacks?

Yes.

Would that be, let me see, a Mr. Maxwell, the one who reported your suicide attempt?

Yes.

He's also your partner at Preventers, is he not? You need to be careful not to become too dependent on him. You can isolate yourself if you are not monitoring your socializing. Would you consider a different partner?

Absolutely not.

I understand that you have strong emotions about this issue, but-

With all due respect, Doctor, this is not negotiable.

You don't often have such an intense opinion on issues brought up in these sessions. Is your relationship with your partner something that you would like to discuss?

No.

Why is that?

It's private. I don't discuss it with anyone.

Have you spoken to Mr. Maxwell about this?

No… Duo and I don't talk about it either.


Heero perches on the edge of the couch, his foot jittering restlessly. He touches one of the cuffs around his wrist, the weight of the leather comforting against his skin. Heat rises in his chest as the ghost of Duo's touch flutters across his pulse, tracing the mottled bruises. His fingertip grazes up his forearm, following the path that a razor once cleared. He'd found that courage once, and not again, the strength to bow beneath the weight of a war-cleansed world. There was no place for him, no place but as Duo's protector.

Duo had saved him, deeply entrenched within despair. It had been Duo's face that burst into his vision as his sight was failing, as blood leaked steadily from weary veins. It had been Duo's solid voice, unstrung with grief, that called him back from the edge, that sung him back into the hospital room and the twenty-seven stitches straggling up each arm.

Duo kept him secure, had pulled him back from the cliff of innumerable panic attacks. Knew just when to brush a steadying touch across his hand, his shoulder, the small of his back. Woke from a dead sleep to drag Heero kicking and screaming from a nightmare. Would crawl into bed with him as the terror sweat dried on his skin, as his heart threatened to burst from his chest, as his pulse raced violently against his veins, and curl himself around Heero's body until the trembling ceased.

Duo never let him return the favor. He always seemed so intense, so impenetrable. He never relied on anyone except himself, never needed saving. Last night, Heero had walked in when he was at his breaking point, when he was inches away from having a partially broken hand. Heero knew that expression, the half-wild shine in his eyes, the frantic movements of his muscles. When Heero panicked, he hurt himself. When Duo panicked, he hurt others. And he gave Duo someone to hurt, something to hold onto until it broke.

The strength of Duo's fingers around his wrists, the sinfully delightful feeling of his bones creaking beneath super-heated skin. A wave of pleasure had swept through him as he gave in, as he surrendered to the wrap of pain around his fragile collection of wrist bones. Duo still ran when he couldn't handle something – so when he fled into the bathroom, leaving bruises flooding to the surface of Heero's skin, Heero knew something was wrong.

And that brought them to right now, to Duo striding confidently out of the bedroom skintight black jeans and a tight purple t-shirt that set off his eyes. To Duo's eyes catching on the leather at his wrists and sweeping up his body with a predatory grin. A reckless shiver wracks Heero's frame, and he steps into Duo's space as he approaches.

"Like what you see?" Heero murmurs quietly.

He turns his back on Duo's stunned expression, sliding into the passenger seat of their Preventer-purchased vehicle. It's a pretty thing, massive and black, with bullet-proof glass and tires. It's the vehicle that they take on missions, giving them a reason for the host of modifications and technology crammed into the large frame. Duo does most of the work himself, not trusting the mechanics at Preventers to do a suitable job. In his eyes (and Heero's as well), if he can fix a Gundam he can damn well get a run of the mill suv to comply.

And as Duo misses piloting the most, Duo is the one who hops into the driver's seat any time they take the Beast out. Of course Duo named their vehicle. And he talked to it just like he used to talk to Deathscythe.

Today he slips in, unusually silent, eyes trained on Heero. Heero offers him a 'nothing to see here' smile and tips his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. The weight of Duo's gaze lays heavy over Heero's body for a moment before the engine rumbles to life. He hears Duo's soft sigh of exasperation and then the vehicle is in motion. Heero drifts into an easy doze, comforted by the safety of his partner at his side.


Heero wakes to the thump of bass through the floorboards of the Beast. He rubs the grit from his eyes and glances over at Duo, whose closed-off expression indicates an intense dislike of the situation.

"Status?" he grunts.

Duo flicks a glance at him as he parks the car in an impossibly tight space, squeezing the massive vehicle in without a scratch. "We're headin' in blind. They're scanning for weapons at the front door. The ceramic'll pass but the guns won't."

"Your hands are equal or superior to any weapon they are likely to have. And as you said, they won't notice the knives," Heero observes quietly, eyeing the flashy exterior of the club.

Spotlights sweep the crowded street, lined with vehicles as ostentatious as the club itself. Flickers of neon glow in puddles beneath the modded cars, light the stilettos and boots of the cream of society flooding through the front doors. Firefly scrolls beside the front door in an elegant script, flanked by pinpricks of light that flash in an imitation of the club's namesake. Two massive guards hover by the entrance, clad in tailored and perfectly fitted suits. The jackets are cut carefully enough that he can't be certain, but Heero would bet that there are shoulder holsters on both men.

The line of people waiting for entrance stretches around the block, glitter shimmering from the fabric of the women's dresses, the shine of leather reflecting on boots and the occasional skirt or pants leg. Heero's eyes narrow as he considers the flow of traffic, how only a slow trickle of people creeps past the entrance.

"How will we get in?" he asks, looking to Duo for a solution.

Duo flashes him a cocky grin, shifting a piece of hair from Heero's face with a delicate flick of his fingers. "No worries, 'Ro. I'll get us in. An' I'm sure Tro's waiting in there with Quat."

True to his word, Duo strides up to the front door like he owns the club, a mouth-watering swagger in his step. Heero lingers behind him, glaring at the masses of people surrounding them. One of the bouncers extends a hand, barring the door, and points at the end of the line. Duo slips into his space, placing one hand casually on the arm of his expensive suit. The other hand rests lightly on the man's chest as he leans in, standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear.

Heero can't fathom what magic his partner utters in the space of only a few seconds, but Duo returns to his side with a 'cat got the cream' smile. The man makes a gesture at his companion, a filthy leer on his face, and they part like a sea to let Heero and Duo pass. Heero reaches out instinctively and grabs Duo's wrist as the heat and noise beyond the threshold swamps him.

The pounding of the bass reverberates up through his shoes, the music vibrating in his bones. The seed of a headache forms behind his eyes, expanding with every discordant hiss from the speakers. People press in around him from all sides, and panic rises in him like a crimson tide. Heero's fingers spasm around Duo's arm and the braided man spins to face him, cupping his face in a callused palm.

"Shh. Focus on me, Heero. You can do this. Hush. Look at me."

Duo's voice, strong and penetrating, anchors him. Duo's hands, fierce and capable, settle against his cheekbones, returning him to the present. He inhales slowly, the breath hitching in anxiety-compressed lungs. Duo leans in, pressing a searing kiss to Heero's forehead, a benediction.

"Got your back, 'Ro. Come with me."

He holds out his hand, quiet but commanding, and Heero clasps his palm against his partner's. Duo weaves through the crowd, the shade of danger around him clearing the people from his path. Heero follows in his wake, an obedient shadow, basking in the security of Duo's protection. Cleared of panic, his brain finally switches into mission mode and clicks through observations of the room. Luckily for him, the Doctor J trained part of his brain is always active, cataloguing and observing even as the majority of his brain sprints on a terror-fueled wheel. He brings The Soldier to the forefront, head tilting as he flips through the bar's interior.

DJ in the corner, surrounded by equipment. Stage front and center, cluttered with instruments, indication of a live band yet currently vacant. A suspended cat-walk, interlaced with dangling cages, filled to the brim and swaying with the undulating bodies of hundreds of alcohol-fueled females. Bars round each corner of the room, swarmed by flailing hands and brandished dollar bills. A raised section in the corner, lined with tables and subtle flashes of wealth, where Duo aims his steps. A velvet rope halts them, and Duo gestures toward the uniformed man guarding the rope's clip. He points over the man's shoulder, where Trowa reclines on a leather couch with Quatre posed carefully by his knees. Quatre sits bolt upright, seemingly vaguely uncomfortable in his fitted pants and snug silken shirt. He lifts his hand in a hesitant wave, and the man unsnaps the rope to let them pass.

Duo shines his favorite devil-may-care smile in Heero's direction as he glides through, yanking Heero beside him. They tumble together onto the couch adjacent to their fellow pilots', Heero sprawling uneasily over Duo's legs. Duo stretches himself along the butter-soft black leather, rearranging Heero until he is draped across Duo's hips, feet still on the floor, spine tracing Duo's abdomen, shoulders pressed against the back of the couch. It's not a comfortable position, but it's no less stressful than the cramped confines of a Gundam's cockpit. And then there's the heat of Duo's hand at his hip, tracing the line of flesh where his shirt rides up, and the intoxicating sensation sedates him. It's a near-tipsy giddiness that floods him with each absent stroke of Duo's fingertips, and he edges eagerly closer to the braided man, eyes half-closing in pleasure.

"Trowa. Quatre." Duo words wash over him, hypnotic and serene, and he drifts in a fog of contentment. Their murmured replies only vaguely register, until Duo's stern voice jerks him abruptly into awareness.

"Observations?"

Trowa speaks up, his melodic voice almost a purr. It resonates with the rhythm of the music, swaying among the treble and bass. "No sightings of the club owner. Bartenders have concealed weapons beneath their stations. All bouncers are armed. Back offices guarded – no one entering or exiting."

He nods to Quatre, who folds his hands neatly on his lap, smoothing an invisible crease in his pants. "The employees are relaxed yet aware. There is no current danger, no high level of tension that would indicate a change in schedule. The crowd is picked at random from the line of guests outside. Only a minor percentage seems to have access to the bartenders' stash. Drug transactions are quiet but not entirely secretive – if people know to ask, there is not a rigorous approval process."

Heero's keen eyes scan the room, lighting on the nearest bar. As he watches, a person nonchalantly indicates something with a gesture of his hand. The bartender raises an eyebrow, the guest passes over a roll of bills, and the bartender ducks beneath the bar. A small packet is pushed into the customer's hand, and money and packet both vanish.

"That's a significant amount of money. Are they selling single-use or providing narcotics to dealers?"

Quatre shrugs, his attention switching to Duo. Their observation skills are flawless, but aimed toward certain specific areas. Trowa maps out security details, camera sweeps, defensive weaknesses. Quatre notes social patterns, levels of stress in an area, pockets of tension. Duo picks up on the underpinnings, the black market dealings, the illicit liaisons, the drug trades and weapons deals. They can and do overlap, but tend to default to whoever is generally the most accurate in regards to whatever information they're seeking. Serenity falls under Duo's jurisdiction.

Duo props himself up on one elbow, rubs his hands together. Heero shifts restlessly, a twist of loneliness wafting through him at the loss of the braided man's touch.

"Alright. Tro, I want ya to wander, see if anyone is bein' turned away by the dealers, if security is watchin' for tweakers and bad trips. If they get kicked out for causin' a ruckus. Quat, try to get a handle on the vibe of the club – if we've got druggies or partiers or both. I dunno if this is a drug front or a legit club, so that'll help. 'Ro, infiltration's all you. Get ta the higher ups. Find a way in."

They nod, accepting their roles. It's not unusual for Duo to take point on drug-related missions, especially since he is so intense and mission-focused when his past is actually useful. Although he never mentions it, Heero surmises that he is determined to prove that he can succeed because of his dubious upbringing, rather than in spite of it. He might call L2 a 'rat-infested shithole', but it is his rat-infested shithole. It's the only home Duo ever knew, as far as Heero is aware – and he wants L2 to be worth something. Even if that something is the reason why Duo is so damn good at pretending to be a drug runner and street thug.

Quatre rises from the couch, moving a little stiffly. He's much better suited for undercovers that involve corporate espionage, investigating the complicated tangles of corrupted corporate monopolies. Places he can wear suits and wring the Winner name dry of every ounce of influence. Places like this, that don't notice his name or the well-bred way he carries himself, leave him off-balance and unsettled. Trowa will have to stay by him, Heero muses. He's exuding vulnerability, painting a target upon his own head. And Duo notices. He notices everything, his manic energy the perfect mask for the encompassing breadth of his gaze.

"Quat, drop the babyface. You're gonna get pounced on an' dragged off ta some alley. Tro, don't let him outta your sight. He's got 'roofie me' written all over him," Duo snaps, annoyance creeping into his tone.

It's not often that Duo's irritation leaks into his voice – only on cases that involve drugs, that inevitably end in deceased children. That's Duo's rough spot. And Heero's… well, Heero has more triggers than he can count. Being without Duo. Being helpless. Being torn open and displayed to the world like a carnival act. The mere thought of it makes him itchy, makes his skin begin to crawl. Goosebumps rise on his skin, the noise of the club roaring in his ears. A sharp swat across his arm snaps him back.

"Heero, get your shit together. Seriously. I need ya to have my back. Keep your head in the game or I'll leave you behind."

A flush covers Heero's high cheekbones, and he is thankful that their comrades have already dispersed into the swell of the crowd. It's bad enough that Duo is standing in front of him, hands planted firmly on his hips, with that expression in his eyes that says my partner is being a crazy fuck-up again.

"I'm sorry Duo," he whispers, willing sincerity into his voice.

Duo's face softens, and he clamps a hand down on Heero's shoulder. He squeezes until it hurts, until Heero's eyes gloss over with the first hints of tranquility, and then releases. "Shit, 'Ro, it's fine. I jus' can't afford ta be losin' ya when you gotta back me up."


Duo moves into the throng of dancers, threading his way toward what appears to be the most active bar. Heero trails behind him, watching the graceful way he weaves through the mass, envious of the effortless beauty of his movements. Duo would sneer at him for thinking it, but Heero finds the man to be a work of art, a masterpiece in motion. He would kill to have even a fraction of the elegance that his partner has.

A hand on his shoulder pauses him just long enough for Duo to slide between two dancers and get swallowed in the swarm. His eyes narrow dangerously as he wrenches the grasping digits away from his skin. The offending owner misses the hint by miles, skulking close enough that the alcohol on his breath wafts over Heero's face.

"Hey baby. You wanna dance?" He slurs, wavering on his feet.

"No."

"Oh c'mon sweetness. Don't be such a hardass," he continues, patting the air near Heero's back.

Heero agilely dodges the grasping appendage, snarling low in his chest in warning. His fingers twitch, itching to reach for a gun that he knows isn't there. He throws a futile squint over the heads of the mass, hoping against logic that he'll spot a familiar chestnut braid. The spotlights blind him, leaving specks dancing against his eyelids with every blink, and he rubs furiously at his face as he backs unseeingly away from the drunken stranger.

Another person bumps into him from behind, and he stumbles up against a sleek, leather-clad body. Panic rises in his chest, tightening around his ribs. His pulse skyrockets, pounding against his bones in a vain attempt to leap free. Sweat beads at his temples, pupils dilating until every sweep of the spotlight bursts like sharpened stars against his eyes. Blood pounds in his ears, a deafening whoosh that smothers even the heavy heartbeat of the techno. His knees begin to buckle, instinctively driving him toward the ground and a safe fetal position, and he locks out his legs in an attempt to keep standing. Breath sounds, panting and short, from his strangled throat, and all he can see is the press of dance-slicked skin surrounding him.

"Duo," he gasps out, throat closing around the choked word.

The room begins to spin, a slow revolution that sweeps the feet out from under him. He crumbles toward the ground, floor rushing up to meet him at an alarming speed. Just as the room begins to soften with static, arms wrap around his constricted ribs and haul him upright. The world is vibrating, and it takes him a moment to register that the person holding him vertical is growling, noise feral and toxic, curses spit between gritted teeth. He slumps against his rescuer, burying his nose in the v of his shirt, inhaling the faint scent of cinnamon and metal that constantly lingers around Duo's skin. Arms wrap around him, velvet-sheathed steel, and squeeze with the pressure that he needs to recover.

When he finally tilts his chin away from the damp heat of Duo's flesh, a circle is cleared out around them. Shinigami is out in force, and Duo is fairly radiating violence. His violet eyes are nearly black with fury, body language screaming for a fight. Heero shoots a weak smile upward, a grin that rapidly fades at the grimace marring Duo's usually pretty features.

Duo aims his glare down at Heero, releasing him from the sphere of his arms. Heero staggers a touch at the loss, managing to steady himself without the aid of Duo's belatedly offered hand.

"Fuck, 'Ro. I'm gonna hafta fuckin' collar you or some shit to keep you out of trouble on this mission. I mean I know you're pretty and all but, Jesus, I can't leave you alone for three seconds without some asshole putting his hands on you and fucking you up," Duo grumbles, still rough with anger.

Confusion clears some of the anxiety from Heero's brain. "Collar me?"

A touch of shock shimmies onto Duo's face before he covers it with a heated glance, one that stirs Heero from tip to toes. "Yes. So that you and ev'ryone 'round here knows that you're mine."

"Y-yours? Like… no one can touch me?"

"Damn right no one could touch you. That means that you have my back because I'll have your ass if you don't. That means if anyone fuckin' touches you other than me, I'll beat the shit out of them and then I'll take you home and beat the shit out of you," Duo snarls.

Heero bristles at the near-threat. "You wouldn't dare."

A peculiar smile flits across Duo's face. "You'd like it."

Heero opens his mouth, a protest dying on his lips as Trowa ghosts past them. Quatre lingers in his shadow, pale and shaken, and Duo immediately fixates on him. He hooks his hand around Trowa's upper arm, stands on tiptoe to mutter fiercely in his ear.

He gets so intense when he's on point on a case… so protective.

Duo returns to his side, hand dropping to nestle in the small of his back. A shiver skitters over his skin at the casual intimacy of the touch, latching all of his focus onto that tiny point of contact. He steers them to a back corner, letting Quatre slip between the table and the wall, in the most secluded and defensive chair around the high table. Snagging a passing waiter, he orders a round of tequila, waiting until the woman saunters away before he pins his attention on Trowa.

"Tro, what the fuck happened?"

Trowa has the good sense to seem slightly abashed, placing a comforting touch on Quatre's shuddering arm. The boy is strung tight with tension, muscles clenched and quivering with every panting breath. His eyes are wide, pupils blown open with fear, darting around the room as if expecting assault.

"He told me he was going to the bathroom. I could see and easily access the door from my location, and also had a bead on a conversation about the owner of the club, so I figured he would be safe. When he didn't come back promptly, I went in after him. Apparently the people around here do not accept negative answers to their invitations."

His tone is deceptively placid, though Heero can sense the undercurrent of danger like a riptide. He'd bet on the bathroom being a massacre of blood spray and unconscious bodies. Unconscious, if they were lucky; dead, if Trine had emerged. So he asks, trying to assess the likelihood of pursuit.

"Trine?"

A minute shake of his head is all the answer Heero needs. Trine remained dormant, so Quatre's attackers were fortunate enough to escape with their lives. However… he darts a glance at a group of approaching men, shifting his body enough that Duo notices. The pilots flow into motion, a uniform movement that almost appears choreographed as they rotate their bar stools in unison to face the newcomers. Brain flanked by muscle, Heero assesses, eyeing the lean man framed by the two massive creatures. The man in the middle, like the bouncers, has an impeccably cut suit. Tall and lanky, he's built similarly to Trowa, hair smoothed back into a long tail that trails over his shoulder.

He smiles warmly at them – trying to be reassuring, Heero assumes, though the grimace just appears aggressive. Duo answers the thinly veiled threat with an arrogant smirk, the expression stretching lazily across his face. Seeing the challenge, the man extends his hand to Duo.

"Enjoying your evening? The name's Evans. Your friend here seems to have had a little…incident in one of the bathrooms." The man's voice has the type of smooth, cultured silkiness that drags Heero's hackles upright. He catches his lip curling in an instinctive snarl and fights down the impulse, deliberately neutralizing his body language.

"Maxwell," Duo answers shortly. "Haven't heard 'bout this 'incident,' but I can tell ya that my friend here hadta beat some idiots offa his lover."

"Yes, he ah, beat them most effectively. It's not generally behavior that we condone in this club, but Master X has some sort of interest in you. If you would come with me…"

Duo raises an eyebrow, beginning to flick instructions at them with his fingertips. Evans' eyes drop, capturing each tiny movement of Duo's hands, and an irritating grin twitches into existence.

"That wasn't an invitation, boys. And as for you, Maxwell, no point in signaling your comrades to attack me. We're all armed," the man crows triumphantly, knowing damn well that, thanks to the metal detectors, the guards have considerably more firepower.

Duo rakes a scathing glance over the trio, tips his head to indicate that, at least for now, the four of them should comply. After all, meeting the men in charge is the ultimate goal. The infiltration is supposed to be under their control, but being picky gets people killed.


The four ex-pilots are ushered into a back room, lit by recessed bulbs in the ceiling. The music is muted here, a quiet background thump, counters and barstools replaced by low, over-stuffed couches and stubby-legged coffee tables. A devastatingly attractive man reclines on one of the couches, arm tossed negligently over his eyes. Deep crimson hair spikes out from his scalp, bloody in the low light and brilliant against his pale skin.

Unlike most of his employees, the man is clad in a pair of sweetly fitted jeans and a torso-hugging buttondown. Heero swallows slightly at the sight of the 'enemy,' thanking the stars for the anchoring influence of Duo at his side. This stranger radiates sensuality, from his well-muscled body, decadently stretched in a provocative display, to the face that is revealed as his arm drops down to his side.

His face would be a work of art if not marred by a scar that stretches from his right eyebrow almost to the corner of his sensually full lips. Brilliant emerald eyes rove over them, arrayed in an arrow with Duo at their point. He examines each of them carefully, lingering over-long on Quatre and Heero. Chills ripple over Heero's skin as that gaze leisurely traces him, an approving glint flaring to life.

Heero drops his eyes, a flush rising on his high cheekbones. He has been judged and, perhaps, found wanting, and he fights the urge to beg for a second opinion. He stiffens his spine, tightening his joints until the ache centers him, and reminds himself that the only appraisal that matters is Duo's.

"Who are you?" The man inquires, voice low and unassuming.

Duo chuckles under his breath, cracks a snotty grin. "Why doncha tell us whatcha know and we'll tell ya if it's correct."

"I know that the tall one assaulted a few of my regulars in the bathroom. I know that both of your pretty friends have attracted a great deal of attention that you don't appreciate. I know that you have with you the only pilot to ever successfully engage the ZERO system. Is that enough?"

Duo merely grunts in response, his fists twitching at the 'pretty friends' reference. Anyone who had access to Oz files would be aware of the ZERO testing and the somewhat unorthodox response it provoked in most of its test pilots. No one would ever call ZERO a rousing victory, but Heero had managed to compromise with the system enough that he could function with it. If Heero without the system was a phenomenal pilot, Heero linked into ZERO became a flawless one.

And yes, ZERO still caused shivers of dread down his spine. ZERO was – is, to this day – his worst nightmare. ZERO wasn't just a machine. ZERO was a flashback of everything he'd ever done, good and bad, and an analysis of precisely how bad or good each action was. ZERO was every shameful, guilt-ridden moment played back across his eyelids in Technicolor, every instant he'd ever tried to forget being dragged into the light of day and plastered across a life-size IMAX screen.

At the same time, ZERO was… perfection. Was the Gundam moving in such impossibly synchronicity that he couldn't tell where his consciousness ended and the machine began. ZERO was the sensation of a multi-ton machine responding to his intentions rather than his hands. ZERO was beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. Was such an unbelievable experience that he knows he will spend the rest of his life trying to recreate the fluid grace of a mecha meshed directly into his brain. He hadn't been truly alive since ZERO had left his head… and that terrified him.

What if he spent the remainder of his breaths feeling abandoned by a device so powerful that even the greatest evil of the past war feared to use it?

"What do you want?" The man asks, effortlessly rising to a seated position.

"A new cause," Duo answers.

"I find that suspicious, considering that the Gundam pilots refused to align themselves with any specific faction during the war," he observes, steepling his hands in front of his face.

They exchange a glance, and Quatre lifts one shoulder in an imperceptible shrug. He does have a point, the gesture indicates. It's Heero who finally responds, forcing himself to meet the red-haired man's penetrating stare.

"We're soldiers. Now that the war is over, we have three options. Civilian, Preventers, or underground networks. We were not bred to be civilians, and we are notoriously terrible at following the laws. I'm sure you've heard us called terrorists. You're the best-organized and most wide-spread of the black market organizations. Are you telling us that you don't need our help?"

The man eases himself to his feet, uncoiling in an uncanny display of feral elegance. He stalks around the group as Duo and Trowa, anger smoldering on their faces, glare holes in the side of his head. Pausing by Heero's side, he draws a finger across the leather cuff at Heero's wrist. A pleased, covetous flame leaps in his emerald gaze as Heero shudders helplessly, captivated by the dominance flooding off of the man.

"No, I'm not saying that at all. I would especially welcome your particular… skills," he purrs.

Heero closes his eyes, fighting his body's automatic response. He clenches his nails into his palms, digging in until blood trickles over his fingertips to stain his cuticles. The pain only whets his hunger, libido yearning for the barely leashed danger of the man next to him. He sways on his feet, ashamed of his vulnerability, but utterly unable to restrain his reactions.

"Enough," Duo bites out, teeth gritted around the word.

He forces himself between Heero and the red-haired man, and Heero leans his forehead gratefully against Duo's back. The braided man reaches between them, hooking a finger through the leather cuff around Heero's wrist. He twists his hand slightly, compressing the pulse, and Heero's blood leaps in response.

"Are you interested or not, Mr…?" Duo trails off, not bothering to conceal his disdain.

"You may call me Xavier, if you must call me something. I suppose the four of you come as a package?" Xavier sighs heavily, returning to the couch, amusement lessened with the barrier between himself and his intended toy.

"Are you interested or not?" Duo repeats, impatience dripping from the question.

Xavier waves a hand vaguely, indicating the door. "I'll have to consult with the others. Return in a day or so and I'll have your answer." Duo nods curtly, turns to leave. He nudges Heero roughly, herding him toward the door. "Oh, and don't forget to bring the submissive one back. He's quite delightful."


Duo unlocks the Beast with a snap of his fingers, the key squeezed between his fingers. Heero is surprised that the plastic doesn't crack beneath the strain. He brushes a caress over Duo's bicep, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Duo, who is the submissive one?"

Duo laughs incredulously. He raises an eyebrow and levels a significant stare at Heero, raking his eyes over the lines of Heero's body. Heero snorts indignantly, shaking his head in negative.

"I am absolutely not submissive. I wouldn't have survived the war if I'd rolled over and played dead whenever someone gave me an order. If, by some queer stroke of fate, I'd ever been submissive, J would have trained it out of me when he was teaching me how to survive torture. Orders barked over the prongs of a taser would be more than enough for someone with that sort of inclination to crumble," Heero hisses at him, snarling at the reminder of J's agonizing training.

A lazy, beautifully arrogant smile rolls over Duo's lips. Heero's cock stirs with interest, spiking his irritation. "I'm. Not. Submissive," he growls.

Heero doesn't see Duo move, but suddenly he is pressed from tailbone to nape against the sleek metal side of their suv, the steel of Duo's body slamming into the front of him. Duo's hand stretches across his collarbones, applying just enough pressure for Heero to struggle with a full inhale. His face, alight with playful cruelty, hovers inches from Heero's, close enough for his breath to ghost over Heero's lips. Heero wedges his hand between them and shoves, trying to pry Duo off of him.

Duo's hand slides to the base of his skull, gripping the nape of his neck, and gives him a hard, sharp shake. A snarl rumbles out of his chest, reverberating into Heero. He bares his teeth, steps back a touch, and pins Heero to the vehicle with a hand in the center of his chest. Heero's body is shaking, swaying like palm trees in a hurricane-force gale. His knees are watery, quivering with each gasping breath, and Duo's grip is the only reason he's standing.

Duo's eyes glow with an intensity that is utterly foreign to Heero, but is no less intoxicating for being unknown. His lips part, forming a single word as he releases his grip.

"Kneel," he commands, in a roll of deadly thunder.

Heero's knees hit the pavement before he processes the order, and he finds himself folded at Duo's feet, head pressed against his partner's thigh. His breath comes in straggling gulps, lungs fighting with his racing pulse. Duo's hand comes to rest on his head, caressing his silken brown hair, and peace steals over him.

"Told you so," Duo murmurs, a note of pride in the words.

With the drifting haze of serenity fogging his mind, Duo's fingers laced possessively through his hair, Heero can't find the words to disagree.