The Perfect Soldier
Aftermath
A.C. 198, December 24
.
It was Christmas, again. As cobalt eyes moved over the assortment of company, he noted with numbness that much had changed. Quatre, their host for this year's festivities, had grown even more into his role of protector of L4. And yet, as he'd shouldered more and more responsibility, his smile had gained in radiance and confidence even as his eyes had grown bluer with worries and secret cares. But, at this moment, he was smiling, listening to the story being told to him by one of his guests. With a frown, the reluctant observer noticed that a bottle of Martini & Rossi Asti had certainly brought out lighter side of Mr. Winner tonight.
That had been Taki's fault. She'd insisted. The cobalt gaze transferred to the chatty newcomer, unable to ignore the fact that she sat between Wufei's knees. She was—at the moment—ignoring her lover, in favor of getting a few laughs and shocks out of Quatre. The story with which she was entertaining was a detailed account of the happenings last year when she'd been delivering a payback to Wufei. Heero ignored most of it, only catching something about a pink, fuzzy bathrobe and an Exacto knife.
His gaze moved on. Katherine also seemed engrossed by the rambling tale. But her fiancé, George, looked as if he'd heard it all before. He watched Taki with the soft glow of tolerant humor in his dark eyes.
This small group boasted pink cheeks from too much wine and champagne, even Wufei sat leaning back against the sofa, looking more relaxed than he ever had in his life. He was even smiling—a miracle if there ever was one. It was obvious where the boundary line between those with Christmas spirit and those without lay.
With a silent grunt of disapproval, Heero Yuy turned his attention to the chessboard he'd assembled.
"Trowa, care for a game?"
The tall, thin young man at the high-rise window turned slowly from his reflection to glance at his fellow Christmas exile. His green eyes were blank for a long moment as he studied Heero's features. The silence and the stare wore on for so long that Heero began to wonder if he was seeing her instead.
And then the green eyes dropped their gaze to the board and a look of pain and remorse creased the partially-obscured brow. It was a look that had, a year ago, been impossible for the silent, young man to display.
Yes, many things had changed.
Heero saw in Trowa's face the emptiness of his own existence this last year. Invisibility was rapidly becoming the coldest prison within Heero had ever been a captive, willing or not.
Just as Trowa would have spoken—to accept or decline—the doorbell rang to the surprise of all. It was nearly midnight and all of the shuttles had already arrived for the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebration: Quatre's orders. Whoever was at that door, had been on the colony for a good ten hours. Which meant that the visitor was, most likely, Rashid, and not a certain violet-eyed young man who was curiously absent.
Heero reflected on that. He, himself, had nearly flat-out declined Quatre's invitation because he had known he would see Duo again. And, after the incident on L1, Heero'd had no intention of being in the same room with Duo Maxwell again in his lifetime. But his curt rejection had been stalled by the strange pressure in his gut as he'd thought of the man Duo must be now that he'd found his sister, his family, his home; now that Duo had everything that Heero'd once had within his grasp but had destroyed with his suspicion. In that moment of Heero's hesitation, Quatre had read an affirmative reply and had promptly chartered him onto a shuttle. And so, Heero had arrived, but, ironically, Duo had not.
He'd been relieved to learn that Duo had not shown up. But that didn't keep him from thinking that every knock on the suite door would yield to the familiar face. This time, it was the maid service. Evidently, Taki had order something—anything and everything—chocolate.
Heero turned away from the commotion to the neatly ordered chessboard. Although he knew he wouldn't touch it, he stared at it, remembering past games, past strategies, past sacrifices. And that made him think of the biggest sacrifice he'd ever chosen to make in his life.
All those months ago, on L1, he hadn't only witnessed the destruction of all that had ever held him to his profession of death. He'd witnessed the death of the only family he'd found in the cold entirety of the universe. And with the confirmation of her death, he'd returned to the hotel shower and washed all traces of the enemy from his thoughts.
The dream was gone.
And without it, he was little more than a machine. He lived in the instant. For if he thought outside of each, single minute, he was caught up in the sacrifices that had been made so that he might live, so that others might be protected.
The maid was finally leaving now. Quatre had insisted that she have a drink with them. Heero glared at the chessboard and refused to dignify the events with his attention. In fact, he was so engrossed with his own efforts to avoid both his memories and the party's merriment that he didn't see the two figures slip into the room just as the door was about to close. But he did hear the new voice and felt himself tense reflexively.
"Hey, this looks like the right place."
"Duo!" Quatre exclaimed. "You made it!"
"Yeah. We just couldn't stay away."
At the word "we," Heero found himself turning, glancing over his shoulder at the suite door. His eyes collided violently with Duo's and he felt a strange ache twist inside of him. There was a resignation in those eyes that had never been there before, a death born of failure and of loss.
His gaze still locked with Heero's, Duo Maxwell continued, "I promised Bisho we'd see the sights."
Having heard the name of Duo's sister, Heero managed to look away, returning to his silence.
"That's why we're so late," he finished, his gaze lingering for one last moment on the stiff back of a once-was-friend. Finally, he shifted his attention to Quatre and the others.
Taki took the opportunity to stand and stretch. "Well, Duo, you are just in time. In accordance with the traditions I have observed over the years with a few very good friends of mine—" Her gaze lingered on George's as they passed the name of another good, but absent friend between them. "—We are all opening one Christmas present tonight before we go to bed." She turned and smiled at Wufei who was still sitting with his legs sprawled out before him on the plush carpet. "I've got yours," she informed him and enjoyed watching him wince.
She pulled a red and orange present out from under the massive tree and plopped it in his lap. Everyone watched as Wufei unwrapped his pre-Christmas morning gift, although he did so with no small amount of apprehension. He pulled out a white T-shirt which seemed safe enough to display to the others. But it wasn't until he'd unfolded it that the bold, black print revealed itself. On the back, Taki had thoughtfully printed "I'm with Squeakers" and followed it with a small but unmistakable sketch of a smelly-looking rat.
He glared at her. Or rather, he tried. "You're never going to forget that, are you?" he accused.
She grinned. "One of your truly great and shining moments? Of course not."
He laughed and then explained to her, quite seriously, "Forgive me; I was an idiot."
His admission was lost on the others who had begun to select the night's gift. George was busy tearing into a gift Kathy had picked out and she'd zeroed in on Trowa to offer him one as well. Quatre held out one for Bisho to open, but Duo gently declined.
"I've got this one," he said, pulling an envelope out of his jacket pocket.
He handed it to his sister and told her, "This came last week; I wanted to surprise you."
She took the letter with a slight frown which disappeared when she recognized the return address. "The Inter Colony Scholarship Program?" she read. She glanced up at Duo for a brief instant before tearing into the letter. As she read, Duo met Quatre's gaze over her head and they exchanged smiles. It had taken no more than a phone call to alert Quatre to the fact that Bisho was applying for a private, college-preparatory school in the L4 area. She'd confessed a desire to learn all about space engineering. But she'd need help, help that the scholarship program Quatre's father had started years ago could certainly provide.
Now, as she tore into the envelope, both dreading and hoping, Quatre, her silent benefactor, and Duo, her no-so-silent champion, smiled in satisfaction.
She screamed. "Oh my God! Holy shit! Duo! Duo! They're paying for EVERYTHING! Look at this! Look at this, dammit! They're paying for all four years!"
Obediently, Duo looked and tried to act surprised. On the other side of Bisho, Quatre smiled as he watched her unabashed joy.
"And look! They're giving me a stipend! Oh my God. I can't spend all of this money."
"I'm sure you'll find a way," Duo assured her.
And then, suddenly, she turned to Quatre and shoved the letter under his nose. "Can you believe this?"
Quatre just smiled at her and said, "They couldn't have the future's most brilliant Aerospace Engineer attending class in worn-out jeans and T-shirts, now could they?"
She just grinned, too full of emotion to say anything, so full of emotion that her eyes were tearing. When one spilled down over her cheek, Quatre gently wiped it away.
"So, you're going to accept the scholarship?"
"Are you insane?" she gasped out. "Of course I am."
"Then it looks like, this June, we're going to be neighbors."
It was in that instant that she realized that her education would take her away from her new family. She worried her lip between her teeth and sought out Duo. He read the concern in her eyes and chuckled. "Hey, kid. I've got six more months left to drive you nuts. You'll be glad to leave. Besides, Quatre's going to be here to keep you company. Now, if you'll excuse me, Taki has some chocolate with my name on it."
"Hey, grab me some," Bisho called after him. He waved a hand over his shoulder and she smiled. Quatre couldn't help but smile, too. After a year, time had only made her that much more beautiful. Someday soon, she was going to grow up and be absolutely breathtaking. At least, that was what Quatre thought.
Heero watched all of this with a blank face, considering grabbing his coat and heading for the spaceport. The next flight was tomorrow at noon. He could wait at the terminal. He'd just about finished planning his departure when Kathy shoved a present at him. He looked down at the thing in his hands and then back up at Trowa's sister, Trowa's family, Trowa's home.
It was obvious he didn't belong here.
Kathy said, "I don't know who it's from, but it's got your name on it."
So it did. He sighed as he turned the small, thin thing over in his hands. Briefly, he considered leaving without opening it, but he found himself gently prying the wrapping apart at its seams before he could stop himself. The box puzzled him. It looked like a jewelry box, but of course no one would have dared to give him such a frivolous item.
He pried the lid off and sifted through the paper until he'd found a yellowed newspaper clipping entitled "War Hero Dies Saving Town." He frowned, skimming the article. It was about a decorated soldier who'd defended a small town and its people from a random mercenary attack. He'd been on leave with his two children and had had only himself and an old, rusted-out mobilesuit, but he'd managed to protect the civilians anyway. Heero studied the man's black and white photograph, which had been inset into the text. He mentally shook his head and set the paper aside.
But that was not the only thing the box contained. Beneath the article was a photograph. In it, he recognized the soldier in the article. He was kneeling with two children. His children by the pride on his face and the way he held them in his arms. There was a girl of about six years standing on his left with her hand on his shoulder. She faced the camera squarely, her face very serious and solemn. The other child was being tickled by his father's right hand. The boy, no more than two, laughed at the camera with his father.
Something sparked inside of Heero as he looked at the child. The child with unruly brown hair and cobalt eyes. His gaze slid to the girl, who also possessed the same wild hair and dark eyes. He looked again at the man. Although his hair was shaved close to his skull, his dark blue eyes were impossible to overlook.
His hand shaking, Heero turned the photograph over. There was a short description penned on the back in aged ink: "Here we are outside of the Johnstownne-Whyte Base, just the three of us." What followed was a list of three names followed by their titles: father, daughter, and son.
Heero swallowed twice as he looked back at the image. He saw it then, the undeniable likeness to Yokaze that the young girl bore. And the unavoidable similarity of himself to that little boy.
His mind began to race with the adrenaline that pumped through his veins. No. No, no, no, no. It can't be. He swallowed twice as he fished the name tag out of the wrappings and studied the handwriting. He was fighting a knot of pain in his throat when he placed the undisciplined scrawl. With a strangled sound, Heero turned back to the box. There was more. There had to be.
And there was.
It wasn't much.
It was a note, a simple note that read: "You were right.
"Mission completed."
.
Duo paused in the act of entering the bedroom. He was sure that Quatre had told him this was his room. Was it possible that Quatre had forgotten? That he'd become just a tad bit disoriented by all that celebrating? At the sight of Heero standing at the window, staring out into the blackness of this Christmas morning, Duo was sure that there'd been some mistake. If Heero was in this room, then it could not possibly be Duo's.
Duo shifted his weight, preparing to close the door silently behind him when he saw the Christmas present Heero had opened just a half an hour ago. It had been laid out on the empty desk: a newspaper article and a photograph. Curiosity getting the better of him, Duo leaned forward to get a closer look at the people in the picture. His eyes widened as he recognized first one child and then the other.
"That's me and my sister," a very quiet, controlled voice said.
Duo glanced up, but Heero was still staring out into the night, shoulders stiff, back ramrod straight.
"That's..." he started, unable to stop himself from speaking it.
"Yes," Heero agreed. "That's Yokaze."
Duo couldn't believe it. It was true. Really and truly true. "Who gave you this?" he asked. And then he paused. For, as soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew. He knew.
"She's..." This time, he was afraid to say it, afraid to bring hope into a room where it might not survive.
"Yes," Heero said, again. There was a pause and Duo finally stepped into the room and closed the door. He saw the name tag with her penmanship etched on it. He saw the card with her cryptic statements.
Into Duo's contemplative silence, Heero spoke once more. "All this time, I thought she was dead. I thought..."
Duo looked up at Heero's hesitation, sensing something deeply painful buried in the words he deliberately forced out.
"She... went into the base for me. To free me. After all these years. To make up for leaving me behind. I thought my existence... I thought that I'd... killed her."
Duo shivered at the raw pain in Heero's voice. He took a step toward the solitary figure.
"It was because of me."
Setting his overnight bag down, Duo took yet another step. He saw, in his mind, the last time he'd reached out to this wounded soldier. He heard the snarled words. He saw the barred teeth. He felt the icy rage. And yet he approached, even though this time could not possibly end any differently. In the end, Duo would be banished again. In the end, they would both leave this place scarred and alone.
"Death follows me."
Duo paused in his advance as Heero's seemingly disjointed declarations began to lock into each other.
"Those who are close to me are... in danger."
Violet eyes widened as everything fell into place.
"It is better to be alone... to keep them safe."
Duo took four more steps, nearly closing the distance between them. "Heero?"
"She was my sister. I believed. I understood... and then I saw the... the explosion... the flames..."
"But, Heero," Duo said softly, "she's alive. She's safe."
There was no reply and Duo continued, an ache in his voice, "You aren't alone anymore." And with this, Duo put his hand on Heero's shoulder.
Instantly, Heero's opposite arm shot out, his fingers forming and iron clamp on Duo's wrist. Heero's tension was immediate and predictable. Not bothering to struggle, Duo closed his eyes for a moment, resigning himself to the fact that nothing had changed at all. Heero was hurting—still, always—and yet when Duo reached out—as he always did—it would be he, the one offering Heero an escape in comfort, who gained another scar.
Dou sighed. He hated it when he was right.
He could sense Heero turning to face him. He could imagine the hate or the anger or—worse—the indifference in those dark blue eyes. How had things gone so wrong? Didn't Heero understand the basic premise that Duo couldn't stop himself from giving a damn? God knew, he'd tried. He'd also wondered if he should have socked Heero in the jaw every time he looked upset instead of giving him a shoulder to glare on. But, the truth was this: Duo cared. That flaw was Duo's alone. And he would be punished for it every time he reached out to heal the pain Heero insisted on keeping so close to him.
His eyes still closed, Duo insisted, "You're not alone. Even though you've told yourself that's the only thing you've ever wanted in this world. You're not alone."
Long moments passed. The hold on Duo's wrist didn't budge. Finally, unable to stand the dark, uncertain silence any longer, Duo opened his eyes.
But instead of encountering all of the unresolved rage from all those months ago, he saw tears. Heero stood before him, tears fighting their way down his face. He made no move to conceal this pain that he'd denied for so long. He released it for Duo to see and both of them knew that Duo would be the only one to ever witness it. At Heero's next words, Duo felt his surprise melt into the compassion and hope he'd tried so hard to ignore.
In a near whisper, Heero said, "I'm sorry, Duo."
Heero wavered where he stood, fighting the need to give in to the only thing that could heal him. Duo sensed none of this. His attention was riveted on the tortured gaze. Unable to do otherwise, he reached out to wipe a single tear from the unblemished flesh. As if the tear were conducting an electric current, a thing—a tangible connection—passed between them. It was Heero's undoing.
The perfect soldier surrendered to his exhaustion, his pain, his grief, his fear and collapsed against Duo's chest, his silent tears running unchecked into the other youth's shirt. Duo brought his arms around the strong shoulders and held him, feeling the desperate clutch of Heero's fists on his back.
"It's alright, now," Duo told him. "I'm here and your sister's alive. You aren't alone anymore."
Heero leaned against the comforting warmth of his friend's strong embrace. He smelled the traces of sweat from the long walk Duo'd had with Bisho on their sight-seeing journey from the spaceport. He smelled the traces of metal and oil that always seemed to cling to him. And he thought he smelled a hint of blood, the sting of gunpowder.
Duo tucked his head down next to Heero's and rubbed his hands up and down the back heaving with slow, deep breaths.
"You're not alone," he promised.
Heero believed him. He gave himself to the strength of the enemy—another human being. He no longer had to call upon a forgotten vision to comfort him. He had found his dream in the arms of this soldier: Duo. Duo Maxwell. Shinigami. Death.
Death follows me.
Heero smiled through his pain. Death had followed him at every painful turn, even into this very room at one-thirty on Christmas morning.
"Thank you, Duo," he whispered.
Duo's only reply was to run his fingers through the familiar, unruly brown hair, feathering it away from his skull. Heero silently sighed into the touch and understood that he had feared needlessly. Duo was safe. Duo would always be safe, for Duo was Death. And Heero knew that for him there could be no other companion.
He was home.
.
He was bleeding. As Trowa stared down at the untouched chessboard, he felt the memories of last Christmas burn away at the barrier of ice he'd been nurturing for so many months. The scars of her death, while hidden, had never healed and they oozed now, pouring their grief into his veins. And he ached with the loss as if it had not been nearly twelve months ago, but twelve days.
"Trowa, care for a game?"
Eyes riveted on the chessboard, Trowa remembered the last game he'd played. He saw the pieces frozen in motion. Unfinished.
She was dead. That solid fact left no room for completion. And yet, he had to force himself to not glance at the door. He had to force himself to not believe that any moment now, she would ring the bell and he would answer it. He had to tell himself that she was not coming this Christmas. That she would not come again.
At the thought, Trowa felt the chill of the walls inside of him push out, caressing his skin. He shivered. He tore his eyes away from the promise of a fresh game and glanced at the sliding doors that lead out to the balcony. He needed a distraction, something to help rebuild his defenses. He reached for the lock and disengaged it with a smart snap.
It was well below freezing outside, and Trowa welcomed the chill into his being. Carefully, he closed the door behind him and wrapped his long hands around the sleek, steel bars of the balcony's top rail. As he'd expected, it conducted the chill directly into his veins and arteries. He closed his eyes as control once again fell over him. The regret and the grief was carefully sucked back into the oubliette in his soul.
He hadn't expected to care. He hadn't wanted to. Had tried not to. Every day he tried to not think of her. And every day, he failed. She was everywhere. At the circus, he saw her adjusting the trapeze or tinkering with a truck engine. Every colony he visited had a building that reminded him of her home on L2. In truth, it was not the things around him that reminded him of her. It was himself. She had given him so much. She had changed him. And he felt that change with every breath he drew. She had become a part of him in the short time he had known her. And he had not been prepared for the separation. He wasn't sure that he would ever be.
He didn't pretend that he knew anything about her. She was a mystery to him, as she always had been. But he couldn't help but see her face as she'd woven the music around her. He couldn't help but see his own carefully sheltered emotions in her face. Everything that was in his heart had been there in her eyes, upon her voice. And then she had looked through the crowd, directly at him. In that instant, something had passed between them. At the time, Trowa had marveled at his weakness for music. What a pathetic lie. He knew his weakness now.
He released a slow breath, opening his eyes to watch his breath plume white against the dark dome of the colony. And, as he watched the small cloud rise and disperse, he heard the soft strains of a song. He considered retreating into the apartment. For months, he'd shunned the very sound of anything musical. For, inevitably, he was reminded. But, this time he hesitated. Later he would wonder why he had not gone in immediately. Perhaps it was the softness, the haunting quality that matched his dreams in perfect unison. Perhaps it was because he wasn't sure if he was really hearing it; perhaps it was one of his dreams that had come to haunt his waking hours. Either way, he remained standing in the dark until the gust of cold wind shifted and brought the words down to his ears.
"… better than chocolate..."
For a moment, his mind remained completely blank. It took him a moment to recognize the song he knew by heart. And then, for a moment, his mind reeled in silent surprise. He was dreaming. He must be. Soon, he would awake and find that he had dreamed of coming out onto this balcony. He would realize that he had dreamed he'd heard her voice coming from the apartment above. He waited, relaxed and confidant and reassured that none of this was real.
"... knows how to cry..."
He waited, but felt only the rising of gooseflesh along his arms. He glanced up at the apartment on the next floor although the balcony above him obscured any view. He frowned as the voice hummed the melody of the song, a song he knew all too well. Was it possible that he wasn't dreaming? Was it possible that she was alive? And so close?
He had barely considered his options before he found himself closing the balcony door and then the apartment door behind him. He wouldn't have bothered waiting for the elevator, but the doors were open, as if his thoughts had beckoned the thing. Once again, he considered the possibility that he was asleep, but his finger punched the button for the next floor just the same.
He knew that she couldn't be alive. No one could have survived the explosion and her remains had been identified. He knew she was gone, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from investigating the whisper of a song that had reached him on the balcony and resurrected something very alive and frightened inside of him.
Yokaze was dead. He would only cause himself more pain tonight. And Trowa knew that if he had taken the stairs, he would have paused at this moment and turned back to Quatre's place. But he was in an elevator climbing for the next floor. So he waited, and remembered the moment he'd seen that piece of himself inside of her, the part of himself that he hadn't known was missing. He'd seen in her the possibilities of the future—his future and hers. And that wisp of vision she had taken with her.
The elevator stopped. The doors glided open silently.
He heard nothing in the hall. As the thought of turning back occurred to him, Trowa crossed the threshold onto the eighth floor. This floor, like floor seven, was comprised solely of a single apartment. The door was too well constructed to allow any light to find its way through the seams. As he approached it, he knew that he might very well wake someone from sound sleep. But as he stood there, facing the door, he thought he heard it again. Faint, but it was music.
If he had been thinking rationally, he would have turned around and left. If he had been considering the facts, he would have chided himself and his childish dreams.
He pressed the bell and waited.
After a long moment, the door opened and the bright yellow glow of the room struck Trowa fully in the face. He squinted through the brilliance at the slim youth with dark, tousled hair who had answered the door. He felt his pulse kick up a beat.
"Hello? Can I help you?"
Trowa's eyes had begun to adjust to the light and with the sound of the voice, he realized finally that it was not Yokaze who stood before him, but a young man not much older than himself. Trowa pretended that the sinking feeling in his gut was not disappointment. Of course, she was not here. He felt like an idiot. But, he was here and he was curious, in spite of himself.
"Excuse me," he began carefully, "I'm staying downstairs and I thought I heard a woman singing—"
The youth in the door blushed. "Oh, I'm playing music. I'm sorry for disturbing you."
"No, no," Trowa said quickly, quietly. "No, not at all. I..." Silence poured out from the inside of the suite. "It's not on now," he observed.
"I'm changing the discs," the young man replied. "I'll be sure to keep the volume down, though."
"No, it's not that. I'm here because I've heard that song before. Could you tell me who sings it?"
The tenant seemed rather surprised by this soft-spoken request. After a moment, he grinned and claimed, "Actually that's NW. Have you heard of us?"
"Us?"
The youth held the door open wider. "Come on in; I'll introduce you. I'm Jarret, the piano player. NW, the lead singer, is here right now."
Trowa stepped into the apartment and regarded his host. "NW?" he asked quietly as he followed the young man into the kitchen.
"That's the name of the band. I don't know what it stands for. It's also the singer's name and she's never told any of us what that stands for, either. I drives me crazy, wondering. Would you like some coffee?"
Green eyes turned back to Jarret, who looked as if he'd had a few cups himself tonight. "Sure. Thanks."
"No prob. So what do you think of the place?" Jarret chattered as he fussed about in the cupboards for a cup. Not waiting for a reply, he continued, "Six months ago I would have laughed in the face of anyone who told me I'd be here today."
Making polite conversation, Trowa inquired, "Why is that?"
Jarret handed him a steaming mug. "Cream? Sugar?"
Trowa shook his head.
"Well," Jarret continued. "Six months ago I was playing the keyboard and piano at bars for a meal. Then, one night, I'm walking out of there when this woman comes up to me and asks how would I like to earn more than just a meal with my talent? Well, I've been around, you know, so I think it's a con or a come-on. But, it turned out she was a musician herself and she needed a pianist."
Jarret sighed. "God, learning to play the piano was the one thing I hated as a kid. All of us at the home had to learn to play some musical instrument. Required. But I never thought it would land me here."
Trowa ignored his coffee and pressed for more information. "And the woman who sings?"
Jarret nodded and leaned against the counter. "She plays the bass, too. There's six of us, total. But we're on vacation right now. Actually, I was kinda surprised when NW showed up the other day. She never said anything to me about visiting L4, but since she's here, you might as well meet her, huh?"
At Jarret's first sentence, Trowa felt a world of hope swirl to life inside of him. He hated it—this hope. It made him weak and he knew it.
Trowa finally sipped the coffee. It was quite strong. "What's she like?" He needed more information before he could afford to hope.
Jarret paused to consider the question carefully. "She's—"
"Right here."
Both males turned at the smooth alto behind them. She was of above-average height, in her early to mid twenties. She was decked out in a pair of gray sweats, sleeveless turtleneck, and a pair of dark glasses. Her short brown hair was dark and limp and tousled from the shower. She smiled, shifting her gaze from Jarret to his guest.
"Who's this?"
"He's staying downstairs and heard one of our songs."
"Oh? Sorry about that, Mister ...?"
"Bloom," he replied automatically, trying not to give in to the urge to hit something. He had heard a woman's voice. He had recognized it as Yokaze's. He had recognized the song. But he did not know this woman, this singer. In fact, he was reasonably sure he'd never seen her before. On her right cheek, there was a single, thin scar that Yokaze had never had.
"Are those glasses new?" Jarret asked.
"Yeah. Bought 'em on L354. What do you think?"
"You," he said. "Definitely you."
"Is this the album?" Trowa asked discretely, picking up an empty case from the counter.
Jarret grinned. "Yup, that's it. Cool design, huh?"
Trowa ignored NW as she got herself a cup of the thick, strong brew. She sniffed and turned her hidden gaze on Jarret. "Good God, Jarret. Can you make this any thicker? My bike's a bit low on oil."
Trowa had skimmed over the song list three times and he still didn't see the one he'd heard. He glanced up as Jarret scowled at her. "My joe is just fine."
"For ulcers," she commented dryly.
Perhaps it was the voice that made Trowa look just a bit harder at the woman called NW. "The song I heard isn't on here," he told them.
"What did you hear?" Jarret asked with a slight frown of puzzlement.
NW was stirring an excessive amount of cream into her coffee. Trowa didn't take his eyes off of her as he replied, "Something about chocolate and knowing how to cry."
Jarret put down his cup with a loud clunk. "NW were you singing in the shower again?"
"It's good practice," she replied flatly.
This voice he knew. This tone. That expression, though concealed behind the stylish glasses. The slight tremor of hope started to rattle outward from his chest, making his hands shake ever so slightly.
Oblivious to Trowa's near-revelation, Jarret teased. "Good practice. Hah. And what are these specs for? Practicing your stage image?" He plucked them from her nose.
And then Trowa saw her eyes. Her cobalt eyes.
She turned the full force of her gaze on him just as the significance of her initials hit him square in the abdomen.
NW.
Night wind.
Yokaze.
Although his face revealed nothing, he felt her reading what was churning beneath the surface. Before he could think to say the name on his tongue, she was speaking to Jarret. "Well, it's late. And Mr. Bloom has what he's come for." The blue eyes settled on Jarret's guest once more. "I'll walk you down to your suite," she offered, setting her own cup down.
Jarret set her a quizzical look. "Are you sure that's wise?"
A crooked smile formed over her mouth as she recalled the last time she'd been alone with this man. "No," she replied.
The word rocketed through Trowa as he realized that she must be remembering their last, painful encounter.
She told them both: "But I'm going to do it anyway."
.
The elevator doors closed in front of them and started its slow descent. After a full second of silence, Trowa unfolded his arms and pressed the emergency stop button. The contraption came to an abrupt halt but neither occupant seemed to notice. Blue eyes clashed with green as they weighed the short history of pain between them.
Slowly, his gaze moved over her. There was so much to say. There were so many questions. How had she survived? Had she truly been inside the building at the time of the explosion? Whose remains now rested in a memorial meant for her? But, even as all of these unknowns scrolled through Trowa's mind, he ignored them. She was alive. The rest was inconsequential to him.
He said bluntly, quietly, "I owe you a name."
She shot him unreadable look. "I already have the name I want. You owe me nothing."
This was met with a moment of silence. Finally, his gaze softened a degree. He turned to face her, looked deeper into her dark eyes, and told her, "The Zero System was a brilliantly engineered accomplishment. Have you ever piloted it?"
He saw her small start in the flickering of her lashes. In her surprise, she offered no reply. Which was just as well; he already knew her answer.
"To master it," he continued, "one must master oneself. And yet..." His face did not change expression although his gaze grew more intense as the words came to him. "And still, my discipline is nothing if I cannot stop myself from caring for a stranger." His eyes never left her, never wavered in their silent message. Slowly, he held out a single hand to her. "And I have found that I cannot do otherwise."
She looked down at his outstretched hand, contemplating the gesture, considering his words. He trusted her, he cared for her, and so he offered himself to her. They didn't know each other. To each, the other was a mystery. But, to each there was something of the other reflected in the stranger's soul. It was a connection that neither understood but, at last, both accepted.
She replied truthfully, "That wasn't what I expected to hear."
He watched her quietly. "I know."
She moved then, lifting her gaze to his. A wealth of meaning they would never try to put into words passed between them. And then, very deliberately, she reached out to him and touched him for the first time. In the complete silence of the stalled elevator, he threaded their hands together. He could feel her pulse as it traveled through her hand. For a moment, they simply stood letting the reality of this minute sink into them. Then, with his other hand, Trowa reached for the elevator's controls and resumed their journey.
.
~End of Aftermath~