The Perfect Soldier
Chapter 17: Breathless
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The red-gold glow of the colony's atmosphere spilled into the silence. It slipped through the open blinds and curtains on a singular mission. It cascaded down upon the curve of a young man's face, purring across his eyelids. It called to him, drawing him out from the black abyss of dreamless slumber. His body resisted. He was so very tired. Exhausted. And he was sluggish. Which was odd. Normally, he awoke instantly and could not return to his dreams if his life depended on it.
He contemplated this odd behavior as the fading light teased his sight. He wanted to open his eyes, but how could he when his eyelids had been sown together while he slept?
As the false warmth of the colony light called to him, he turned his attention to the comfort of the bed he was in. But then, as the shadows slowly consumed the room, the young man began to fight through the gauze that cradled his brain in sleep. Slowly, a pair of violet eyes blinked open.
Duo didn't try to move. His body felt as if he'd received a blood transplant of lead. But he could move his gaze around the room. What he saw of his surroundings was strange. He was in Yokaze's home, but he wasn't in his room. His sleepy stare traveled over the blinds on the window, the tawny drapes, the oak chest of drawers, until he reached the woven blanket beneath his right hand. In a sudden flash, the knowledge surged through the gray fog in his skull.
He was in Yokaze's room.
Duo frowned. This wasn't right. He didn't remember coming in here. He'd gone to say good night to Bisho, but she'd already fallen asleep. And as he'd looked at her, he'd felt the weight of all the sleepless nights pull him down into the chair beside her bed. To say that following Yokaze had been unpleasant would be a severe understatement. The woman never slept. Although, if Duo was honest with himself he would have admitted that seeing Wufei after he'd been delivered his just desserts made the entire ordeal worth any amount of lost sleep. Duo smiled and closed his eyes. Immediately, he felt the dark, gripping hands of unconsciousness urge him down, down—
He felt the thick fog reach over him, warm and smooth, making his thoughts stumble. What had he been thinking about? Had it been important? Why couldn't he remember?
He reached for his forehead as an insistent pounding started drumming between his temples. It took a great deal of determination for him to get his arm to move.
What had happened to him? Was he ill? He didn't think so. In fact, the only other time he'd felt like this was when he'd crashed a mobile suit and cracked about half of his ribs. It had hurt like hell to breathe so G's physicians had given him enough sedatives to subdue a herd of stampeding elephants.
His eyes snapped open.
He groaned in the perfect silence. What had he been thinking, accepting the cup of coffee she'd given him the night before? Or the vitamins? Had they been vitamins? Had she really been concerned for his health? What was all that bunk about being concerned for his T-cells?
Ah, yes. "If you get sick, how can you keep follow—er, helping me?" she'd reasoned in her toneless voice.
Chanting every expletive he'd ever heard, Duo forced his limbs to move toward the edge of the bed. He knew she was gone, that she'd left him in the one room where no one would look for him. He had to find a clock. He had to know how much time he had lost and how much time he had left before Heero killed him.
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"Gone?"
The single syllable echoed in the chill of night. The colony's fans were mysteriously silent, as if the entire station were holding its breath in an anticipation similar to that before a great storm. Duo shivered in the night air; he heard the storm in Trowa's soft but dangerous voice. It was a sound that Maxwell had never heard from him before. Even in the beginning, when the green-eyed pilot had been as frigid as the Arctic Circle, he had never spoken like this.
Of all the people Duo would ask to help him locate the missing Yokaze, he had counted on Trowa's cool, dispassionate nature to be the most logical and thorough. He could see now that he'd made a gross error in judgment. And he hadn't even seen it coming. Had he missed the warnings? But how could that have happened? There was an icy rage inside of Trowa that should have been impossible to miss.
Wishing he'd brought a coat with him, Duo crossed his arms over his chest in a protective gesture. A full minute of silence had come and gone. Still there was no wind. No breath. All that seemed to exist in the vacuum was the insistent pull of a pair of green eyes that demanded an explanation.
Duo took note of the critical appraisal Kathy was giving her coworker. Obviously, she was putting two and two together. That boded even more bad news for Duo. Whatever had caused the rage that was only now manifesting had done its damage some time ago; Kathy wasn't even remotely surprised by the intensity in Trowa's voice, it was as if she'd been expecting it or something very similar for some time now. How had he missed it?
Oh yes, he'd been a walking coma patient for the last three days and unconscious for the last eighteen hours. He tried not to wince at the vivid, brutal truth.
Reluctantly, Duo explained the unanticipated sequence of events that had transpired the night before. Although Trowa's lack of expression never altered, he could feel the icy tension that poured off of him in tidal waves.
"Where have you looked?" Again that calculation, that chill.
Duo shook his head. "This is our first stop. If you haven't seen her—"
Kathy shook her head.
"Then we're off to check with Taki." Duo glanced at his companion, George. The two men shared a look of reservation. They had a good idea of what awaited them at George's apartment, and, under normal circumstances, they never would have considered venturing near the place. But this was an emergency.
Duo sighed and turned to leave. Behind him, George stuttered an apology and wished Kathy a good evening. Duo didn't hear her reply, if she made one. He was too busy trying to stay more than an arm's length away from Trowa.
The man had been pushed beyond the normal bounds of rage by Yokaze's latest stunt. And the why of it was driving Duo nuts. Still, he wasn't about to ask. If anyone had the right to rip his head off, it was Heero. Unfortunately, Duo did have to ask Trowa one very important question.
"Uh, do you have any clothes Wufei can borrow?"
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Wufei eyed the Exacto knife in Taki's right hand and the metal T-square in her left. Both were industrial strength. He lifted his black gaze to study her bent head as she carefully resized a sheet of cold-press watercolor paper. He could feel the cold, dry paper in his hand, the letter he'd just finished reading. For a long time, he had suspected, but now it was confirmed. And he owed it to both them to reveal the truth. He opened his mouth to speak but before he'd formed a single word, she raised her dark eyes to him. Slowly, from the black boots on his feet, up the butter-soft black leather that seemed to accentuate the muscles of his thighs, over the bare skin of his chest, across his jugular vein, and finally, caressing his mouth. Instantly, his noble intentions were forgotten as something hot boiled to life in his veins. Irritation.
She read his disgruntlement and grinned. "If you don't like the clothes Heero sent over, there's always the pink bathrobe."
Wufei scowled. The woman was pure evil. How dare she grin at his discomfort. Her careless dismissal of his embarrassment was enough to make him want to charge out of the apartment and never mind the horrifying selection of clothing he was limited to.
However, if Wufei were honest with himself, he would have been forced to grudgingly admit the gradual admiration he'd been collecting for her spirit, her determination, and her skill as an artist. Even without formal schooling, she had managed to surpass every modern artist he could name. Had Wufei been honest with himself, he would have seen that strength and recognized it as the same strength he, himself, possessed. But, the reality of the situation was that he was practically a prisoner in this apartment. Trapped in the most cunning and cruel way possible: by the lack of clothes for a dignified escape.
He was still simmering over that when, of all things, she started to hum. His natural reserve snapped instantly. He was tired of reacting. Tired of being manhandled by this... this female. In a rash move, he declared in stubborn silence that this ended here and now. He had not been able to distract her with words, with glares, or threats. But there was one thing he hadn't tried that was bound to be effective.
He crossed the room. The letter fluttered forgotten to the floor. The thump of his boots announced his movement and she glanced up to appreciate the figure in motion. It never occurred to her to think of anything beyond aesthetically appreciating his body. The possibility that she might be in danger still hadn't occurred to her when he reached for her arm. One moment, she had been totally engrossed in her task, the next she was being pulled to her feet.
She was frozen by her objective horror, telling herself that this wasn't really happening. He was still on the other side of the room trying to wear her down with that sexy glare of his. She was simply hallucinating this encounter. Her hesitation was the opportunity he'd counted on; he slid his hands into her hair, tilted her chin up, and kissed her.
Instant distraction. Total confusion. And what was he doing with his lower lip? She sighed as the answer was soon made apparent. She felt her mind slip into a persistent haze of animalistic pleasure.
Wow. Who knew he could kiss like this? He was arrogant and grouchy and a complete ass, but DAMN. She could get used to this. In fact, she was getting used to it. Already her hands were gliding over his chest. Her mouth moving in counter to his. Some cunning, inner voice was telling her that a few—if not most—of his personality traits were the inevitable result of a lack of training. And he had potential. The pure quantity of raw, male material boggled her mind.
Literally.
She was on the verge of utilizing a judo technique Heero had taught her which would land Wufei squarely on the rumpled bed without fail, when he lifted his head. His dark, dark eyes stared intently into hers. His hands were moving over the nape of her neck in tantalizing caresses. She was gathering her breath for a rematch when he spoke.
"Taki," he breathed.
"Uh?" Her eyes were on the throbbing vein in his throat. She was fascinated by the possibilities.
"Where are my clothes?"
Still sluggish from carnal delights, Taki took a breath to reply, her brain a full two seconds behind her mouth. "I have no idea," she confessed, dazed. "I gav—"
She came up short just as the warning bells in her ears reached a painful volume. Immediately, she realized her near blunder. Her mouth snapped shut. Her rising ire burned away the rich after-glow. Her dark eyes narrowed. Glaring at him, she pushed herself away from his bare chest but somehow managed to connect with a wall. Escape thwarted by this unexpected obstacle, she paused and in that brief instant Wufei blocked all alternate escape routes.
He leaned in close, one arm on either side of her shoulders, and asked once more, "What did you do with them?"
Taki ground her teeth together in angst. He was practically purring the words, dammit. And his black eyes were smoldering, as if he weren't looking to get dressed, but rather the opposite. Thank God he kept his mouth clamped together. If he'd done some sexy lip thing she would have been toast. Already, her mind was making up for lost time, zooming through ways to distract him and get this payback back on track. She realized that she was still holding the Exacto knife. Violence was always an option, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. He was just too gorgeous to maim.
God, what was wrong with her? She'd never hear the end of it from Heero if her buddy ever found out about the predicament Taki had allowed herself to get into. The shame. The utter horror. The fantastic hormones. No, it wasn't all bad, but still, she had principles, standards, unfinished sketches.
"Well?" he prompted, his voice a sultry growl.
She was dying. He was killing her. He had at least one seductive bone in his body. Who knew? She glared back at him, "I told you. I don't know."
He smiled. Slowly. She had to steel herself against a shiver. "Guess."
She shook her head. "It's no good. I forgot." She sounded breathless. And she hated it.
Wufei didn't relent. He bent even closer. "Then perhaps I should help you... remember."
Torn between the desperation to avoid more embarrassment and the desperation to fall back into the oblivion of sensation, she rallied, "Wait, I think it's coming back to me."
Taki thought quickly. She had to distract him. If maiming was out, then she'd just have to think of an alternative. Her gaze turned speculative. She tentatively reached out and brushed her fingertips against his ribs. He flinched.
She could have laughed.
Perfect.
"Wufei, you're not... ticklish are you?"
She saw the truth in the narrowing of his eyes, in their resigned, yet determined gleam. Oh, yes, this was going to be painful, but he didn't move away to defend himself. And just as she commanded her hands to begin their inhuman torment, the doorbell rang.
Dammit.
"Who the hell could that be?" she grouched. "I've already been interrupted once this week. Don't these people know that an artist needs complete, uninterrupted calm—an environment, a bubble—in order to create? That's it. Death. Death to whoever is at that door." She turned her gaze back on Wufei. "Will you move so I can have my blood bath?"
She stomped on his foot and ducked under an arm. She was free so easily that she felt even more shamed that she hadn't tried the simple maneuver earlier.
She opened the door still holding her Exacto knife, to the surprise of Duo Maxwell.
"I'm unarmed," he hastily pointed out.
"Uh huh?" She was not mollified.
"Have you seen Yokaze?"
Taki blinked and finally noticed the anxiety in Duo's face, the curiosity in George's, and the glacial stare emanating from Trowa. She felt a headache roar to life behind her eyeballs. She felt like telling Wufei to get over here so she could stab something, but instead she turned to the nearest wall and let her forehead fall against it with a loud thud!
"'Things will get worse before they get worse,'" she quoted.
The foreboding of those words did not escape those in the apartment. They fell like a wet blanket in the silence. A smelly, scratchy, cold, wet, wool blanket.
In the living room, George's Regulator clock chimed the hour. Midnight.
What a sucky way to start the week.
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~End of Chapter 17~