I AM NOT A FAILURE TODAY. Have an update! Unfortunately, I'm going to be working on an Extreme Big Bang Challenge for the next ten months, so SiC will update rarely, if at all. I'm so, so sorry. I'll try to get an update out once a month or so, but I can't make any promises. :/

Agent… Reaper, is it?

Uh huh. That's me.

I would like to talk about your report from the reconnaissance mission.

K. What about it?

It says in the report that your partner, an Agent Wing, and another member of your team, an Agent Storm, were compromised over the course of the evening.

'Compromised' makes 'em sound incompetent. Heero – Wing – gets freaked out when he can't beat the shit out of people who touch 'im. When we get shipped off with orders to lay low, it means he hasta play nice and not pull guns on idiots who don't take no for an answer. Y'all have it on record that he has panic attacks. This shouldn't be news to ya. An' Quat, bless his heart, doesn't have the balls to tell someone to fuck off. So Tro' – that's Steel, in th' report – had to roll in an' drag his ass outta there.

I'm a little concerned that a Special Operations team had so many issues on a simple information gathering mission.

The fuck you tryin' ta say? Clubs, drug dealers, that's my scene. You shouldn't've sent in four people ta do a job that one coulda handled just fine.

Clearly Chief Agent Une felt it necessary to dispatch the entire team. However, in light of the difficulties, perhaps a different group would be better suited.

Let me be perfectly clear with ya. We're damaged, not useless. You're not gonna find a team that will fix this faster or with less mess. I can guarantee ya that the only casualties, if any, would be us.

That's not particularly reassuring, Agent.

I'm not 'sposed to make ya feel better. But I'm telling ya straight up that the job will get done, the job will get done right, and ya won't need any body bags. Can any other team promise you that?

Other teams are not your concern. Now, you recommend in the report that it would be advantageous for yourself and Agent Wing and for Agents Steel and Storm to pose as partners for the remainder of the mission. Why is that?

No one will question me beating the fuck out of someone puttin' hands on my lover. It's that simple. Tro' an' I can protect 'Ro and Quat with no one questioning it if we make it clear that they're ours.

Is that wise? You are reportedly extremely close to Agent Wing on a personal level, and the Preventers agency frowns on fraternizing between agents, particularly those on Special Operations teams.

If you're tryin' ta suggest that I can't keep my dick in my pants, don't worry about it. I don't fuck loose cannons.

Is that what you would call Agent Wing? A 'loose cannon'?

Aren't we all? He's a damn good agent and a damn good partner, and that's all ya really need to concern yourself with.

Speaking of your partner… you used some strong language in regards to the club owner's interactions with Agent Wing.

He was lookin' at Heero like he was a piece of meat or somethin'. The last thing we need is someone on the team bein' compromised.

You seem to be the closest to Agent Wing. Do you think this is a risk we should be concerned about?

If I'm with him, no. Nothin' is gonna happen to my partner under my watch. I'm just gonna hafta tell 'em that they get me too or we both walk.

And protecting him won't distract from your mission?

Nah. I'm used ta havin' his back. He's my partner. We take care of each other. No man left behind an' all that happy crap.

I'm going to tentatively approve the plan moving forward, but Lady Une will have the final say in the decision.

I hear ya.

Duo closes the door to the debriefing room gently, not wanting to inform the irritating Internal Affairs agent that that he'd gotten beneath a former Gundam pilot's skin. He rubs at his gritty eyes, product of a lengthy and sleepless night. They'd been called in early to report and debrief, and it had been nothing but meetings and discussions all day. If there is something that Duo hates more than anything, it's being held captive in a blank-walled room while people talk at him. Worse than that is when they expect him to talk… but no, he can't talk like he's accustomed to, he has to be all proper and watch his mouth. And yes, he does consider a sentence with only one curse word proper. He is quite proud of his ability to string together half a dozen swears and still have a coherent sentence.

He rolls his eyes, glancing down the hallway toward the medical ward. In the light of the mission events, Heero and Quatre are being evaluated to decide whether they are mentally suited to continue the mission. Heero in particular, since he is medicated due to his depression and anxiety. Heero always does okay with these discussions … it's probably not ethical, but Duo has spent a great deal of time coaching Heero in order to keep him out of the psych ward. Heero doesn't need a hospital, he needs a safe space and a person he can trust behind the doors of his home. A hospital full of strangers would be a nightmare for the former Wing pilot.

So Heero will probably walk out in a few hours with a new prescription, will come straight to Duo to sit down and discuss side effects. And Duo will reassure him that the medication will help, will send it in to the Preventers' pharmacy and then send Heero to bed. Poor Heero. The debriefing takes more out of him than the mission, even when the mission results in broken bones.

He starts to turn toward his office, toward the mound of paperwork scattered across his desk, to the unanswered phone calls from people wanting his advice on explosives or stealth work or drug-related missions. The tension builds in his shoulders like a physical weight until he shakes his head, pulling out his phone to advise his team and the other pilots that he's just going to head home.

He didn't sleep well last night, flattened against his sheets as the events of the recon mission played in beautiful, horrifying Technicolor across the ceiling. Turning around to see a wall of people where Heero was supposed to be, pushing through them to find Heero's face milk white, body swaying alarmingly as a man tried to lay hands on him. His vision going red as anger flooded him, checked only by the reminder that he needed to be subtle and relatively unthreatening. Catching Heero as he collapsed toward the floor, the sensation of his partner's body against his own. Shoving Heero away as his body began to react.

What a shitshow. And then finding out that Quatre had been attacked as well, that Trowa had beat the shit out of someone who had the balls to lay hands on his sometimes-lover. He glances at the Beast, black hulk gleaming in the parking lot, and then bounces from foot to foot to gauge his energy level. The house that he lives in with Heero is about twelve miles away – not far enough to be a nuisance of a drive, but a lengthy run if he's not in the right headspace.

Today restlessness is seeping through his bones like a disease, leaving him jittery and unsettled. He hasn't had a chance to process the entirety of what happened last night, has been avoiding thinking of Heero at all. Something changed in the space between receiving orders for the recon mission and coming home last night in stunned silence.

He viciously shakes his head, hopping in place for a moment to limber up muscles stiffened from so many meetings. He'll run home, let the exercise clear the cobwebs from his mind, and then he'll sit down and decide exactly what the fuck he is doing with his life. He shoves his braid down the back of his uniform jacket, flipping the collar up to cut the slight chill of the late afternoon wind. His body slips into motion, easily, remembering the flex and burn of muscles pushed to their limits fleeing from Oz troops.

As his body stirs, pulse humming in his veins, his brain stretches from the lethargy of mindless lecturing. It flicks through the memories of last night, pausing occasionally to flash a full-color recall of certain moments across the screen of his vision. He snarls to himself and propels his body forward, sweat already breaking out beneath his uniform shirt. Perhaps this isn't the best outfit for running, but he doesn't usually carry his work-out gear with him… and he can't do anything right now but try to outrun himself.

Duo doesn't hear the door shut, doesn't hear the footsteps coming down the stairs. He's dangling from the pull-up bar, relentlessly dragging his body up until his chest taps the bar, slowly lowering himself down again. His uniform lies abandoned in a heap by the door, stripped off when he stomped0 in, brain still rampaging merrily despite the heart-pounding run. His body is slicked with sweat, bare-chested, retaining decency only through the thin cotton shorts hanging precariously from his hips.

Heaving a sigh, he flips himself upside down, tucks his knees over the bar, and releases his hands. His braid trails to the floor as he uncoils, blood flooding to his head with the inversion. The muscles of his abdomen bunch as he tucks himself up toward his knees, hands laced together behind his braid.

A figure appears in the door as he finishes his second set, and he pauses at the bottom of his sit up to examine the person. Heero steps hesitantly into the room, glancing at the pile of clothing, eyeing his sweat-soaked body.

"Duo?"

He wraps hands around the bar, agilely flipping himself to the floor. Standing up, he smooths the fabric of his boxers and adjusts himself unselfconsciously. Heero fidgets, a piece of paper clamped in his fists, eyes averted from Duo's mostly nude form.

"Hey 'Ro," Duo answers quietly, almost ashamed of how weary his voice sounds. "How are the good doctors today?"

His answer is a half-hearted shrug, the paper extended toward Duo's midriff. Duo tugs the paper gently from Heero's grip, glancing over it. A higher dose of his anti-anxiety medication, a new panic medication. Heero will never carry that with him, so it will fall on Duo to stash it in the glove compartments and mission kits. The doctor's messy scrawl is miniscule and cramped, but Duo's eyes pick out 'unstable', 'history of trauma', and 'close supervision recommended.'

"Did they send one o' their cronies to watch ya?"

Heero glances behind himself nervously, fingers plucking at the seams of his regulation pants. He fiddles with a loose string for a moment before handing Duo a second piece of paper. It's a request from Lady Une for a meeting as soon as possible, though request is a vague translation – no agent says no to the Lady, not even the notoriously rebellious Duo Maxwell. And, scrawled at the bottom, Please take care of Heero, Duo. He needs your support.

Duo lets out his breath in a tiny huff, glancing up from the note. A twist of worry mars Heero's face, his eyebrows twitched together in an anxious query. Duo wraps his arm around Heero's elbow, pausing to gather up his clothing, and tows his partner up the stairs. Heero follows, placid, sitting stiffly at the kitchen table as Duo grabs the phone and calls in the new prescriptions.

"Your skittles won't be ready 'til tomorrow," Duo informs Heero as he places the phone down on its cradle.

A tiny smile quirks the corner of Heero's lips. He's always amused when Duo calls his variety of psychotropic pills 'skittles.' Sometimes when he's having a bad day, Duo will bring him home a bag of the fruity candies and they'll take turns tossing them into the air and trying to catch them with their mouths.

"That's better," Duo says with an answering smile.

He puts on the kettle of hot water, pulling two mugs out of the cabinets and setting them down beside the stove. He drops a tea bag in one and pours the contents of a hot chocolate packet into the other, peeking into the teapot to check on the water. It's not quite at a boil, and he taps his foot impatiently.

"Don't forget my bear," Heero's voice floats into the room.

He doesn't bother to hide his grin, as Heero can't see it, and chuckles under his breath as he drags the bear-shaped honey container off the shelf. Heero refuses to use honey from normal-shaped jars – he says the bear makes them taste better. Duo's always wondered why, but never remembers to ask.

"Heero, did you ever see Winnie the Pooh?" Duo calls curiously, sure that Heero has never heard of the archaic earth cartoon.

His eyes widen with shock as the teapot begins to whistle, and over the sharp noise he hears, "the wonderful thing about Tiggers, is Tiggers are wonderful things…"

He tries to sit up straight the next morning, uniform jacket wrapped tight around his shivering form. He tries, aware that Lady Une's piercing stare is fixed on him, but his body seems determined to slip into its customary slump. His foot taps a staccato beat against the plush rug, fingers scratching restlessly at the wooden armrests of the chair. The Lady raises an eyebrow and he forces his body to stillness, unable to stop the minute twitch at the end of his fingertips.

"Tell me honestly, Agent Maxwell. How did the recon mission go?"

Duo drops his gaze, unashamed to falter beneath the cold steel of her eyes. He has not forgotten that not so long ago, she was threatening to destroy a colony. He has not forgotten that she is the reason he watched Heero self-destruct, the first time. He has not forgotten the hours of torture, delivered with sadistic glee by her orders. He will never sit easily beneath her command.

"It was a mess, Lady," he begins quietly. "Heero had a panic attack 'cause he couldn't defend himself without giving us up. Quatre got attacked in the bathroom 'cause he was left alone. He still can't manage to put his hands on someone without a gun to his head, even when he should."

"I read that in your reports. And Agent Barton defended Agent Winner, with a lack of control that is somewhat concerning." She glances down at the sheaf of papers in her hand. "Tell me about the owner of the club."

"His name is Xavier, but his lackeys call him Master X. He has a thing for Heero, apparently. He told us he had to speak to other people before he decided to tell us more, but he was aware of the ZERO system. Lady… " He pauses, swallowing hard at the wave of terror that sweeps him. "If they want Heero to test it, I'm not sure that he can handle it."

"We can cross that bridge if they build it, Agent Maxwell," she reassures him, steepling her fingers on the desk. "In the meantime, I support your suggestion. You and Agent Yuy and Agents Barton and Winner will pose as couples, in order to facilitate protection and back-up. However, I expect to not see any further reports of violence initiated by either Agent Barton or yourself."

"With all due respect, Ma'am…" he hesitates, watching her eyebrows raise slightly. He clears his throat. "With all due respect, I will defend Heero if he is threatened. You can punish me when I do, and I won't fight it. But I can't sit there and see him get hurt."

Midnight finds them tucked into a booth at the back of Firefly, sunk into the plush cushioning as the speakers ricochet music into their ears. A live band is playing, some sort of edgy rock, mohawked singer alternating between a throaty croon and a ear-splitting howl. Duo can't decide which is worse, as he shifts restlessly on the edge of the seat. He scratches at the fabric of his jeans, crimson tonight, matching the deep red folds of Heero's shirt. Heero sits stiffly, Duo's arm draped casually about his waist, as if it's a perfectly natural scenario. Never mind that the rigidity of Heero's spine completely betrays his discomfort.

And Duo, forever tuned to the rhythms of his partner's body, can feel Heero vibrating like a plucked guitar string, wound so tightly that he apt to snap at the first shock to his system. He lays a hand on Heero's knee, forcing his own muscles to relax and stop telegraphing tension to his neurotic seat-mate.

Quatre is nearly as anxious as Heero, eyes flitting around the room, jumping at shadows. Trowa snugs an arm around his shoulders and deftly transfers Quatre to his lap. Quatre noticeably relaxes in the comfort of Trowa's embrace, and not for the first time Duo wonders why they haven't made their relationship official. They're a good match, the clever businessman, grace of the Gundam pilots, and the effortless infiltrator, the retired acrobat. God knows, Trowa was willing to use deadly force to protect Quatre, and had done it before.

Evans appears beside them, manifesting through the crowd with two massive men beside him. He beckons for their attention and then strides toward the back room, assuming that they will follow. Duo watches him go, a sneer on his face, before tipping his head in an indication that they should obey the summons.

As before, they line up as a united front, Duo and Trowa taking the forefront. Heero assumes his customary position by Duo's side, one step back, glaring into the corners and shadows. Quatre stands nearly in Trowa's shadow, a blond glint betraying his presence as he seeks strength from his partner's deceptively casual stance. Duo folds his arms, the outwardly aggressive one, planting his feet solidly into the flooring and leveling a steady stare at Xavier.

Their host is seated on a couch, ankle resting casually on his knee, scarred face lit with calculated interest. His hand rests by his side, laced through the hair of a kneeling man. The man is folded beside Xavier's knee, head bowed deferentially, hands left open on his thighs. The bronzed skin of his chest is exposed, his only covering a leather vest left to fall open. Silken fabric drapes in folds about his legs, cuffed at ankles and bound by a wide swath of fabric around his hips.

Xavier captures them in his attentive gaze, eyes once again arrowing straight to Heero. Duo sidesteps neatly, blocking Heero from sight, forcing Xavier to acknowledge him. The crimson haired man chuckles quietly, fingers moving absently across the scalp of his companion. The kneeling man murmurs quietly, leaning into his touch.

"Hello again, gentlemen," Xavier greets them, tugging on the hair in his hand.

The man lifts his head, revealing a strikingly exotic face, eyes like obsidian chunks above knife-sharp cheekbones. A mass of ebony curls frame his delicate face, and his eyes sweep over them before lowering to the floor. "Good evening, Sirs. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Duo raises an eyebrow at that, at the submission inherent in the man's actions. He's beginning to have an inkling of Xavier's character, the picture of a man so perfectly in control that he exudes dominance, that he draws out the deference of those who desire to be possessed. People like Heero – the thought makes him snarl inwardly – people who enjoy following orders, who crave the weight of a strong hand on the leash of their personality.

"What did your compatriots decide?" Duo asks, voice carefully neutral.

Everything about Xavier rubs him the wrong way, makes him feel like a prickly cat with fur brushed upright. Everything from his beauty, sharp as a double-bladed knife, to the intrinsic authority that flows from his body as naturally as breath. Xavier smiles disarmingly, his face transfigured into something that men would die to follow. And Duo feels his hackles rising in response to the challenge, every instinct in him screaming to put the man back in his place.

He draws in a breath, lashes his temper tight against the iron will of his control, and settles in to listen.

"They are willing to see you, to see if you fulfill the bargains that you have promised. They are particularly interested in the possibility of testing a new AI similar to the ZERO system, as soon as it is out of development. They did mention that they were seeking test subjects. However…" Xavier pauses, a calculating expression on his face. He rubs at his scar, fingers edging the ridged white line, before continuing.

"My backers, investors, and buyers are part of a… let us say, different lifestyle. Firefly is the public face of the company, but there is another set of more exclusive clubs that attract most of the people in the business. I'm not sure you or your fellow ex-pilots would fit in there."

"Why don't you let us decide that for ourselves," Trowa comments flatly, unamused by the implication that the Gundam pilots are in some way incapable.

Xavier locks eyes with Trowa, and a shiver of dread etches itself down Duo's spine. He has an ugly premonition of where this is headed, and it's not going to be pretty. His stomach drops as Xavier confirms his suspicion.

"Very well, then. It's a series of underground BDSM clubs. They're extremely popular with the lifestyle, renowned for their safety and openness. And they're extremely exclusive. I doubt that any of you have experience with Dominance and submission… though I am aware of a few Dominants that enjoy taming rebellious subs, if you would like to pursue that route," Xavier muses.

Duo bristles as a flash of black leather boots and a voice commanding him to kneel flashes through his head.

"I ain't kneelin' to some half-assed hairy man who thinks he can use a whip," he snaps, hands curling into fists.

He darts a glance back at Heero, who is stiff with anxiety and trepidation. "An' neither is Heero." He bares his teeth at Xavier, who is aiming a predatory examination over Heero's slender frame. "Heero is mine, X."

"I can see that," Xavier responds placidly, relaxing back against the couch. He glances down at his company. "This is my submissive, Wolf. He's served me for years, and he's very faithful. Does enjoy playing with new subs, incidentally…"

Wolf peeks out from beneath his bangs, dark eyes flicking over Heero. A hungry grin etches itself across his face and he licks his lips. Duo shoots him the most hateful, 'fuck off and die' glare that he can manage and the man's eyes widen with fear, body cringing into Xavier's protection.

"Mr…" Xavier begins, trailing off in an indication that he's awaiting Duo's name.

Duo snorts. "Azrael. No mister. An' I doubt you're the type to give me the title I like. By the way… keep your sub away from mine or I'll cut his fucking hands off. That's your only warning."

"And what about mine?"

"If you wanna touch Heero, you'll hafta go through me… an' I wouldn't bet on your chances. I won't touch yours if you don't touch mine. We'll go to your club. Give Trine over there the info." With that Duo turns away, barely restrained violence written across his frame.

He grabs Heero's arm and steers him out of the room, convulsive grip imprinted into his partner's skin. It's only as the lights of the club fade behind them that Duo loosens his hand, releasing Heero's bruised bicep from his cramping fingers.

"Your acting is impressive," Heero comments quietly, rubbing absently at his arm.

"I wasn't acting," Duo snaps coldly, stalking toward the car.

Heero stops in his tracks, his jaw dropping slightly. His mind spins aimlessly for a moment, frictionless and useless, before it gains traction and catches up with him. "What?"

Duo spins on his heel so fast that Heero staggers back a step, stunned by the barely leashed fury radiating from the braided man's face. Duo grabs a fistful of Heero's shirt, hauling him bodily out of the street to slam him into the unyielding metal side of the Beast. Trapping Heero within the cage of his arms, he leans in until the color of his eyes blurs in Heero's sight.

"You. Are. Mine," he bites out, carefully enunciating each word. "And if anyone fucking touches you, I will put them in the ground, with my bare hands, and they will fucking wish that I was still piloting my Gundam."

Heero grasps at the only viable concept in that threat. "Why would anyone still wish you had a Gundam?"

"Because Deathscythe kills quickly. They never see it coming. They will know, when I come for them, that death is upon them. And by the end, when I am damn well ready to let them go, they will fucking beg for it."

Bleary-eyed and fuzzy, the pilots stagger into their familiar conference room. It's always the same room, with the same empty table and borderline uncomfortable chairs. Sometimes, if you shift just the right way, you can actually be relaxed for 3.5 seconds. At least that's what Duo tells himself, as he twitches restlessly from one position to another.

"Sit still, Maxwell," Trowa grumbles. "You look like a fucking Transformer, you're shifting so much."

Duo sticks his tongue out in a remarkable display of maturity. He and Trowa marathon old movies when Quatre and Heero are away, using every possible excuse to quote them. He opens his mouth to resort, shutting it with a click of teeth as Une strides into the room.

"Gentlemen," she begins, as she often does. She pulls their reports from the pile and fans them across the table in front of her. "I've read your information from last night's meeting."

Lifting her solemn mahogany eyes to their waiting faces, she shrugs in an unusually casual display. "I'm not sure where to go from here, to be completely honest. We could continue to pursue the issue, see if infiltrating these new clubs will achieve our goal. However… what little I know of this lifestyle indicates that this could be a potentially risky path."

"Begging your pardon, Lady," Quatre speaks up diplomatically. "But I believe I am speaking for all of us when I say that we have no desire to allow this narcotic to remain in circulation. And as veterans, we certainly have no desire to permit a weapons manufacturing ring to fester."

She nods in acknowledgement, still looking uncertain and terribly young. Duo is reminded abruptly that she is not much older than they are, that she was thrust into the command of this infant organization at a point in her life when many would still consider her a child. A pang of sympathy rocks him.

"Quatre is right. We can't let kids keep dyin' for this drug. An' we can't let people keep tryin' ta remake ZERO. That system was a bloody nightmare, Ma'am, if you'll excuse me sayin'."

The pilots nod in agreement and Une spreads her hands in concession. "Very well. I won't ask for a concrete decision right now. I think you should research this lifestyle before you put yourselves in any situation involving it. Discover what you can about what to expect. And," she lifts one of the reports, "I suppose you have to decide what role to put yourselves in. It seems as if it might be easiest to play submissive parts and allow these leaders to have the temporary upper hand."

"I can't do that, Lady," Duo states firmly, his tone unwavering.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, the child soldier in him quails, but his resolve only hardens. He would die before he put himself beneath the hand of someone like Xavier. "It seems it would need a careful and knowledgeable touch to pretend control, Agent Maxwell. Do you have any experience with the opposite role?"

Duo's cheeks brighten with embarrassment as he fights the urge to drop his eyes to the table. He swallows with an audible click, refusing to meet the eyes of the other pilots. "I do."

A strange voice, haunting and resonant, echoes out into the room. "As do I."

Duo turns his head to examine Trowa, recognizing the unmistakable tone of Trine. It's disturbing, to look into the eyes of someone he's known for years and see a near-stranger staring back at him. Trine's gaze is steady, unyielding, and very, very cold.

"I see. In that case, Quatre, Heero, the research falls to you. If you can handle assuming a submissive role, you will maintain your disguise as partners with Trowa and Duo. If not, I suppose we could find another pair of agents to play your companions," Une muses, her gaze distant as it tracks the possibilities.

Heero stiffens by Duo's side. "I don't imagine that will be an issue for me, Lady. I am more than capable of adapting to any role necessary."

She waves a negligent hand. "Find the necessary information, Agent Yuy, and we'll discuss this again soon."

Heero is strangely reticent on the way home, staring mutely out the window. Duo parks the suv in the driveway, turns to face his silent partner. Heero stubbornly refuses to acknowledge him, eyes fixed on the slow waltz of falling leaves.

"Ya don't hafta do this if ya don't want to, 'Ro," Duo murmurs, gentling his hand over Heero's shoulder.

Heero shifts out from under his hand, shoving the door open. "I don't need you to make excuses for me, Duo."

"Fuck you, 'Ro. I was tryin' to give ya a fucking out. You can't fake this shit. If you say you're gonna do it, you can't half-ass it. That means you're probably going to have to let me fuck you. I'm not makin' excuses for you, 'Ro, but this shit is gonna be way more than just a mission. Do your goddamn homework, and don't blame me for the answers you find."