Folding the quilt occupied her hands, gave her freedom from thoughts that would otherwise fill her mind and obsess her soul, taking control of her every motion and thought. A simple tuck and twist and push, and the quilt was bent in half, bent in fourths, eighths, and it refused to bend again, though she tried as hard as she could. Apprehension filled her mind where rhythmic work could no longer, taunting her with lies and truths and lies that were truths, and she shivered in the new frock the other nurse, the one she remembered talking to the room of shifting, murmuring people, had given her, frightened to look down because it was so very white. She knew, in her head, that she was going to be punished now, punished for screaming and disobeying the Man and letting the glass be taken from her skin, and she tried to press the quilt into smaller squares it could not, would not, conform to, wondering if she might be able to escape the pain.
What would he do to her, she wondered as she fought the blanket for control, striving for perfect sixteenths. Would he use glass to rip the fresh bandages wrapped about her torso? Or would he just use his hands, those large hands that were bigger and longer than he-always-watching's had been, to beat her and hold her down as the white turned red and pink? He had such pretty eyes, like cloudy amethysts, glittering with cheer and mischief, but she had seen eyes like that before, eyes that turned cold and hateful as soon as she let her guard relax, though she had never seen eyes that beautiful color before. Revulsion whipped through her stomach, a spiked cord that tore at her balance and her vision, threatening to topple her over the stubborn blanket.
She was not to think of men in such a way, she whispered to herself noiselessly, never ever ever. Especially not the Man who was coming to remind her of what the Book of Truths had always taken care to assure her of, and she loosened her grip on the quilt as she waited for the other nurse to bring in the Man, watching with frightened, broken eyes as it sprang slowly from sixteenths to eighths to fourths to halves.
--
Requiem: Overture
--
He was in the round kitchen on the ground floor of their highly maintained house, scrubbing furiously at the dishes that had lain in mocking reminder of a few untidy habits in the sink, now sunk beneath the snarling white foam of bubbling soap. His motions were sharp and unforgiving, wringing punishment out on whatever crusted food had once coated the glazed porcelain, snapping the steel wool over and over it. Sally was somewhat surprised to find he had no flames in his eyes and was a bit amused at her curiosity to know where he had stowed his katana as he wreaked justice upon the remnants of last Friday's take-out, musing to herself that it was only Tuesday. He wasn't usually this obsessed with cleaning the dishes until Thursday, on what had come to be known as 'Duo's-Coming-Over-Buy-Lots-of-Food' night, or, as Wufei referred to it sullenly, 'Get-the-Damn-Phonebook-We're-Ordering-Fast-Food.'
"Something wrong?" she asked mildly, rolling her shoulders under her faded black t-shirt and smiling half-heartedly when he grunted in response. Filching the front of the newspaper neatly organized into sections on the dinette table, she swerved around a jutting counter and came to stop beside the sink, watching carefully as he threatened to scour her favorite blue plate beyond all recognition. "It's five in the morning," she informed in a light voice. "And unless the ghost of Christmas past decided to get rid of heated plumbing, somebody used up the hot water for this morning." Wufei grunted a second time, in the time honored tradition of upset men, and moved on to Saturday's gluey lasagna, steadily annihilating the crimson colors and streaks of pasta white.
"You're upset," she noted, running a smooth hand through her tangled gold hair, fingernails snagging on a few small, tight knots and tugging through. "Feel like sharing?" The lasagna disappeared into the foam and the plate joined its cleaner companions on the drying rack, waiting to be run through a second time and cleaned thoroughly.
"Problems at work," he finally admitted in a guttural tone, turning coal eyes toward her in reluctant surrender, something he rarely did. "Of the cranky homicidal asshole variety." Death came swiftly to the solidifying syrup of Sunday breakfast, rubbed off with hard strokes of the steel wool, and he lifted the steel wool, staring at the clumps of food entrenched in its silver curls and dropping it into the water with a scowl.
"Want to tell me?" she suggested carefully, striding across the burnished tiles of the floor to a small, brown cabinet in the corner. Opening the smooth cabinet, she fished out a pale green box of mandarin tea, shaking it thoughtfully and smiling at the soft swishing sounds that emanated from it. A curved metal teapot was placed on the burner nearest to her, switching the stove on to heat the cooled water that had rested within it for the evening. A teacup, plain and unadorned, found its way next to the burner, and she turned around to face him as he, in turn, moved, crossing his arms over his sweater.
"Not really," he smiled slyly, and she nodded in acceptance, yawning. She figured she'd get him later, when he had his tea and she had enough adrenaline coursing through her body to take him on.
--~--
*
--~--
"I don't wanna," Duo mumbled into his pillow, burying his light brown face deeper into the plush, misshapen depths and doing his best to ignore the shrill screaming of the alarm clock flashing '6:01' at him. Cruelty, he thought absently, thy name is early mornings. His hand flailed out from under the comforter in wide, vague motions, occasionally slapping down in quest of silence, and he smiled in pure satisfaction when he managed to pound his palm atop the round button that sent the ringing into oblivion. He snuggled deeper into the pleasant warmth of his small bed, eyelashes steadily held on his shadowed cheeks as he breathed evenly, idly fingering away the thin twist of brown hair circling his neck and sighing contentedly. Distantly, he could hear his answering machine click on from its careless position on a stool around the general vicinity of the most beloved of all technologies, the refrigerator, and he whined mentally at the unfairness of reality intruding every time he had finally attained some form of peace.
"DAMN IT, MAXWELL!" a scream echoed throughout the house and he bolted up right, nearly rolling off his bed as he clutched at his ears, wincing audibly at the sheer unexpected loudness of the voice recording at the moment. His large violet eyes flickered toward the door and he stared at it in a mixture of horror and chagrin, fully aware that he couldn't answer the vid-phone in his current state: unshaven, long hair an untidy mess, and clad in his tanktop and boxers. He suspected Kino would not only berate him verbally, she would hitch a cab from the M-13 branch office to personally kick him in the rear for insubordinate conduct. It was, he mused in the back of his head, to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.
"I know you're there, so get your lean ass out of bed before I have to send someone over to throw it out!" she all but bellowed in continuation, her voice still managing to be suitably threatening through the humming static of an outdated answering machine. "If you think you can ignore me and pretend you didn't manage to possibly traumatize the one witness we have, so help me God, I will do things to your internal organs Wufei never dreamed of. Get to work, do your job, and get the hell into my office before I'm forced to kill my secretary on basic principle." A cheerful beep sounded at the end, signifying she had cancelled the call, and he groaned loudly, pathetically, snarling his fingers in his hair and tugging agitatedly at it.
"'Duo do this,'" he griped, flinging one long leg over the side of his mattress and digging around the floor for a smooth slipper with his foot, bumping the post of his bed in a casual reminder of his needing a longer bed-frame. He finally located the slipper, as well as its mate, and the other leg emerged from the engulfing swells of the covers, hooking his feet into the sheaths and pausing there, slouching forward with his back bent. "'Duo do that,'" he added in a newly adopted falsetto, straightening his back and glaring unhappily at the opposing wall. Drawing himself up to his impressive height, he planted his hands dangerously on his hips, finishing in grand finale, "'Duo, that is hardly the kind of mature attitude I expected from you!'" For a moment, he considered tossing his hair as a last insult, but fell short; it wouldn't help the murderous tangles at all.
"The things I do for unique appearances," grumped Duo, maneuvering over a few piles of casually discarded romances and mechanic manuals. A finger touched the thicker bristles on his chin, an evolution from the down of yesterday, and he moved to the bathroom across from his bedroom, sparing a habitual glance at the flat end of the hallway, where something else might have once been. Pirate treasure, he thought with a smirk at his own fancy, elbowing the door open and snatching up a heavy brush like he would a weapon, wielding it with dangerous intent. "This," he muttered, stabbing the bristling teeth of his brush into the foremost knot hanging around shoulder level, "is not for the squeamish." A sharp tug elicited a muted, close-lipped growl at the stinging sensation in his scalp, and he proceeded with infinite care, pulling with short motions and finally a few sweeping ones once the knot had been vanquished, bringing the brush down the full length of his formidably long hair, stooping slightly to reach the ends brushing the inside of his knee. Lord, he was grateful for a learned resistance to ticklish feelings, though it still itched him terribly. "And now," he announced to the mirror image of himself, resisting the urge to make a juvenile face, "to the left!"
It was nowhere near as difficult to straighten out the other side of his hair, most of the knots being smaller ones in comparison to the monster he had previously rid himself of, and he was pleased at the rarity of an easy morning ritual. He set the brush down, eyeing the copious amount of pulled hair forming a labyrinth of sorts between the bristles, and appraised himself in the mirror, frowning at the wave to his hair, one caused by near continuous braiding, and the stubble on his chin. When was the last time he'd simply worn his hair down? Other than the hideous task of having to brush it at least once every two hours just to avoid a tasking combing at night, he couldn't think of a truly decent reason. Social persecution might figure into it, too, and he set his jaw in a defiant manner, wishing to be ten again and able to wear long, unbraided hair without being conscious about it. Stupid, accursed society boundaries.
Sighing, Duo tilted his head to his chest, causing his hair to tumble forward, brushing his flat stomach and wafting back and forth in reply to the movement. Nimble fingers braided swiftly, catching the hair in customary clumps and twisting them about one another in subconscious rhythm, and he sang softly under his breath to pass the longer time it took now to braid than the days of being a Gundam pilot. If Sally and Kino didn't bully him into getting a trim once every two months, he'd be tripping over his hair everywhere he went. "I wish I was a moose," he sang quietly, repeating the line in the same pitch and tune, before adding, "I wish I was because I was, I wish I was a moose."
With an air of triumph, he snapped his head back up and avoided the temptation to stumble back at the switch in blood flow, instead proudly flipping his thick braid over his shoulder. One duty done, he grinned, reaching for his razor, with another to begin.
Another five minutes found him stepping cheerily out of the bathroom, shaven and braided and the glorious image of a mischievous elf as he stripped his tank top off and tossing it carelessly to the floor of his bedroom, crossing the floor in a few wide strides to his closet. A scarlet turtleneck was yanked off its hanger, sending the triangular plastic swaying capriciously, and he struggled to fit it around his head, loudly swearing and condemning whoever had designed them straight to hell, while simultaneously trying to figure out how Trowa managed to wear them day in and day out without suffering from oxygen loss. He wasn't sure why he had chosen the turtleneck - it was a classy top that Relena had sent for his birthday, one that fit snugly to his leanly muscular torso and wrinkled where it bunched at his waist - and he shoved the curiosity away, avoiding the peculiar niggle of a thought hidden in the darkest catacombs of his mind. Black slacks and an ebon jacket were filched from the pile of 'clean enough to warrant another day of wear' clothes grouped at the foot of his closet, and he jerked the slacks on over his boxers, casting an anxious glance at the clock now reading '6:43.' "Figures," he sighed. "Even on a good day it takes forever to get ready." Shrugging the jacket on over his turtleneck, he kicked the slippers off, hunting with his foot yet again for something to wear over them. A pair of smudged black sneakers were revealed at the bottom of his semi-clean clothing pile and he smashed his sock-coated feet into them hurriedly, shaking his ankles until the sneakers finally settled into place.
Reaching into the closet, he grabbed the strap of his duffel bag, reloaded last night with what ammunition he would need or might want, and, after a few seconds of wrestling mentally, he snatched a sinful piece of fiction from the teetering stacks pressed tightly together under the swaying clouds of fabric above. "Might as well read something interesting on the bus ride," he muttered, shoulder the duffel and shoving the slender romance novel into his deep pocket, pausing on the way out of his room to close the door.
Looked like he'd have to get breakfast at the dubious hospital cafeteria. Again.
--~--
*
--~--
She was a good girl in the earliest morning, still and quiet and obedient when the nurse came to check on her frequently, opening the door and asking questions in a falsely cheerful voice, one used to disguise a waver. Was the nurse sad for her, she wondered when she was left alone for the last time. Perhaps the woman wanted to avert her punishment. Don't do that, she whispered in her head to the thin nurse, it only makes them angrier.
She didn't doubt the Man was going to punish her for recoiling from his touch, for fearing him for reasons that were obvious and ones she could not explain, could not label. His skin brushing hers hadn't bruised, hadn't tweaked her flesh into mottled colors, and it frightened her badly, almost as badly as his large hands clamping around her shoulders was oddly comfortable. Her acceptance of her fate was tinged with a thread of sadness, and she did her best to clamp down on the emotion threatening to crawl under her skin, sure that whatever bizarre form of fear he sparked in her was some new punishment.
But no matter how it hurt, how it stung and bled and stained, she would not cry, would not give him the pleasure of her tears, her pain, her hopeless detachment. She would stay strong, think of the iridescent beauty of poems she had lifted from books at night, against his rules, breathlessly memorizing trails of tenderness and gentility she had known only through the softly whispering words. The Man could not hurt her the way she had been before; she would not let him touch her soul. Golden Mina had soothed her last night as they waited for the nurse, touching her shoulder gently and speaking to her the way she had always imagined she would speak to her lovely, lost son. Was that how a mother was? Golden and soft and protective.
A knock sounded at the door, confident and polite, and she stared at it, confused, before sliding off the silver slick table and balancing her weight carefully on her swollen ankle, feeling a mild sense of pride in the specialized splint-shoe encircling it and the tender foot beneath it. She stood straight, a sense of courage welling up inside, new and weak, but strong, and she folded her hand behind her back, knitting her fingers together and rubbing one thumb along the cloth wrapped about her left palm. The Man would come in when he wanted, would he not?
The door opened, hesitantly, and she caught a glimpse of the small man in dark green she had seen every day outside her door for the past week before the sleek, feline body of the Man appeared. "Y'know," he commented in a tone that was purposefully obnoxious, "it's rather rude to leave someone waiting after they've been considerate enough to knock before entering." He flashed her a brilliant smile, one that stunned her, from her newfound courage to her stroking thumb, and she felt confusion again. Why was he smiling as if she were a friend? He was supposed to hit her, beat her, tear into her and rip her in two. He laughed, a clear, husky sound, and he latched his fingers around something beyond her line of vision, outside the door, the barrier. The Man hauled a chair in, stiff and metal with stuffed brown leather on the seat and back in a paltry attempt to reproduce natural comfort, and he smiled again, his dark lips splitting easily and swallowing his face. "I'm not sure I'll fit," he admitted and she nearly shrank back, a wave of fear trickling up the back of her throat like a cancer, knowing he was going to do the thing he-her-husband had found the greatest pleasure in.
"They never have chairs my size," the Man added, quietly closing the door and swinging the duffel off his shoulder, collapsing gustily onto the chair, long limbs folding at angles and long fingers playing with the end of his long, oak braid. She blinked, unsure of what to do or say, and she decided that, so long as he didn't throw her into deeper bewilderment, this was quite all right. Maybe she wasn't going to be punished after all.
She was studying him as if he was a monkey, Duo reflected, twisting strands of hair around his finger. A big, insane, intriguing monkey, but a monkey nonetheless. What the hell; so long as she wasn't breaking the arms of dolls and screaming at him. He quelled the lecherous joke waiting to happen and leaned forward in the chair, propping his angular elbows on his knees and grumpily wishing he'd given in to the childish impulse to steal one of the wide wheelchairs kept safely behind the front desk, but, alas, Russell, He Who Was Late, had been shifted to the day shift, with his delicious Mina given graveyard duty. Wheelchair theft had been blocked from him for the duration of his work here, unless some other gorgeous girl got a job as desk-jockey. Who designed this anyway, he scowled mentally, taking care to keep the downward expression from his face. "So," he began, injecting every bit of the legendary Maxwell charisma he had become famous - and, amongst some of his psychology peers, infamous - for into his words, stopping just short of flirting, "how've you been doing?"
Her eyebrow, slim and dark blue, arched very slowly, tilting up to rest, perched closer to her shaggy bangs than the other, and her arms moved from her back to her front. One hand came to rest on the opposite hip, her other hand curling around the first hand's elbow, fingers tightening about.
"No need to be so defensive," he played, grinning at her exasperated, wary, cornered expression. The urge to fidget tickled his limbs and he shifted his weight, trying to be as non-threatening as possible around her, but she stepped back anyway, her eyes flickering with streaks of animalistic fear. Duo grimaced, forcefully stilling his muscles from quivering into further motion. "Sorry," he said before he could think, a wry smile twisting his long mouth into the sardonic curves women loved, a sort of defense mechanism to try and set her at ease, "I'm not used to working with women who've been…" Well, shit, how was he supposed to use tact with this? "Y'know," he finished lamely, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit further.
It was an inexplicable wound to his pride when her eyes widened fearfully, darkening moodily, and she wound behind the table, as if to place more distance and an obstacle between them. And all he'd done was smile at her.
"I'm not going to bite you," he hurried, and then mentally beat himself at his mindless choice of words. "Aw, crap," he muttered, sweeping his hand over his unruly bangs, drawing them up unevenly and letting them fall as he tried to think of a way to calm her. Finally, he sighed for the countless time in the past three hours and unfolded his body, standing up and slouching a little so she wouldn't feel so small in front of him. "I really am sorry," he commented ruefully. "I just have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth before I stop to think about what I'm saying. I'm not trying to scare you or hurt your feelings, I'm just a moron."
And then, as he watched, her other eyebrow raised up to meet its twin and she tilted her head to the side, rocking forward on her heels. It was the oddest sense of accomplishment he had ever gained, a far cry from the sadistic glee of his first successful Gundam fight, different from the first time he and Hilde had spent the night together, and a degree shy of the knowledge of being a psychologist. It wasn't unpleasant, though. Grinning at himself, at her, he sketched a bow to her, inclining his head and making it appear with the twirling motions of his hand he had dipped into a formal courtesy.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he announced grandly, slipping his jacket off and dropping it lazily on the hated chair. "I'm Duo Maxwell, the God of Death." He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning at an angle and spreading a dashing smile across his face.
Her expression was striking, eerily delicate in its utter surprise, and her eyebrows furrowed together, her mouth closing and pursing in bewildered thought. He could find no trace of fear in her face or those oceanic eyes that spoke what her tongue did not, and he smiled even wider. Remarkable progress for a young woman who was scared to death of men.
The Man was breaking every rule in the Book of Truths, she thought with no slight amazement, trying to understand how one could do that. She had disobeyed him, pulled from his touch without his permission, and she had known she was to be reprimanded harshly for her disobedience. And unless he was trying to confuse her into a weakness she did not know about, he had done nothing he was supposed to. He was a man and he controlled everything; if he desired her, she was to let him do what he wished, but he did not desire her. Why was that, when every man she had been brought to by the husband had lusted? How very, very…odd. Happy. Confusing.
The Man was Maxwell-god-of-death. He had a name, even if it was a rather strange thing to be called. She wondered, briefly, if he knew her name, if she had a name. But she could not speak to him in his language; it was forbidden, outlawed, wholly despicable. Silence claimed her tongue, swirled in her throat in thick, unwanted waves, and she was still, unmoving by the silver slick table.
"I have a question," started Maxwell-god-of-death, and she wanted to smile, wanted to clap her hands together at the sheer joy of knowing another name, another ethereal secret, "but you don't really need to answer. Yesterday, you spelled a word out on the table." He paused and she stared, a knot of tension wrapping into a ball that settled in her gut, heavy and dreadful, and she felt the joy slipping away at the clawed feet of betrayal; she had written in desperation, written in recent memory of blood and pain and loss - where was her son?
"What," he said softly, leaning towards her, his panther body coiling, gravitating in her direction, violet eyes swallowing her whole, like an orange with yellow veins, "does 'miedo' mean?"
And it came from her throat before she meant to, tainting the air with the core of the Book of Truths, the greatest of the lying truths, and her only solace was that it was not in the rapid language of Maxwell-god-of-death but the One language. She whispered, shouted, murmured - which was it?
"Yo soy despreciable," she said quietly, in a voice that was soft and subdued, and she saw him wrinkle his nose, his face an echoing mask of the surprise she had felt so frequently as of late. He didn't understand the One language; heathen, whispered the voice of the man she waited in fear for, uncultured swine meant for fool's games.
"Yo soy despreciable?" Maxwell-god-of-death parroted slowly, his wide, curved lips mouthing the words clumsily, trying to identify the sounds with something he knew. He reminded her of a cat she had seen once, caged in the basement for the games the dark ones would play at night; everything long and predatory, but not in a way that was naturally frightening, rather a sort of horrendous beauty, sleek cords of muscle that were not thick but were trim and fitted to the limbs meant for stalking.
He wore red, she realized, red and thin, like layers of fuzzy paint, and it horrified her, frightened her, sent her stumbling backwards into the corner as she felt the vile thing called trust burn its way into her fear, not pushing the fear away, but mingling with it, joining, merging, so that she wasn't completely frightened by him. That was evil, wrong, disgusting!
Nice going, Duo, he thought sarcastically and he frowned, sucking a corner of his lower lip into his mouth as he turned away, crouching beside the duffel. Unzipping it, he shifted uncomfortably, the corners of the book stuffed into his pocket catching his hip painfully, and he cautiously slipped, from under the weight of a basketball, a binder, and various other items, the slim weight of a stack of paper, wrapped in glistening plastic. When in doubt, he thought, write it out.
She had spoken, he processed as he tore off the plastic wrap, balling it up in his hand and dropping it back into the darkness of the duffel. A pen was unclipped from the binder and clutched in the same hand as the paper, firmly kept locked under his thumb. He wasn't quite as dense as Wufei and Heero were apt to tell him, usually through gunshots aimed at his limbs, and he could sense, perhaps not as well as Quatre might have, the kinetic wrongness in the air, stiffening the clear hairs on his neck. Aimee was frightened, he guessed. Probably remnants of the abuse, filtered the textbooks laid to memory, a fear of retribution for deeds she had been punished for in the past. It made sense, in a creepy way, explaining vaguely why her behavior was oddly complicated, instead of the pure fright most victims expressed. Her personality, from what he could cipher from her movements, was quiet and generally submissive, though she had something of a stubborn streak. He supposed.
Akin to a shot in the dark, he grimaced.
"Aimee," Duo said gently, catching a short snicker in his throat; ten years ago, he would have laughed his rear off if someone had told him what he'd be doing. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. You don't need to talk if you don't want to," 'yo soy despreciable,' she echoed in his head, "but I do need to communicate with you somehow." She was avoiding his eyes, keeping her chin tucked into her neck, thick, dark hair obscuring her features from view. "Aimee," he repeated, forcing himself to remember the psychological rules of etiquette, quiet tones and polite words. God, he hated faking sugary sincerity when he wanted more than anything to relax, but he'd seen how uneasy she had just become. "You can write things down, if you want."
Her face lifted, warily, and he grinned almost against his will at her expression, still frightened, still quelled, but with that eyebrow tweak telling him just how silly he sounded at times. He was willing to bet she wasn't even truly aware of that spirited twitch, a subtle difference from her scrawny body's careful acquiescence. Of course, he amended in his head, she can't write if she doesn't have anything to write with.
"Before you cut me down for my obvious stupidity," he said, unable to fully stop his grin, "here's some paper to use, 'kay?" The sheets of paper came to rest on the shining metal of the table and she, standing in a shrunken stance at the wall a foot or so behind it, switched her unreadable eyes to it, her hands clenching and unclenching the cloth of her hospital gown, then hesitantly reaching for the tempting gift.
Her fingertips, creamy and white, brushed the thin roughness of the lined paper, finding no rule, no bar singing coldly she would hurt and ache afterwards, and this meant it was no crime to write. As she smoothed her palm over it, the soft skin of her unwounded hand settling upon it, another hand closed over her wrist, engulfing her snow skin in a firm grip of lightest brown, the golden hue of activity and sunlight. Storming eyes met violet and she fought the scream in her chest, kept her lungs from expanding, from hurling the indecipherable noise at him. What was due to her, coming, coming, and she pulled back once, futilely, before sagging fractionally and freezing her eyes to his.
And then he smiled that Cheshire smile, lips curling at the corners in dry, morbid humor at some unknown joke burnt into his soul. "You're supposed to say thank-you," he reprimanded lightly, the faux soothing tearing away from his voice. His hand squeezed her wrist once before releasing, and she gripped the wad, her eyes trailing down to her wrist. She could see no dark reds swelling up to greet her, no mottled fingerprints, merely a few traces of skin made paler for a moment from his grip. Looking up, she cocked her head to one side, blue hair whispering and falling in tune with her. "You're welcome," he hinted, holding the pen out and she took it, ignoring his words and taking care to avoid contact. When she showed no signs of sharing words of thanks, he sighed and crossed his arms, shifting uncomfortably at the restraining turtleneck and the mild itching it was causing. He was making progress, though, and relatively quickly, so it was easier to pass over the irritation.
She uncapped the pen, fitting the cap on the butt of the pen and placing, very delicately, the felt tip on the paper, fluidly scripting what she was thinking, her face thin and attentive. He tried to give her space, moving his weight to his heels and facing one of the other walls, pursing his lips as if to whistle, his braid thumping against his thigh, and he sneaked a look from the corner of his eye. Bent over the paper, she was writing slower than he would have thought, taking careful time to arrange how she wanted to write it. 'Yo soy despreciable,' whispered the quiet voice and he summoned aged lessons on languages, archaic and modern. Spanish, he yelped silently, why the hell didn't I figure that out before? She was writing in Anglo-Japanese, from what he could tell from his mirrored point of view, and if the language she was taught to write in first was Spanish - she had no accent, from what very little he had heard - it would be no wonder she had difficulty writing in the English-Japanese hybrid used as the common language.
If he twisted his neck a certain way, pretended to be stretching his arms out as well as his neck and finding a truthful relief in the relaxing motion, he could almost make out what she was writing…
"Ah, Dr. Maxwell?" came a timid voice from the door and he nearly growled, letting his arms fall to his sides, thumbs sliding into the pockets of his slacks and a stern frown flourishing his mouth down. The nurse, one by the name of Elizabeth, was leaning in the door, which he must not have closed properly, and her hands tightened convulsively along the edges of a rounded plastic tray, an amalgam of simple foods arranged on it: applesauce, slices of bread, cheese, and whatnot. "I need to feed Aimee, sir." She swallowed and he realized he was still frowning, glaring, at her. Sheepishly smiling in apology, he turned to look at Aimee, one of his hands lifting in a placating gesture.
"Gotta go, dollface," he said cheerfully, and she gave no heed of having heard his words. Exhaling in a loud gust, he moved his focus to Elizabeth and grinned, scooping his jacket off the chair and hanging it steadily over his arm, grasping his duffel. He swung it over his shoulder and told her in parting, "Might as well use the chair, ma'am."
--~--
*
--~--
Dennis more or less danced into the exercise room in the lower half of the hospital, one specially reserved for the patients being treated or the more foolhardy of visitors. Thin and tall, with black hair that had once been thick, he was the poster child for stress-related eating disorders.
"Hey, Dennis," Duo called in a friendly manner, snapping his elbows in an arcing motion and gaining a satisfied appearance when his basketball neatly fell through the wafting white net. "And two more for Maxwell as he swerves to meet rival Buckman!" He faked cheering crowd noises as he snatched at the ball, drumming it to the moderately kept floorboards and doing remarkably well at jogging in sneakers across the floor. His slacks and dressy shirt clashed with the image, producing an interesting contrast.
"Can I skip lunch today?" Dennis Buckman, made ill by his abusive father and one too many encounters with alcohol, asked hopefully in his rasping voice, green eyes almost deceptively bright. "Please? Eating makes me sick."
"No," countered Duo, dribbling the ball and tossing it to his second appointment of the day, "you make yourself sick. And while your liver and vocal cords are beyond much help, outside of depressingly expensive surgery, I'd like to keep your stomach from rotting. Pass."
Dennis flung the ball back, a scowl on his narrow face. "Damn it," he sighed. "Maury and I wanted to fast today, to, y'know, purify the toxins from our body."
"Maury," the braided man repeated, tapping the basketball in the ritualistic motion in an absent manner, casting his eyes up to the fluorescent lit ceiling. "Is this the one in your head or the giant lobotomized monkey?"
"Head," Dennis said indifferently, glancing disparagingly about the scantly accessorized room, at the mats and weights in one corner and the physical therapy equipment in another, "and you aren't one to talk. You being the God of Death and all." At Duo's questioning glare, he smirked rudely and jabbed a bony finger at the heavy metal tubing that was the ventilation system, a tell-all quirk to his face. "Be careful what you say," he warned. "Pass."
--~--
*
--~--
He breathed in short, shallow gasps, sweat beading at his temples and sliding down his cheeks to mix with the tears already wet along the contours. Slender arms touched his shoulders, kneaded them gently, and then slid around him, holding his head to her neck as he cried, and she stroked his blonde hair tenderly. "It's okay to weep," she murmured, pressing her lips hard against his jaw, working out the anger she felt at whatever had hurt him so and the selfish anger directed plainly at him. "You don't have to be strong," she mouthed and he shuddered, tightening his artist's fingers in her raven hair and molding his lips to the crook of her collar.
"I don't mean to hurt you," he tried to explain, feeling her body shift next to his, her arms hugging him with a rare affection and her lips touching his jaw a second time. "In any way," he started, his voice trailing off as he shivered in the wake of a spark of self-loathing, from the darkness seething under the walls and cloth he had hidden it with.
"You have never hurt me in any way," Rachelle lied, smiling in a semisweet manner, acknowledging that it was not entirely truthful; he had never struck her or harmed her, not when she snarled at him and not once when they had joined, but why bother with emotions? They mattered little in any case, and she let her lie slip past her lips to protect him.
"Liar," he said, almost teasingly, and she stiffened, a bit surprised by this shift from his normally extraordinarily polite persona. "Ah, I apologize," Quatre added quickly and she laughed, a sound made lower out of the nighttime instinct. He smiled shyly and she moved one arm from his back, passing her hand over his cheeks and resting her palm over his lips, trying to stop the contented warmth spreading through her body as he kissed the barrier meekly.
"Don't do that," she whispered sharply, flinching at his hurt expression, the flash of pain that colored his lovely eyes a shade darker. His fingertips pressed almost painfully along her back, arching in a reflexive gesture, and she swallowed a gasp, leaning to touch her nose to his, shrouding them both with the mist of her endless violet-tinged hair mingling with his infinitely lighter strands. "I didn't not enjoy it," she explained in a gentler voice, "but it…feels different." Slowly removing her hand from his mouth, she traced his ear with her fingers and touched his lips with hers briefly.
"Different?" he whispered back, his own hand unweaving from her entangled hair to tickle the dip of her neck. "How so?" His fingers swept across her shoulder, barely brushing the skin.
"I can't define it," she breathed, catching his hand and bringing it between them, knitting fingers with fingers. His pale next to her tanned cream, breathing evening and falling into a mirroring rhythm, chests rising and falling in time with the other. Rachelle could feel it lulling her into slumber, the sleek relaxation of muscles and she tightened her grip around him, burrowing her face, in turn, into his neck. It was invading her entire body, this irreversible, indescribable feeling of pleasure and contentment and joy and sorrow and longing, thousands of emotions chorded into one, and she feared it. Am I now turning to him for protection, she thought. As if he could shield me from something he is causing.
He stiffened, returning the embrace with hesitant warmth, as if afraid she would reject him. And then he caught her up in a hug, sweet and unexpected, and he expelled from his throat, voice kept respectful, "I'm going to take the offer the Preventers gave me. I…can't not. Something doesn't feel right about staying out of this one, and I promise I'll talk to you every day, I love you so much." They tumbled from his mouth rapidly, asking for forgiveness he did not expect to receive, and she was confused by the swell of something not unpleasant at his last words.
"What makes you think you'll be going alone?" she said lightly, something in her stomach roiling as the premonition grew stronger, just a fraction larger, and she kissed his face until neither remembered worrying at all.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: At the risk of not being believed by anyone at all...I've had this chapter and 'Hymn' (the next one) done since the weekend of Feb. 9, but, after Kaiya-chan sent me her feedback (Yay! Positive feedback! *happy hippo dance*), I wasn't able to post for a variety of reasons: bronchitis (which meant I couldn't go to school, which is where I have to upload my stories due to AOL deciding that, even though I have 'Mature Teen' as my rating, I can't use Document Manager), the school's Internet being down (the DAY I GOT BACK?!), and then FF.net being shut down. So, my apologies for the lateness, and we can all blame Fate, who hates me like most Americans do mosquitoes. However, I am now fully addicted to the Drake and Zeke radio show on Rock 103...immature monkeys that they are. 0o; And, further more, I have two more chapters done and edited now, but I'm going to wait until next week to load them. I'll be in Egypt from mid-May through Mid-July, and unless I get to use a different Internet service there, I'm going to have to simply load several chapters before I leave (because this story is pouring out of me like sugar through a seive) and several when I get back. ;]
In other news, yet again, the elusive Ms. Kino is mentioned…and heard! But will she ever be seen? Yup. As for the Spanish in this chappie, I apologize if it's faulty: I haven't taken Spanish since the eighth grade, and that was two years ago.
What else can I say, but:
Standard disclaimer is stuck to this like I am to Nuriko-x-Miaka fanfics: undeniably and wholly. If you visit www.FanFiction.net or 'Danzibo's Loop-o-Stuff' on Saturn's ninth ring (the galaxy's favorite tourist location!), you're lucky enough to catch this new installment. Subscribe now to Pluto's premier holo-zine, 'Charon X-Treme!'
Feedback is welcome through reviews on-site or e-mails to alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com. So are toy Duo chibis to keep my poor, lonely Sailor Mercury chibi company. Quatre and Rei chibi dolls are more than welcome; they can snuggle on my bookshelf. Isn't it cute?
Oh, and but of course, thank-yous to my reviewers (including three missed the first time around):
little ace (I'd like to work on 'Moon Ring,' but I seriously have felt no inspiration for it in several months and I doubt I'll work on it again; would it be best if I removed it from ff.net overall? I hope you enjoyed 'Requiem,' though!), Ice (who was such a sweetheart for reviewing two times; Duo being a psychologist is...odd, but I can't explain it at the moment - I've just been coming up with ideas left and right for this thing, and I can honestly say I have never written this much this fast on a fanfic in my life...*sweatdrops*), azn_otaku (I completely agree - I'm sick of the Senshi/Mamoru-hate-Usagi fics, they're not even /logical/; thanksies for the compliments! *blushes happily* And 'Overture' is...9 pages? I have up to the seventh chapter done, and chappie 7 is 10 pages...that's long for me, really!), The Silent Wanderer (yaaaaaaaay!!! Compliments! And, well, I sorta have Heero in a kinda relationship with a BSSM character...read the next chapter to find out who! ;] *giggles*), Tira Wolf (I think a lot of people might've skipped over this story 'cause of the subject matter...but I'm glad you took the chance and found you liked it; here are two more chapters!), Kaiya-chan (*glomps Kaiya happily* Thanksiesthanksies! You're such a cool person...and I think all hamsters are evil; my brother's thinks I'm a giant Snickers or something), UNgoddess (the romance subscription is something I thought would actually fit Duo - kind of like the idea of Sally being a hard rock fan; and, eventually, Ami will get through the badness...though with the pace this fic is taking, that might be a while...urk...), and Girl-chama (happy endings will abound - I hope - and here I have to put the standard: I'm not alone! Thank God someone else can see Rei/Quatre working! :|) Yay! I'm very fond of people complimenting my writing style...my English teacher tells me I'm too descriptive...but don't worry; you're one of the best writers on-line, Girl-chama!).
0o; Long author's notes...on to the next chapter?
What would he do to her, she wondered as she fought the blanket for control, striving for perfect sixteenths. Would he use glass to rip the fresh bandages wrapped about her torso? Or would he just use his hands, those large hands that were bigger and longer than he-always-watching's had been, to beat her and hold her down as the white turned red and pink? He had such pretty eyes, like cloudy amethysts, glittering with cheer and mischief, but she had seen eyes like that before, eyes that turned cold and hateful as soon as she let her guard relax, though she had never seen eyes that beautiful color before. Revulsion whipped through her stomach, a spiked cord that tore at her balance and her vision, threatening to topple her over the stubborn blanket.
She was not to think of men in such a way, she whispered to herself noiselessly, never ever ever. Especially not the Man who was coming to remind her of what the Book of Truths had always taken care to assure her of, and she loosened her grip on the quilt as she waited for the other nurse to bring in the Man, watching with frightened, broken eyes as it sprang slowly from sixteenths to eighths to fourths to halves.
--
Requiem: Overture
--
He was in the round kitchen on the ground floor of their highly maintained house, scrubbing furiously at the dishes that had lain in mocking reminder of a few untidy habits in the sink, now sunk beneath the snarling white foam of bubbling soap. His motions were sharp and unforgiving, wringing punishment out on whatever crusted food had once coated the glazed porcelain, snapping the steel wool over and over it. Sally was somewhat surprised to find he had no flames in his eyes and was a bit amused at her curiosity to know where he had stowed his katana as he wreaked justice upon the remnants of last Friday's take-out, musing to herself that it was only Tuesday. He wasn't usually this obsessed with cleaning the dishes until Thursday, on what had come to be known as 'Duo's-Coming-Over-Buy-Lots-of-Food' night, or, as Wufei referred to it sullenly, 'Get-the-Damn-Phonebook-We're-Ordering-Fast-Food.'
"Something wrong?" she asked mildly, rolling her shoulders under her faded black t-shirt and smiling half-heartedly when he grunted in response. Filching the front of the newspaper neatly organized into sections on the dinette table, she swerved around a jutting counter and came to stop beside the sink, watching carefully as he threatened to scour her favorite blue plate beyond all recognition. "It's five in the morning," she informed in a light voice. "And unless the ghost of Christmas past decided to get rid of heated plumbing, somebody used up the hot water for this morning." Wufei grunted a second time, in the time honored tradition of upset men, and moved on to Saturday's gluey lasagna, steadily annihilating the crimson colors and streaks of pasta white.
"You're upset," she noted, running a smooth hand through her tangled gold hair, fingernails snagging on a few small, tight knots and tugging through. "Feel like sharing?" The lasagna disappeared into the foam and the plate joined its cleaner companions on the drying rack, waiting to be run through a second time and cleaned thoroughly.
"Problems at work," he finally admitted in a guttural tone, turning coal eyes toward her in reluctant surrender, something he rarely did. "Of the cranky homicidal asshole variety." Death came swiftly to the solidifying syrup of Sunday breakfast, rubbed off with hard strokes of the steel wool, and he lifted the steel wool, staring at the clumps of food entrenched in its silver curls and dropping it into the water with a scowl.
"Want to tell me?" she suggested carefully, striding across the burnished tiles of the floor to a small, brown cabinet in the corner. Opening the smooth cabinet, she fished out a pale green box of mandarin tea, shaking it thoughtfully and smiling at the soft swishing sounds that emanated from it. A curved metal teapot was placed on the burner nearest to her, switching the stove on to heat the cooled water that had rested within it for the evening. A teacup, plain and unadorned, found its way next to the burner, and she turned around to face him as he, in turn, moved, crossing his arms over his sweater.
"Not really," he smiled slyly, and she nodded in acceptance, yawning. She figured she'd get him later, when he had his tea and she had enough adrenaline coursing through her body to take him on.
--~--
*
--~--
"I don't wanna," Duo mumbled into his pillow, burying his light brown face deeper into the plush, misshapen depths and doing his best to ignore the shrill screaming of the alarm clock flashing '6:01' at him. Cruelty, he thought absently, thy name is early mornings. His hand flailed out from under the comforter in wide, vague motions, occasionally slapping down in quest of silence, and he smiled in pure satisfaction when he managed to pound his palm atop the round button that sent the ringing into oblivion. He snuggled deeper into the pleasant warmth of his small bed, eyelashes steadily held on his shadowed cheeks as he breathed evenly, idly fingering away the thin twist of brown hair circling his neck and sighing contentedly. Distantly, he could hear his answering machine click on from its careless position on a stool around the general vicinity of the most beloved of all technologies, the refrigerator, and he whined mentally at the unfairness of reality intruding every time he had finally attained some form of peace.
"DAMN IT, MAXWELL!" a scream echoed throughout the house and he bolted up right, nearly rolling off his bed as he clutched at his ears, wincing audibly at the sheer unexpected loudness of the voice recording at the moment. His large violet eyes flickered toward the door and he stared at it in a mixture of horror and chagrin, fully aware that he couldn't answer the vid-phone in his current state: unshaven, long hair an untidy mess, and clad in his tanktop and boxers. He suspected Kino would not only berate him verbally, she would hitch a cab from the M-13 branch office to personally kick him in the rear for insubordinate conduct. It was, he mused in the back of his head, to be stuck between a rock and a hard place.
"I know you're there, so get your lean ass out of bed before I have to send someone over to throw it out!" she all but bellowed in continuation, her voice still managing to be suitably threatening through the humming static of an outdated answering machine. "If you think you can ignore me and pretend you didn't manage to possibly traumatize the one witness we have, so help me God, I will do things to your internal organs Wufei never dreamed of. Get to work, do your job, and get the hell into my office before I'm forced to kill my secretary on basic principle." A cheerful beep sounded at the end, signifying she had cancelled the call, and he groaned loudly, pathetically, snarling his fingers in his hair and tugging agitatedly at it.
"'Duo do this,'" he griped, flinging one long leg over the side of his mattress and digging around the floor for a smooth slipper with his foot, bumping the post of his bed in a casual reminder of his needing a longer bed-frame. He finally located the slipper, as well as its mate, and the other leg emerged from the engulfing swells of the covers, hooking his feet into the sheaths and pausing there, slouching forward with his back bent. "'Duo do that,'" he added in a newly adopted falsetto, straightening his back and glaring unhappily at the opposing wall. Drawing himself up to his impressive height, he planted his hands dangerously on his hips, finishing in grand finale, "'Duo, that is hardly the kind of mature attitude I expected from you!'" For a moment, he considered tossing his hair as a last insult, but fell short; it wouldn't help the murderous tangles at all.
"The things I do for unique appearances," grumped Duo, maneuvering over a few piles of casually discarded romances and mechanic manuals. A finger touched the thicker bristles on his chin, an evolution from the down of yesterday, and he moved to the bathroom across from his bedroom, sparing a habitual glance at the flat end of the hallway, where something else might have once been. Pirate treasure, he thought with a smirk at his own fancy, elbowing the door open and snatching up a heavy brush like he would a weapon, wielding it with dangerous intent. "This," he muttered, stabbing the bristling teeth of his brush into the foremost knot hanging around shoulder level, "is not for the squeamish." A sharp tug elicited a muted, close-lipped growl at the stinging sensation in his scalp, and he proceeded with infinite care, pulling with short motions and finally a few sweeping ones once the knot had been vanquished, bringing the brush down the full length of his formidably long hair, stooping slightly to reach the ends brushing the inside of his knee. Lord, he was grateful for a learned resistance to ticklish feelings, though it still itched him terribly. "And now," he announced to the mirror image of himself, resisting the urge to make a juvenile face, "to the left!"
It was nowhere near as difficult to straighten out the other side of his hair, most of the knots being smaller ones in comparison to the monster he had previously rid himself of, and he was pleased at the rarity of an easy morning ritual. He set the brush down, eyeing the copious amount of pulled hair forming a labyrinth of sorts between the bristles, and appraised himself in the mirror, frowning at the wave to his hair, one caused by near continuous braiding, and the stubble on his chin. When was the last time he'd simply worn his hair down? Other than the hideous task of having to brush it at least once every two hours just to avoid a tasking combing at night, he couldn't think of a truly decent reason. Social persecution might figure into it, too, and he set his jaw in a defiant manner, wishing to be ten again and able to wear long, unbraided hair without being conscious about it. Stupid, accursed society boundaries.
Sighing, Duo tilted his head to his chest, causing his hair to tumble forward, brushing his flat stomach and wafting back and forth in reply to the movement. Nimble fingers braided swiftly, catching the hair in customary clumps and twisting them about one another in subconscious rhythm, and he sang softly under his breath to pass the longer time it took now to braid than the days of being a Gundam pilot. If Sally and Kino didn't bully him into getting a trim once every two months, he'd be tripping over his hair everywhere he went. "I wish I was a moose," he sang quietly, repeating the line in the same pitch and tune, before adding, "I wish I was because I was, I wish I was a moose."
With an air of triumph, he snapped his head back up and avoided the temptation to stumble back at the switch in blood flow, instead proudly flipping his thick braid over his shoulder. One duty done, he grinned, reaching for his razor, with another to begin.
Another five minutes found him stepping cheerily out of the bathroom, shaven and braided and the glorious image of a mischievous elf as he stripped his tank top off and tossing it carelessly to the floor of his bedroom, crossing the floor in a few wide strides to his closet. A scarlet turtleneck was yanked off its hanger, sending the triangular plastic swaying capriciously, and he struggled to fit it around his head, loudly swearing and condemning whoever had designed them straight to hell, while simultaneously trying to figure out how Trowa managed to wear them day in and day out without suffering from oxygen loss. He wasn't sure why he had chosen the turtleneck - it was a classy top that Relena had sent for his birthday, one that fit snugly to his leanly muscular torso and wrinkled where it bunched at his waist - and he shoved the curiosity away, avoiding the peculiar niggle of a thought hidden in the darkest catacombs of his mind. Black slacks and an ebon jacket were filched from the pile of 'clean enough to warrant another day of wear' clothes grouped at the foot of his closet, and he jerked the slacks on over his boxers, casting an anxious glance at the clock now reading '6:43.' "Figures," he sighed. "Even on a good day it takes forever to get ready." Shrugging the jacket on over his turtleneck, he kicked the slippers off, hunting with his foot yet again for something to wear over them. A pair of smudged black sneakers were revealed at the bottom of his semi-clean clothing pile and he smashed his sock-coated feet into them hurriedly, shaking his ankles until the sneakers finally settled into place.
Reaching into the closet, he grabbed the strap of his duffel bag, reloaded last night with what ammunition he would need or might want, and, after a few seconds of wrestling mentally, he snatched a sinful piece of fiction from the teetering stacks pressed tightly together under the swaying clouds of fabric above. "Might as well read something interesting on the bus ride," he muttered, shoulder the duffel and shoving the slender romance novel into his deep pocket, pausing on the way out of his room to close the door.
Looked like he'd have to get breakfast at the dubious hospital cafeteria. Again.
--~--
*
--~--
She was a good girl in the earliest morning, still and quiet and obedient when the nurse came to check on her frequently, opening the door and asking questions in a falsely cheerful voice, one used to disguise a waver. Was the nurse sad for her, she wondered when she was left alone for the last time. Perhaps the woman wanted to avert her punishment. Don't do that, she whispered in her head to the thin nurse, it only makes them angrier.
She didn't doubt the Man was going to punish her for recoiling from his touch, for fearing him for reasons that were obvious and ones she could not explain, could not label. His skin brushing hers hadn't bruised, hadn't tweaked her flesh into mottled colors, and it frightened her badly, almost as badly as his large hands clamping around her shoulders was oddly comfortable. Her acceptance of her fate was tinged with a thread of sadness, and she did her best to clamp down on the emotion threatening to crawl under her skin, sure that whatever bizarre form of fear he sparked in her was some new punishment.
But no matter how it hurt, how it stung and bled and stained, she would not cry, would not give him the pleasure of her tears, her pain, her hopeless detachment. She would stay strong, think of the iridescent beauty of poems she had lifted from books at night, against his rules, breathlessly memorizing trails of tenderness and gentility she had known only through the softly whispering words. The Man could not hurt her the way she had been before; she would not let him touch her soul. Golden Mina had soothed her last night as they waited for the nurse, touching her shoulder gently and speaking to her the way she had always imagined she would speak to her lovely, lost son. Was that how a mother was? Golden and soft and protective.
A knock sounded at the door, confident and polite, and she stared at it, confused, before sliding off the silver slick table and balancing her weight carefully on her swollen ankle, feeling a mild sense of pride in the specialized splint-shoe encircling it and the tender foot beneath it. She stood straight, a sense of courage welling up inside, new and weak, but strong, and she folded her hand behind her back, knitting her fingers together and rubbing one thumb along the cloth wrapped about her left palm. The Man would come in when he wanted, would he not?
The door opened, hesitantly, and she caught a glimpse of the small man in dark green she had seen every day outside her door for the past week before the sleek, feline body of the Man appeared. "Y'know," he commented in a tone that was purposefully obnoxious, "it's rather rude to leave someone waiting after they've been considerate enough to knock before entering." He flashed her a brilliant smile, one that stunned her, from her newfound courage to her stroking thumb, and she felt confusion again. Why was he smiling as if she were a friend? He was supposed to hit her, beat her, tear into her and rip her in two. He laughed, a clear, husky sound, and he latched his fingers around something beyond her line of vision, outside the door, the barrier. The Man hauled a chair in, stiff and metal with stuffed brown leather on the seat and back in a paltry attempt to reproduce natural comfort, and he smiled again, his dark lips splitting easily and swallowing his face. "I'm not sure I'll fit," he admitted and she nearly shrank back, a wave of fear trickling up the back of her throat like a cancer, knowing he was going to do the thing he-her-husband had found the greatest pleasure in.
"They never have chairs my size," the Man added, quietly closing the door and swinging the duffel off his shoulder, collapsing gustily onto the chair, long limbs folding at angles and long fingers playing with the end of his long, oak braid. She blinked, unsure of what to do or say, and she decided that, so long as he didn't throw her into deeper bewilderment, this was quite all right. Maybe she wasn't going to be punished after all.
She was studying him as if he was a monkey, Duo reflected, twisting strands of hair around his finger. A big, insane, intriguing monkey, but a monkey nonetheless. What the hell; so long as she wasn't breaking the arms of dolls and screaming at him. He quelled the lecherous joke waiting to happen and leaned forward in the chair, propping his angular elbows on his knees and grumpily wishing he'd given in to the childish impulse to steal one of the wide wheelchairs kept safely behind the front desk, but, alas, Russell, He Who Was Late, had been shifted to the day shift, with his delicious Mina given graveyard duty. Wheelchair theft had been blocked from him for the duration of his work here, unless some other gorgeous girl got a job as desk-jockey. Who designed this anyway, he scowled mentally, taking care to keep the downward expression from his face. "So," he began, injecting every bit of the legendary Maxwell charisma he had become famous - and, amongst some of his psychology peers, infamous - for into his words, stopping just short of flirting, "how've you been doing?"
Her eyebrow, slim and dark blue, arched very slowly, tilting up to rest, perched closer to her shaggy bangs than the other, and her arms moved from her back to her front. One hand came to rest on the opposite hip, her other hand curling around the first hand's elbow, fingers tightening about.
"No need to be so defensive," he played, grinning at her exasperated, wary, cornered expression. The urge to fidget tickled his limbs and he shifted his weight, trying to be as non-threatening as possible around her, but she stepped back anyway, her eyes flickering with streaks of animalistic fear. Duo grimaced, forcefully stilling his muscles from quivering into further motion. "Sorry," he said before he could think, a wry smile twisting his long mouth into the sardonic curves women loved, a sort of defense mechanism to try and set her at ease, "I'm not used to working with women who've been…" Well, shit, how was he supposed to use tact with this? "Y'know," he finished lamely, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit further.
It was an inexplicable wound to his pride when her eyes widened fearfully, darkening moodily, and she wound behind the table, as if to place more distance and an obstacle between them. And all he'd done was smile at her.
"I'm not going to bite you," he hurried, and then mentally beat himself at his mindless choice of words. "Aw, crap," he muttered, sweeping his hand over his unruly bangs, drawing them up unevenly and letting them fall as he tried to think of a way to calm her. Finally, he sighed for the countless time in the past three hours and unfolded his body, standing up and slouching a little so she wouldn't feel so small in front of him. "I really am sorry," he commented ruefully. "I just have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth before I stop to think about what I'm saying. I'm not trying to scare you or hurt your feelings, I'm just a moron."
And then, as he watched, her other eyebrow raised up to meet its twin and she tilted her head to the side, rocking forward on her heels. It was the oddest sense of accomplishment he had ever gained, a far cry from the sadistic glee of his first successful Gundam fight, different from the first time he and Hilde had spent the night together, and a degree shy of the knowledge of being a psychologist. It wasn't unpleasant, though. Grinning at himself, at her, he sketched a bow to her, inclining his head and making it appear with the twirling motions of his hand he had dipped into a formal courtesy.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he announced grandly, slipping his jacket off and dropping it lazily on the hated chair. "I'm Duo Maxwell, the God of Death." He stuck his hands in his pockets, leaning at an angle and spreading a dashing smile across his face.
Her expression was striking, eerily delicate in its utter surprise, and her eyebrows furrowed together, her mouth closing and pursing in bewildered thought. He could find no trace of fear in her face or those oceanic eyes that spoke what her tongue did not, and he smiled even wider. Remarkable progress for a young woman who was scared to death of men.
The Man was breaking every rule in the Book of Truths, she thought with no slight amazement, trying to understand how one could do that. She had disobeyed him, pulled from his touch without his permission, and she had known she was to be reprimanded harshly for her disobedience. And unless he was trying to confuse her into a weakness she did not know about, he had done nothing he was supposed to. He was a man and he controlled everything; if he desired her, she was to let him do what he wished, but he did not desire her. Why was that, when every man she had been brought to by the husband had lusted? How very, very…odd. Happy. Confusing.
The Man was Maxwell-god-of-death. He had a name, even if it was a rather strange thing to be called. She wondered, briefly, if he knew her name, if she had a name. But she could not speak to him in his language; it was forbidden, outlawed, wholly despicable. Silence claimed her tongue, swirled in her throat in thick, unwanted waves, and she was still, unmoving by the silver slick table.
"I have a question," started Maxwell-god-of-death, and she wanted to smile, wanted to clap her hands together at the sheer joy of knowing another name, another ethereal secret, "but you don't really need to answer. Yesterday, you spelled a word out on the table." He paused and she stared, a knot of tension wrapping into a ball that settled in her gut, heavy and dreadful, and she felt the joy slipping away at the clawed feet of betrayal; she had written in desperation, written in recent memory of blood and pain and loss - where was her son?
"What," he said softly, leaning towards her, his panther body coiling, gravitating in her direction, violet eyes swallowing her whole, like an orange with yellow veins, "does 'miedo' mean?"
And it came from her throat before she meant to, tainting the air with the core of the Book of Truths, the greatest of the lying truths, and her only solace was that it was not in the rapid language of Maxwell-god-of-death but the One language. She whispered, shouted, murmured - which was it?
"Yo soy despreciable," she said quietly, in a voice that was soft and subdued, and she saw him wrinkle his nose, his face an echoing mask of the surprise she had felt so frequently as of late. He didn't understand the One language; heathen, whispered the voice of the man she waited in fear for, uncultured swine meant for fool's games.
"Yo soy despreciable?" Maxwell-god-of-death parroted slowly, his wide, curved lips mouthing the words clumsily, trying to identify the sounds with something he knew. He reminded her of a cat she had seen once, caged in the basement for the games the dark ones would play at night; everything long and predatory, but not in a way that was naturally frightening, rather a sort of horrendous beauty, sleek cords of muscle that were not thick but were trim and fitted to the limbs meant for stalking.
He wore red, she realized, red and thin, like layers of fuzzy paint, and it horrified her, frightened her, sent her stumbling backwards into the corner as she felt the vile thing called trust burn its way into her fear, not pushing the fear away, but mingling with it, joining, merging, so that she wasn't completely frightened by him. That was evil, wrong, disgusting!
Nice going, Duo, he thought sarcastically and he frowned, sucking a corner of his lower lip into his mouth as he turned away, crouching beside the duffel. Unzipping it, he shifted uncomfortably, the corners of the book stuffed into his pocket catching his hip painfully, and he cautiously slipped, from under the weight of a basketball, a binder, and various other items, the slim weight of a stack of paper, wrapped in glistening plastic. When in doubt, he thought, write it out.
She had spoken, he processed as he tore off the plastic wrap, balling it up in his hand and dropping it back into the darkness of the duffel. A pen was unclipped from the binder and clutched in the same hand as the paper, firmly kept locked under his thumb. He wasn't quite as dense as Wufei and Heero were apt to tell him, usually through gunshots aimed at his limbs, and he could sense, perhaps not as well as Quatre might have, the kinetic wrongness in the air, stiffening the clear hairs on his neck. Aimee was frightened, he guessed. Probably remnants of the abuse, filtered the textbooks laid to memory, a fear of retribution for deeds she had been punished for in the past. It made sense, in a creepy way, explaining vaguely why her behavior was oddly complicated, instead of the pure fright most victims expressed. Her personality, from what he could cipher from her movements, was quiet and generally submissive, though she had something of a stubborn streak. He supposed.
Akin to a shot in the dark, he grimaced.
"Aimee," Duo said gently, catching a short snicker in his throat; ten years ago, he would have laughed his rear off if someone had told him what he'd be doing. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. You don't need to talk if you don't want to," 'yo soy despreciable,' she echoed in his head, "but I do need to communicate with you somehow." She was avoiding his eyes, keeping her chin tucked into her neck, thick, dark hair obscuring her features from view. "Aimee," he repeated, forcing himself to remember the psychological rules of etiquette, quiet tones and polite words. God, he hated faking sugary sincerity when he wanted more than anything to relax, but he'd seen how uneasy she had just become. "You can write things down, if you want."
Her face lifted, warily, and he grinned almost against his will at her expression, still frightened, still quelled, but with that eyebrow tweak telling him just how silly he sounded at times. He was willing to bet she wasn't even truly aware of that spirited twitch, a subtle difference from her scrawny body's careful acquiescence. Of course, he amended in his head, she can't write if she doesn't have anything to write with.
"Before you cut me down for my obvious stupidity," he said, unable to fully stop his grin, "here's some paper to use, 'kay?" The sheets of paper came to rest on the shining metal of the table and she, standing in a shrunken stance at the wall a foot or so behind it, switched her unreadable eyes to it, her hands clenching and unclenching the cloth of her hospital gown, then hesitantly reaching for the tempting gift.
Her fingertips, creamy and white, brushed the thin roughness of the lined paper, finding no rule, no bar singing coldly she would hurt and ache afterwards, and this meant it was no crime to write. As she smoothed her palm over it, the soft skin of her unwounded hand settling upon it, another hand closed over her wrist, engulfing her snow skin in a firm grip of lightest brown, the golden hue of activity and sunlight. Storming eyes met violet and she fought the scream in her chest, kept her lungs from expanding, from hurling the indecipherable noise at him. What was due to her, coming, coming, and she pulled back once, futilely, before sagging fractionally and freezing her eyes to his.
And then he smiled that Cheshire smile, lips curling at the corners in dry, morbid humor at some unknown joke burnt into his soul. "You're supposed to say thank-you," he reprimanded lightly, the faux soothing tearing away from his voice. His hand squeezed her wrist once before releasing, and she gripped the wad, her eyes trailing down to her wrist. She could see no dark reds swelling up to greet her, no mottled fingerprints, merely a few traces of skin made paler for a moment from his grip. Looking up, she cocked her head to one side, blue hair whispering and falling in tune with her. "You're welcome," he hinted, holding the pen out and she took it, ignoring his words and taking care to avoid contact. When she showed no signs of sharing words of thanks, he sighed and crossed his arms, shifting uncomfortably at the restraining turtleneck and the mild itching it was causing. He was making progress, though, and relatively quickly, so it was easier to pass over the irritation.
She uncapped the pen, fitting the cap on the butt of the pen and placing, very delicately, the felt tip on the paper, fluidly scripting what she was thinking, her face thin and attentive. He tried to give her space, moving his weight to his heels and facing one of the other walls, pursing his lips as if to whistle, his braid thumping against his thigh, and he sneaked a look from the corner of his eye. Bent over the paper, she was writing slower than he would have thought, taking careful time to arrange how she wanted to write it. 'Yo soy despreciable,' whispered the quiet voice and he summoned aged lessons on languages, archaic and modern. Spanish, he yelped silently, why the hell didn't I figure that out before? She was writing in Anglo-Japanese, from what he could tell from his mirrored point of view, and if the language she was taught to write in first was Spanish - she had no accent, from what very little he had heard - it would be no wonder she had difficulty writing in the English-Japanese hybrid used as the common language.
If he twisted his neck a certain way, pretended to be stretching his arms out as well as his neck and finding a truthful relief in the relaxing motion, he could almost make out what she was writing…
"Ah, Dr. Maxwell?" came a timid voice from the door and he nearly growled, letting his arms fall to his sides, thumbs sliding into the pockets of his slacks and a stern frown flourishing his mouth down. The nurse, one by the name of Elizabeth, was leaning in the door, which he must not have closed properly, and her hands tightened convulsively along the edges of a rounded plastic tray, an amalgam of simple foods arranged on it: applesauce, slices of bread, cheese, and whatnot. "I need to feed Aimee, sir." She swallowed and he realized he was still frowning, glaring, at her. Sheepishly smiling in apology, he turned to look at Aimee, one of his hands lifting in a placating gesture.
"Gotta go, dollface," he said cheerfully, and she gave no heed of having heard his words. Exhaling in a loud gust, he moved his focus to Elizabeth and grinned, scooping his jacket off the chair and hanging it steadily over his arm, grasping his duffel. He swung it over his shoulder and told her in parting, "Might as well use the chair, ma'am."
--~--
*
--~--
Dennis more or less danced into the exercise room in the lower half of the hospital, one specially reserved for the patients being treated or the more foolhardy of visitors. Thin and tall, with black hair that had once been thick, he was the poster child for stress-related eating disorders.
"Hey, Dennis," Duo called in a friendly manner, snapping his elbows in an arcing motion and gaining a satisfied appearance when his basketball neatly fell through the wafting white net. "And two more for Maxwell as he swerves to meet rival Buckman!" He faked cheering crowd noises as he snatched at the ball, drumming it to the moderately kept floorboards and doing remarkably well at jogging in sneakers across the floor. His slacks and dressy shirt clashed with the image, producing an interesting contrast.
"Can I skip lunch today?" Dennis Buckman, made ill by his abusive father and one too many encounters with alcohol, asked hopefully in his rasping voice, green eyes almost deceptively bright. "Please? Eating makes me sick."
"No," countered Duo, dribbling the ball and tossing it to his second appointment of the day, "you make yourself sick. And while your liver and vocal cords are beyond much help, outside of depressingly expensive surgery, I'd like to keep your stomach from rotting. Pass."
Dennis flung the ball back, a scowl on his narrow face. "Damn it," he sighed. "Maury and I wanted to fast today, to, y'know, purify the toxins from our body."
"Maury," the braided man repeated, tapping the basketball in the ritualistic motion in an absent manner, casting his eyes up to the fluorescent lit ceiling. "Is this the one in your head or the giant lobotomized monkey?"
"Head," Dennis said indifferently, glancing disparagingly about the scantly accessorized room, at the mats and weights in one corner and the physical therapy equipment in another, "and you aren't one to talk. You being the God of Death and all." At Duo's questioning glare, he smirked rudely and jabbed a bony finger at the heavy metal tubing that was the ventilation system, a tell-all quirk to his face. "Be careful what you say," he warned. "Pass."
--~--
*
--~--
He breathed in short, shallow gasps, sweat beading at his temples and sliding down his cheeks to mix with the tears already wet along the contours. Slender arms touched his shoulders, kneaded them gently, and then slid around him, holding his head to her neck as he cried, and she stroked his blonde hair tenderly. "It's okay to weep," she murmured, pressing her lips hard against his jaw, working out the anger she felt at whatever had hurt him so and the selfish anger directed plainly at him. "You don't have to be strong," she mouthed and he shuddered, tightening his artist's fingers in her raven hair and molding his lips to the crook of her collar.
"I don't mean to hurt you," he tried to explain, feeling her body shift next to his, her arms hugging him with a rare affection and her lips touching his jaw a second time. "In any way," he started, his voice trailing off as he shivered in the wake of a spark of self-loathing, from the darkness seething under the walls and cloth he had hidden it with.
"You have never hurt me in any way," Rachelle lied, smiling in a semisweet manner, acknowledging that it was not entirely truthful; he had never struck her or harmed her, not when she snarled at him and not once when they had joined, but why bother with emotions? They mattered little in any case, and she let her lie slip past her lips to protect him.
"Liar," he said, almost teasingly, and she stiffened, a bit surprised by this shift from his normally extraordinarily polite persona. "Ah, I apologize," Quatre added quickly and she laughed, a sound made lower out of the nighttime instinct. He smiled shyly and she moved one arm from his back, passing her hand over his cheeks and resting her palm over his lips, trying to stop the contented warmth spreading through her body as he kissed the barrier meekly.
"Don't do that," she whispered sharply, flinching at his hurt expression, the flash of pain that colored his lovely eyes a shade darker. His fingertips pressed almost painfully along her back, arching in a reflexive gesture, and she swallowed a gasp, leaning to touch her nose to his, shrouding them both with the mist of her endless violet-tinged hair mingling with his infinitely lighter strands. "I didn't not enjoy it," she explained in a gentler voice, "but it…feels different." Slowly removing her hand from his mouth, she traced his ear with her fingers and touched his lips with hers briefly.
"Different?" he whispered back, his own hand unweaving from her entangled hair to tickle the dip of her neck. "How so?" His fingers swept across her shoulder, barely brushing the skin.
"I can't define it," she breathed, catching his hand and bringing it between them, knitting fingers with fingers. His pale next to her tanned cream, breathing evening and falling into a mirroring rhythm, chests rising and falling in time with the other. Rachelle could feel it lulling her into slumber, the sleek relaxation of muscles and she tightened her grip around him, burrowing her face, in turn, into his neck. It was invading her entire body, this irreversible, indescribable feeling of pleasure and contentment and joy and sorrow and longing, thousands of emotions chorded into one, and she feared it. Am I now turning to him for protection, she thought. As if he could shield me from something he is causing.
He stiffened, returning the embrace with hesitant warmth, as if afraid she would reject him. And then he caught her up in a hug, sweet and unexpected, and he expelled from his throat, voice kept respectful, "I'm going to take the offer the Preventers gave me. I…can't not. Something doesn't feel right about staying out of this one, and I promise I'll talk to you every day, I love you so much." They tumbled from his mouth rapidly, asking for forgiveness he did not expect to receive, and she was confused by the swell of something not unpleasant at his last words.
"What makes you think you'll be going alone?" she said lightly, something in her stomach roiling as the premonition grew stronger, just a fraction larger, and she kissed his face until neither remembered worrying at all.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: At the risk of not being believed by anyone at all...I've had this chapter and 'Hymn' (the next one) done since the weekend of Feb. 9, but, after Kaiya-chan sent me her feedback (Yay! Positive feedback! *happy hippo dance*), I wasn't able to post for a variety of reasons: bronchitis (which meant I couldn't go to school, which is where I have to upload my stories due to AOL deciding that, even though I have 'Mature Teen' as my rating, I can't use Document Manager), the school's Internet being down (the DAY I GOT BACK?!), and then FF.net being shut down. So, my apologies for the lateness, and we can all blame Fate, who hates me like most Americans do mosquitoes. However, I am now fully addicted to the Drake and Zeke radio show on Rock 103...immature monkeys that they are. 0o; And, further more, I have two more chapters done and edited now, but I'm going to wait until next week to load them. I'll be in Egypt from mid-May through Mid-July, and unless I get to use a different Internet service there, I'm going to have to simply load several chapters before I leave (because this story is pouring out of me like sugar through a seive) and several when I get back. ;]
In other news, yet again, the elusive Ms. Kino is mentioned…and heard! But will she ever be seen? Yup. As for the Spanish in this chappie, I apologize if it's faulty: I haven't taken Spanish since the eighth grade, and that was two years ago.
What else can I say, but:
Standard disclaimer is stuck to this like I am to Nuriko-x-Miaka fanfics: undeniably and wholly. If you visit www.FanFiction.net or 'Danzibo's Loop-o-Stuff' on Saturn's ninth ring (the galaxy's favorite tourist location!), you're lucky enough to catch this new installment. Subscribe now to Pluto's premier holo-zine, 'Charon X-Treme!'
Feedback is welcome through reviews on-site or e-mails to alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com. So are toy Duo chibis to keep my poor, lonely Sailor Mercury chibi company. Quatre and Rei chibi dolls are more than welcome; they can snuggle on my bookshelf. Isn't it cute?
Oh, and but of course, thank-yous to my reviewers (including three missed the first time around):
little ace (I'd like to work on 'Moon Ring,' but I seriously have felt no inspiration for it in several months and I doubt I'll work on it again; would it be best if I removed it from ff.net overall? I hope you enjoyed 'Requiem,' though!), Ice (who was such a sweetheart for reviewing two times; Duo being a psychologist is...odd, but I can't explain it at the moment - I've just been coming up with ideas left and right for this thing, and I can honestly say I have never written this much this fast on a fanfic in my life...*sweatdrops*), azn_otaku (I completely agree - I'm sick of the Senshi/Mamoru-hate-Usagi fics, they're not even /logical/; thanksies for the compliments! *blushes happily* And 'Overture' is...9 pages? I have up to the seventh chapter done, and chappie 7 is 10 pages...that's long for me, really!), The Silent Wanderer (yaaaaaaaay!!! Compliments! And, well, I sorta have Heero in a kinda relationship with a BSSM character...read the next chapter to find out who! ;] *giggles*), Tira Wolf (I think a lot of people might've skipped over this story 'cause of the subject matter...but I'm glad you took the chance and found you liked it; here are two more chapters!), Kaiya-chan (*glomps Kaiya happily* Thanksiesthanksies! You're such a cool person...and I think all hamsters are evil; my brother's thinks I'm a giant Snickers or something), UNgoddess (the romance subscription is something I thought would actually fit Duo - kind of like the idea of Sally being a hard rock fan; and, eventually, Ami will get through the badness...though with the pace this fic is taking, that might be a while...urk...), and Girl-chama (happy endings will abound - I hope - and here I have to put the standard: I'm not alone! Thank God someone else can see Rei/Quatre working! :|) Yay! I'm very fond of people complimenting my writing style...my English teacher tells me I'm too descriptive...but don't worry; you're one of the best writers on-line, Girl-chama!).
0o; Long author's notes...on to the next chapter?