I do not own Gundam Wing, but not for lack of trying. I'm not sure why I wrote this; I was just wondering about Heero one night. The most intimate thing Heero ever does is to not kill someone. But on to the story.
Something is wrong with me.
I'm not sure what exactly it is; I only know that I am unable to function properly in certain situations.
My programming has a fatal error: it is no longer in control.
The mission was simplistic enough. Break in. Take out target. Escape under cover of explosions that serve as a distraction and cause maximum possible damage to the base. No foreseeable problems. The first step went fine. I got in; I planted the bombs. The target was found without difficulty. I opened the cell door and pointed my gun.
He spoke to me. He seemed almost glad to see me. No, that couldn't be possible. He knew what I was doing there. He stood up, leaning on the wall for support. I starred at him: weak, damaged, and ready to die. I needed to kill him. He was in no physical condition to escape; even with the help of the wall he was barely able to remain upright.
"You're really going to kill me, aren't you?" He wanted me to. I could hear it in his voice. Something is wrong.
I couldn't pull the trigger.
I lowered my gun and half-carried him out of the cell. He cursed me; he whispered the obvious flaws of my actions into my ear. He wasn't grateful for being saved. He thought I was just going to get us both killed. Worse than killed, captured.
I hoped I was only going to get us both killed.
Fatal error.
On the shuttle, once we were out of immediate danger, he became himself again. He thanked me for saving his "captured ass" tried to provoke a response by telling me all the nasty names he called the guards who watched him. I only half-heard him. My mind was busy, stuck in the loop of its mistake. Something is wrong. My actions had not been in the best interest of the mission. The mission was a failure due solely to my unwillingness to complete it. I was as stupid as anyone else.
Without really thinking about it I brought him back to the safe house I had set up. Its integrity was compromised the minute he saw it. While still difficult, it would be much easier for OZ to trace him here then to trace me. I'd actually been using his name to set myself up. If he'd given them the same name he'd given me, we'd be found in an instant. But not knowing anyplace else to go, I came brought him there.
Fatal error.
He wanted to shower. He said he was dirty. That was almost an hour ago. I can still hear the water running. I'd told him to wait until he'd rested. Until standing wasn't such a difficult exercise. He'd insisted. I offered to help him. He'd laughed at that. Made some incomprehensible joke about me wanting to see him naked. I assume it was a joke. I didn't get it. I didn't laugh. He laughed, but he laughs at everything. I don't think everything he laughs at is a joke. It's possible, though. Why was he taking so long?
I should check on him. Why? He could have been turned while he was a prisoner. He could have slipped out to contact OZ. Nonsense. He could barely stand. Even if he'd been turned, he was physically unable to get out and contact anyone. He could have fallen, died. In that case, I should at least shut off the water. But he isn't dead. His injuries weren't that severe. Of course I should shut off the water, though. Hearing it is a distraction. Something is wrong.
He's just sitting there, partially under the streaming water. He's not trying to bathe; he's just sitting. I can see more of the bruises. They look like dirt; bluish mud caked onto his pale skin. He shouldn't have been trying to shower. The water must be cold by now. He could probably shut it off, if he reached. I shut it for him. He's looking at me. He'd just made some comment about dirty old men and bathroom windows. I guess he was expecting me to laugh. I don't. I hand him a towel and he looks at it for two or three seconds, figuring out what to do with it. He does the best he can, drying himself from a sitting position. Something is wrong. Impatient, I pick him up and carry him to the bed. I offer him a shirt. It's big enough to be a nightshirt. I don't know why I have it; I've never worn it. I give him a pair of underwear, too. He looks at it, and me, but he puts it on, figuring, rightly, that something is better than nothing. Duo's not as dumb as he pretends.
Something is wrong.
Duo wants to put his hair up. He needs a brush. I give him one. Brushing is an exercise in futility; Duo winces every time he moves. I take the brush from him. Something is wrong. I tell him I'll do it. He's surprised, but he lets me. I start to brush and he talks.
Duo's hair isn't wet all the way through - there's too much of it for such a passive rinse to soak. It is dirty. Where it isn't wet I can even see dried blood clumping strands together. Duo's blood, I guess. His hair smells nice, like oil and gunpowder. Something is wrong. He must have hidden his gun in it since it was last washed. He's still talking, chattering. I'm not listening. I never listen. What would happen if I did?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Fatal error.