'Any landing you can walk away from is a good one' was a pilot's maxim that was as old as the profession. Zechs had first heard it when he was a cadet at Lake Victoria Academy, and though he had never subscribed to it until now, today he was fervently hoping it was true.

His suit touched down in the burning desert sand clumsily, the contact heavy and off-balance as Zechs was forced to correct his approach at the last second to keep from crashing the mecha face first into a dune.

Killing his engines, Zechs let go of his controls and just hung in his seat restraints for a moment, his breathing heavy and wheezy as he closed his eyes and tried to summon energy into his limbs.

In the sixteen hours since the base had been abandoned, Zechs had pulled his Taurus from the defensive line holding back intermittent waves of attacking enemy suits only twice. Following the quickly established protocol, he had set the mecha down behind the advancing column where it would be shielded from attack, achieved his goal as quickly as possible and gone back to the fight.

The first time he had stopped, it had been to wolf down a couple of ration bars, the entire of a bottle of nutrient drink and to use the moistened wipes from his little emergency kit to wipe off his face and clean his hands. The second time it had been for nothing more than a chance to relieve himself and to wash down a mixed handful of caffeine and glucose tablets with half a canteen of warm, brackish water.

This third time, his stand down had been the result of a direct order from Treize, relayed through Lady Une as their retreating forces halted in the middle of the open desert.

Mindful of the fact that his commander was waiting for him, Zechs forced himself to release his safety harness and hit the button that would open his cockpit hatch. The air that flooded into the cramped space was blisteringly hot, but it was clean and fresh, washing out the stuffy stench that had built in the time he'd been fighting.

Taking a moment to balance himself, Zechs climbed from his cockpit and grabbed hold of the hoist line to make the drop to the floor.

The wind teasing at him on the descent, Zechs became aware of the fact that his hair was limp and damp down his spine, his uniform plastered to his body where he'd sweat straight through the heavy fabric. He'd long since yanked his cravat from around his neck, discarding it God knew where, and his gloves were spattered with spots of blood where his hands had blistered from the constant pressure of his controls. He didn't want to think about how he must smell.

Longing for nothing more than the opportunity to drown himself under a cold shower and collapse into a comfortable bed, Zechs looked up as his boots touched the white sand and bit back a groan when he saw Lady Une waiting for him.

The woman was dishevelled and dusty, her hair yanked back into a functional ponytail rather than her usual twin buns but her uniform was intact and she managed to at least look clean and awake.

Her eyebrows rose at the sight of him, her nose wrinkling to confirm his suspicions about his aroma. "Major," she snapped as he sketched some attempt at a salute. "His Excellency wants to see you immediately."

Zechs nodded wearily. "Do you know why?" he asked.

"I have some idea," Une replied. She extended one hand to him and the blond took the small metal flask she offered him with clear surprise marking his features. "I thought you might appreciate it," she told him, falling into step next to him as they began to walk.

"Thank you," Zechs said gratefully. "I do." He unscrewed the lid and took a slow mouthful, finding that the canteen held nothing but water, crisp and somehow cool. It tasted wonderful and the urge to gulp was nearly overwhelming but the pilot resisted, knowing that his stomach would protest such a move and mindful of the fact that it wasn't his water in the first place. He took five slow sips, then screwed the lid back into place and tried to pass it back to Une.

She waved him away immediately. "Keep it. I can replace it later and you look like you need it more in any case. Water isn't something we're short of, thank God. We got both tankers clear, so as long as we're re-supplied within a week we're in no danger of running out."

"That's good," Zechs agreed, and meant it. There were many, many things their troops could have lived without for a few days but a water shortage would have been a disaster in the punishing desert heat. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Une asked.

"What does His Excellency want?"

Une shrugged. "Ask him," she replied, gesturing to a small group of people huddled under a hastily erected canvas awning. They were leaning over something spread out in the back of one of the trucks, talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Une cleared her throat sharply and the group looked up. A moment later, Treize pushed his way from the middle of them and gestured to dismiss them all.

Zechs ran his eyes over his lover, looking for any injuries the man might have taken whilst he was piloting. Like Une, Treize's uniform was creased and smudged, the customary sheen of his boots lost under a film of sand-dust. He was certainly a far cry from his normal pristine appearance, but he still looked orders of magnitude more put-together than Zechs did. His blue coat was buttoned and belted perfectly into his place, his skin, gloves and cravat looked clean, and his hair bore the marks of a recent combing.

Zechs drew himself to attention, trying not to wince as it stretched muscles that had been stressed and cramped for far too long.

Treize must have caught his grimace because he waved the formality away quickly. "Dare I ask how you're feeling?" he began, looking Zechs up and down intently.

"I'm alright," Zechs responded automatically. "Tired, mostly. Lady Une said you wanted to see me, sir?"

Treize nodded. "I did, but having seen you I think I'm changing my mind. Have you stopped at all today?"

"As much as anyone else." Zechs shrugged. "As much as I had time to."

"I'll believe that last." Treize gestured idly at the back of the truck. "Would you care to sit down?"

Zechs shook his head. "I've been sat down all day. I'll stand – unless you're going to offer me a reasonably comfortable corner to fall asleep in."

There was such a tone of wistful hope in Zechs's voice that Treize couldn't help but laugh at him affectionately. "No corners, I'm afraid. I can offer you something that pretends to be food, enough water to wash in and a clean shirt, if any of that sounds appealing?"

Gratefully, Zechs nodded. "It might," he confessed, and won himself another fond chuckle.

Treize gestured absently at Une and the woman began walking away, heading for another truck piled high with the distinctive white shapes of Officer's standard issue duffels. Zechs watched her go until Treize tilted his head and caught the blonde's attention again.

"Une will sort you out," the older man explained casually. "How are you feeling, really?"

The tilt of his head had changed the play of the light across Treize's face, revealing both the shadow of a darkening bruise marking his left jaw and the first, faint reddening of incipient sunburn across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. "I have sun block in my duffel," Zechs said, seeing it, and didn't really register that his words made no sense as a reply until the redhead raised a startled eyebrow.

"I beg your pardon?" the older man asked, sounding somewhere between bemused and concerned.

"Sun block," Zechs repeated, then sighed. He gestured at his friend. "You've been under this sun too long - you're burning," he added, hoping it would explain.

Treize blinked in surprise, one gloved hand going automatically to his nose. He blinked again as he felt the heat in his skin, then smiled ruefully. "So I am," he replied. "You'd think three years at Victoria would have made it habit, but I hadn't even thought of sun block. Silly of me," he admitted. He shook his head again. "You haven't answered my question," he prompted.

"What question?" Zechs asked, focussing now on the bruising.

Treize's gaze sharpened. "How are you feeling? And be honest – I need to know the truth, not what you think I want to hear."

Zechs pulled his eyes from their inspection of his lover's form and shrugged again. "I told you, I'm tired, mostly. Stiff, achy, dehydrated. Nothing that wasn't predictable given how long I've been in my cockpit for. I'm alright."

Sapphire eyes swept over the blond, coolly assessing. "Good," Treize said briskly. "I have a mission I want you to fly for me." He turned on his heel in the sand and beckoned Zechs over to look at the map spread out in the back of the truck.

The blond stepped under the awning, moving close enough that he could read the map and no closer, mindful of the way he smelt. "Go on, sir."

Treize glanced back over his shoulder, then gestured again, imperiously. "Stop hovering and come here. You need to look at this properly."

Obediently, Zechs yielded and stepped up to his commander's side, looking down at the map curiously.

Treize immediately traced his fingers over the crisp paper. "I've decided we're going to set up a temporary base here," he began, tapping a spot on the map. "It's only about five miles, give or take, from where we are now, but it's further into Alliance-held territory than the A.I.S has ever dared to encroach. Kai-Huang is on his way from Luxembourg with emergency relief and once he arrives I'll begin the counter-offensive but for the moment the priority is to get the rebels to stop harassing our lines long enough for us to establish our base."

Zechs nodded his understanding, and Treize moved his fingers to another spot on the map. "Attack being the best form of defence, supposedly, I want to give the rebel commander something other than us to worry about. If we can sufficiently distract them for a few hours we'll be able to regroup into a much stronger position. Our pilots would be able to rest properly and we could begin making some order out of the chaos we have at the moment."

The blond looked more closely at the markings Treize was resting his forefinger on. "What is that?" he asked.

"Some sort of small settlement," Treize replied. "Intelligence believes it's a staging point for the rebel troops attacking us – a smaller version of the base we're looking to set up, in effect. I think it's a little more substantial than that, myself, but either way, it's valuable to the rebels and it's perfectly positioned for a couple of fast suits to go in, destroy it and get out again without too much fuss."

"Those suits being my Taurus unit," Zechs realised.

"Exactly. Can you do it?" Treize asked, looking up. There was a genuine question in his face – the only thing that made his request acceptable at all on top of the day Zechs had already had. The general knew what he was asking of his friend, knew it was above and beyond the call of duty to ask it at all, but he'd managed, with the inborn sixth sense that made him such an outstanding commander, to find so exactly the right balance of request and expectation that Zechs not only would, but wanted to, accept the mission.

It wasn't the first time the younger man had felt Treize push him so – the older man had actively honed the skill on his blond houseguest when they'd both been boys – but it never failed to work. Without any outside help, without even conscious thought, Zechs felt some of his weariness drop away, felt his spine straighten. If his commander thought him capable of this last achievement, then Zechs would be.

He wasn't unique in his reaction; the pilot knew that. He'd seen Treize work his touch on many of his soldiers and seen them react in the same way, going on to give more than they thought they could, achieving things no-one thought were possible. There had been one or two occasions in the early years of his career, when Treize was nothing more than his Wing Commander, that Zechs had seen the older man snatch victories from impossible odds, holding his troops to his goals with nothing more than his voice over their comm. ringing with his faith in them.

The effect was more pronounced in person. Zechs could no more have said no to his lover at that moment then he could have pulled his gun and shot him. He wondered absently for a second whether he was more susceptible because Treize was his lover, or whether others felt it more intensely because it was as close to the man's flame as they would ever get.

Knowing Treize had already read his answer from his stance and his face, Zechs brought his heels together and nodded anyway. "Yes, sir," he said.

The smile Treize gave him in acknowledgement was blinding in its intensity. "Thank you," he murmured back, straightening from his map and reaching out to rest one hand lightly on the battered sleeve of Zechs's jacket. "I'll give you time to eat and get changed. I want your suits checked over in any case."

Zechs winced. "Well, I don't envy the techs having to crawl around in my cockpit right now," he said and the older man laughed softly.

"Perhaps not," he agreed, "but it's what they're paid for and even I don't expect my pilots to fly for most of a day without a break and still be parade ground perfect."

Treize turned and folded his map up, then pushed it to one side as he put one hand flat on the tail of the truck and one on the steel frame side. "Take your gloves off," he commanded, hopping into the truck with commendable athleticism and straightening easily to step into the shadows of its interior, "and let me look at your hands."

Zechs peered after him, trying to see what the redhead was doing as he carefully peeled the stained fabric from his hands, wincing when it stuck to the broken skin underneath it. He worked it loose slowly and tossed the ruined gloves onto the tail of the truck as dusty boots reappeared.

"Ouch," Treize said sympathetically, catching one hand in gentle fingers as he went to one knee on the boards and set the armload of stuff he was carrying down next to him. He turned Zechs's hand into the light and hissed at the damage.

The constant hours of flying had wreaked havoc on the blonde's hands. His neatly kept nails were broken from hitting buttons too hurriedly and too hard, back past the quick in two cases, and the unrelenting pressure of the control sticks and levers of his suit had rubbed the skin at the base of his fingers and across the palms of his hands raw. Sheering forces when Zechs had fought against gravity with brute strength had torn the forming blisters wide open, so that dried blood smeared his skin and fresh welled with clear fluids from the wounds.

Cadets often formed blisters during their training and every pilot in the Specials had the calluses left behind when those blisters healed, even Treize – who fought them with expensive lotions and pampering care to keep his hands soft and graceful, those of the politician he also had to be. Unfortunately, for Zechs, the stress of the day had obviously gone beyond that hard-earned protection.

"I'm sorry," Treize murmured. "Can you really fly again like this? I think you should be seeing a doctor."

Zechs shook his head. "I'm fine," he insisted, belying his own words with a wince as he flexed his fingers. "It hurts but it's not too bad. Let me tape it and I'll be good to go."

Treize sighed and shook his head but he reached into the pile next to him and closed his fingers around something. "Alright. Hold your hands out flat."

Zechs cooperated without asking why and had to bite his lip when Treize twisted the top off a bottle and poured the contents over the blonde's hands. The liquid was blessedly cool on first contact but it quickly began to sting like crazy as it soaked into the open wounds. It cleared the dried blood away too, leaving the pink tinged run off to trickle into the desert sand and be absorbed almost immediately.

The first bottle Treize upended completely but the second he only used half of, setting the rest down as he leaned in to inspect the damage more closely now that it had been properly revealed.

Zechs had recognised the bottles before Treize had used them. They were a part of the standard field emergency kit, the liquid they contained a specially formulated mix of alcohol, antibiotic and topical anaesthetic suspended in deionised water that was intended to be used exactly as Treize had. When speed was of the essence in combat and conditions less than ideal, almost any open wound – from bullet wounds to burns – could be treated by drowning it thoroughly with the solution and covering it with a clean dressing. It cleaned, numbed and provided some protection from infection, it was a lovely bit of invention that had been quickly copied by all emergency services and hospitals all over the Earth Sphere, but it stung like a bitch and the smell was evil.

"You might have warned me!" Zechs hissed.

"You had the same first aid training I did," Treize replied calmly. "What did you think I was going to do?"

"You're supposed to irrigate any wound with plain water first!" Zechs returned, pulling his hands away from his lover to close them into balls in an attempt to soothe the burn.

Treize looked up, eyebrow raised. "Really? That's a change from what I was taught. Perhaps I need a refresher course." He shrugged. "I don't think it would have hurt any less in any case."

"Still!" Zechs protested, gathering his hands close to himself protectively.

Treize reached out again. "Alright, I'm sorry," he said soothingly. "Now, let me finish or you will be seeing that Doctor."

Zechs glowered stubbornly. "What are you going to do?" he asked warily.

There was a moment of silence whilst Treize made a grab for Zechs's hands, missing when the blond snatched them out of the way again, and then the older man rolled his eyes and pinned the younger with a stern gaze. "Zechs, behave," he chided.

Zechs held his defensive posture another second, then relented, holding his hands out again reluctantly. "Sadist," he accused softly.

"Yes, amongst other things. Don't pretend you don't like it." Treize tipped some of the remaining solution onto a soft cloth and began dabbing at the worst of the damage, ignoring Zechs's flinches and soft swearing. "And stand still or I won't kiss it better when I'm done," he added dryly.

He looked up with a knowing smile a heartbeat later as Zechs began to splutter incoherently.

"Treize!"

"What?" the redhead asked innocently. Dark eyes met light through the filter of the mask and both men held still, Treize crouched on one knee and Zechs stood in front of him, his hands curled in his commander's.

Zechs's eyes took on a shade of amusement as he shook his head slightly in disbelief. "You'll get us both shot," he warned.

"No-one would dare," Treize returned smoothly. He waited a moment, then put down his damp cloth and reached back into his pile of supplies for a small metal and plastic tube. He shifted his grip on his friend's fingers long enough to unscrew the little white cap.

Zechs, recognising the tube as a concentrated form of the liquid, only sighed and gritted his teeth as Treize smeared the smooth paste across the broken skin and then began covering the damage with protective padding and strapping tape.

The general leaned back a little when he was done, checking over his work. Zechs had to admit it was as neat a job as he could have done himself and probably more secure. The anaesthetic was beginning to work, as well, and he sighed softly as some of the stinging heat began to fade away.

"There," Treize said, satisfied. "Better?"

"Much."

"Good." The redhead pushed to his feet, and then put one hand on Zechs's shoulder for balance as he leapt down from the truck again. The blond braced against the brief pressure, catching Treize's arm to support him as he completed the move.

"We have got to stop getting ourselves into these positions," Treize continued as he straightened up, missing Zechs's sudden scowl. "We're making a habit of having to patch each other up. Now, Dover…."

He let himself come to a stop as Zechs's grip tightened on his lower arm.

"Are you wearing your arm brace again?" the younger man asked, frowning, sure that he could feel the familiar shape beneath the heavy fabric of Treize's sleeve.

Treize waved away his concern with a quick smile and a dismissive gesture. "It's just a precaution. The doctors insisted."

"Treize," Zechs began and was stopped with another firm smile.

"Only a precaution," Treize repeated, then looked over the blonde's shoulder at the approaching figure of Lady Une.

Zechs gazed at him for a moment more, sure there was more to it than that and equally knowing that he wasn't going to get an answer, no matter how he pushed, with Une closing on them rapidly. Wondering if she knew anything about it, Zechs dropped his hold on his commander and turned to face the woman as she drew to a stop a few paces away.

"Your duffel, Major," Une said as she handed Zechs the canvas bag. "I have to warn you that it's probably rather a mess," she added. "Clearing the pilots' bunks was done in rather a hurry. I doubt the sweep teams took the time to fold anything neatly."

Zechs nodded his understanding. "I'll settle for not having to replace everything twice in six months. Creases press out."

Une offered him what, from anyone else, would have been a warm smile. "Engineering crews are working on your suit and estimate they'll be through with their checks in an hour and a half. If you go the medical trucks, someone will find you enough water and some soap so you can wash. I took the liberty of collecting your ration packs for you."

The blond saw Treize quirk an eyebrow at his assistant's customary efficiency and had to hide a smile of his own as he took the foil wrapped packets from her little hands. "Thank you, Lady," he said.

He bent to slide the packets into a spare pocket in his duffel and to see just what state it was in, and felt Treize's fingers brush lightly against his spine as the older man stepped past him to exchange swift words with Une as they both looked to the map Treize re-spread in the back of the truck.