Caught Between the Banister

by Hawk Clowd

One day on his way to work, Duo catches sight of a little boy in need of some help. Little does he know that this little boy is going to put him through the ride of his life... Yaoi.

2. Playtime

CAUGHT BETWEEN THE BANISTER

Part Two: Playtime

Disclaimer: don't own them.  Don't want them.  Don't need them.  So there.  Thanks go out to Endymion, Blue Dragon, and Crimson Knight for reading and telling me what they thought.  I'd also like to thank Hobson for the banister idea, Leilla for being such a great sport and for the constant inspiration she provided, and TKMaxwell777, who didn't like Duo referring to Christ so much but did a beta which was both wonderful and quick.  Thanks, everyone.

Warnings/Rating: allusions to yaoi/shonen ai in this part.  My usual insanity.  Fun stuff like that.  This part is rated PG for a few four-letter words.

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Well, that's the beginning of my sad story.  For those of you just tuning in, here's a recap--try not to make me have to do it again, all right?  I was about to leave for work one morning when I caught sight of some midget kid with his head stuck between the banister railings and decided to stop and help him out.  His name turned out to be Michael, Mike for short, and he was an interesting conversationalist.  The two of us talked for awhile while I got him out of that little situation and I learned that he lived with his dad in the same apartment complex as I did--which is supposed to be a no pets, noise, or kids area.

I got Mike out of the banister after a little while and he took me downstairs to get a thank-you cookie.  So who do I run into while I'm there but Heero Yuy himself, who I haven't seen in probably over four years!  Bastard didn't even have the decency to let me know he was living in my complex, much less tell me that he'd had a son.  Seems way too coincidental that the two of us ended up living in the same building only one floor apart, to be honest.  I thought about that after my embarrassing meeting with Heero and realized that the only thing separating our apartments was a layer or two of plywood, some wiring, and a bit of pink insulation.  And I never knew!  It was just too screwy. How had Mike managed to stay alive for so long as Soldier-boy's kid?

Right, that's about it for the recap and insightful musings.  Let's get back to the story, okay?

I spent most of the morning at work, where I sat at my desk and doodled while I thought about things.  The amazing thing about that is that I get paid for doing it every day; it kind of makes you wonder where your tax dollars are going and all. I don't pay taxes, myself.  Being a war veteran has its advantages, I guess, even if you do have to live with all the shitty memories and stuff.  Memories like my final moments with my war buddies--the Gundam pilots themselves.

Those weren't exactly pleasant good-byes, really, though I can honestly say that I've been through worse.  It was fairly hard to say goodbye to Wufei, despite knowing that I was going to be keeping in touch with him.  Wu-bear and I had our differences, sure, but the two of us got along fairly well.  We weren't cut from the same cloth, exactly.  It was more like we'd been cut with a similar pattern in mind and with the same pair of scissors, really, but we were good friends.  Nothing more than that, of course.  I don't know about Wufei, but I wasn't ready for a serious relationship of any sort back then, though I definitely tried damn hard to get into one, and that camaraderie we shared early on would never have been able to develop anywhere past plain and simple friendship.  We still keep in touch via email, you know.  We get together every once in a while and pal around, going to coffee shops all around the city and discussing things like politics and philosophy and basic buddy stuff, just like the old days.  It's fun.

He still hates it when I call him Wu-bear.

It was a little easier to say goodbye to Quatre and Trowa.  I never really got to know Trowa, to be honest with you, but Quatre sure did.  They really hit it off, I think, back when they first met--I remember Quatre telling me once, rather wistfully, that he'd be the luckiest man alive if only Trowa was a girl.  Poor Quatre; he really was infatuated with the guy.  I can't help but wonder if they ever worked it out, really, since it was kind of obvious that Trowa was coming close to cracking.  The two of them may not have been gay or anything, but sometimes love transcends gender and I think that their mutual adoration for each other may have been one of those cases.

Quatre and I were friends, sure, and we got along well enough.  Not as well as I got along with Wufei, but that was reasonable.  I couldn't shake the grudge I felt towards him because of his wealth--I still have a problem with people who have a lot of money, really.  My guess is that the feeling stems from childhood; I never had any money growing up on L2 and none of the wealthy people who hung around seemed to give a damn about me.  If I remember right, most of them told me--often to my face--that it would be best for the lot of us orphan kids to be wiped off the colony.  That hurt like hell back then, especially when it was accompanied by a kick in the seat of the pants or a slap across the face, and it was all just because I'd been born.  Can you blame me for being a little suspicious of Quatre at first?  He'd grown up with everything I'd never had: money, a family, everything he could ever want (except Trowa, of course, but that's a different story) while I begged on the streets for loose change.  Didn't seem fair back then.  Doesn't seem all that fair now, either.

I guess it was my envy of Quatre that kept me from getting too close to him.  Thankfully, it was that same envy that kept me from hurting too much when it was finally time to say goodbye.

Heero, believe it or not, was the hardest to say goodbye to.  And it wasn't just because I didn't really speak Japanese all that well back then either, although that was definitely a complication.  He spoke English like a native anyway, so what did it matter?  The problem with our differing vernaculars was simply this: he didn't give a damn about anything I said, no matter what language I tried to say it in.  Hell, I could have screamed it in banshee and he wouldn't have looked at me.

God, it's hard to believe that it was all so long ago that it all happened!  Four years, maybe more, since I'd managed to drag myself out of that hellhole I called my life. Four fucking years, all filled with pieces of memories and shattered bits of my soul, my heart, and who knows what the hell else.  And, despite all those years, I can still remember my little spat with Heero as if it had all happened just yesterday.

Jeez, it's like rubbing salt in the wound all over again.  Who'd have thought that it would hurt so much just to remember something?  Oh well; at least there's an easy way to temporarily fix that: stop trying to remember.

What were you expecting?  Detailed information about my tragic private life? Get real; I'm not telling you squat unless you pay me, and even then it would depend entirely on the amount.

Right, so there I was, at work, sitting at my desk and doodling.  I do that a lot, now that I think about it, but I don't want to go into a long rambling spiel about taxes and floating cat heads or whatever like I did last time, so we'll just ignore that.  It was around this time when my boss came in, all smiles and jeers, and that puzzled me.  The dude was a pompous twit; he wouldn't have been seen in my little corner of the building unless he was being threatened with guns, knives, nooses, and a flaming mob, complete with pitchforks, and even then it would require a kick in the seat of his pants.  So was it any wonder that the first thing I did was look around for the mob?  He didn't seem to understand why I was so puzzled either, now that I think about it.  He probably figured I was trying to display my flamingly homosexual nature or something.  Which reminds me--here's a tip for future job interviews.  When they ask you for your marital status, never--and I mean never--bat your eyes, wink, and tell them that you're currently selling your body for extra cash and they're welcome to try you out.  It'll haunt you forever.

Right.  So where was I, exactly?  Oh, my boss!  That's right.  Sorry about that.

All right, so Señor Asno, as I've aptly nicknamed him, was in my office, smiling from ear to ear with a box in his hands.  That wasn't the bad part, though--it was that smile.  It looked really out of place, for one thing, and it made him look like he was genuinely happy, and anyone who has someone like Señor Asno as a boss knows that a genuinely happy smile usually means that something is terribly, horribly, devastatingly wrong.  It's the smile your old elementary school principal, who, ironically, despised kids with a vengeance, might have on their face just before they tell you that your parents have died in a car accident.  You know, one of those sadistic, morbid, and all around creepy smiles that haunt your dreams for days afterwards.

Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.

First thing I thought when I saw that smile was that someone had died, except I realized that the only person whose death would actually affect me at all would be Wufei's.  He promised me years ago, however, that in the event of his untimely demise he would have his right hand sent to me in a jar of formaldehyde and that would be the only notice I got.  I don't deal well with death, really, and I'd rather get to keep a memento of my friend than watch him be burned on a funeral pyre--his preferred means of disposal.  Wu-bear understood me perfectly when I said that and made me promise to send him my braid if I ever died without telling him first, just so he could have the satisfaction of taking it away from me.  I consequently have no intention of kicking the bucket before Wufei does.  I spent years growing this baby--I'm definitely not letting it go just because I'm inconvenienced by death.

So, staring at Señor Asno with a look of horrified anticipation, I cleared my throat and set down my pen, making a feeble attempt to hide my doodles.  "May I help you, sir?"

"Clear your desk."  He slammed the box down on the desktop and his sadistic grin widened.

The not-so-subtle message he gave me was suddenly painfully clear.  "I'm being fired?" I asked, astounded.  "Why?"

"I'm afraid that we've had to let several employees go due to the lagging economic situation."

"Bull.  Our economy is doing great--taxes are low, stocks are up, and gas prices are at a record high.  Either the television has been lying to me, which I doubt, given that this company is the one getting the newscasters all that information in the first place, or you're just trying to throw a bunch of shit in my face so you can pink slip me without getting busted."

"An interesting hypothesis, Mister Maxwell, but I'm afraid it is no longer of my concern.  Pack your things and disappear," he said with a smirk.  I growled at him.  If I hadn't needed the money so badly I swear that I would have been overjoyed, but this was just going to really botch things up in my life.  The only benefit was that I wouldn't see Señor Asno again, but even that tiny glimmer of light was squashed by the sense of doom that came with knowing that I was about three days behind on my rent money and didn't have the cash to pay the landlord.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?"

"Yes, Mister Maxwell; I actually pride myself in that fact."  He patted my shoulder congenially, stopping only when I shook him off.  "Don't worry.  There are plenty of jobs out there for young people such as you.  I'm sure that some of the local clubs and bars will be looking for people with your... talents."

I snorted.  Didn't it just figure or what?  Not only did this guy give me the pink slip for no apparent reason but he was calling me a whore, too!  The bastard had some nerve, let me tell you.  Christ, if I still had my old collection of artillery he'd have been leaving the building with a bullet through his head and a knife in his gut, all while lying recumbent on a stretcher.

All right, I admit that I have a bit of a short fuse and a bad temper.  But you can't tell me that this asshole didn't deserve it!  It might have been a little harsh, I'll grant you, but come on!  Them's fighting words!  Give me a break!

Fine, fine, whatever.  I'll stop, if that will make you shut up.  Back to the story.

Not even putting up much of a fight, I started packing all my stuff into that tiny box, grumbling interesting words and phrases under my breath.  Señor Asno retreated pretty much immediately after I started mumbling something about ramming a stapler down his throat, so I got to finish my packing more or less on my own.  It's really amazing what a few threats of unnecessary violence can do, isn't it?

I got back to my apartment complex only an hour later, around noon, almost six hours earlier than usual, but I didn't go inside for a long while, just sat on a bench outside, box in my lap, and staring at nothing in particular.  I don't know how long I was out there before someone stopped in front of me, blocking my line of vision.  I blinked for a second or two until my eyes focused again and frowned, puzzled for a moment.

"Mike?"

"Mister Mackell?"

I smiled at the blonde boy.  "Close enough.  What are you doing out here?"

"I'm taking a walk," he told me simply, shrugging his tiny shoulders.  He'd apparently bathed since I'd seen him last; the slippery crap wasn't on his head anymore and his hair looked kind of damp.  That had been three, maybe four, hours ago, though, so why was his hair wet?  Exactly how many baths did the kid have to take to get all that stuff off?

"With your dad?" I asked, looking around for someone.  The street was empty, except for an old woman standing on the corner with an umbrella hooked at her elbow.  I looked up at the computerized sky; it was clear as could be.  What did she think she was doing with that umbrella?

He nodded.  "He was going to the store and took me with him but the bus stopped too soon and we got off and decided to walk home.  We were racing.  I think I beat him, though," he said listlessly, searching momentarily in the direction from which he had come.  I tried to imagine Heero playing a game like that with a kid but couldn't even begin to picture it.  I also had a hard time thinking of him letting the kid win, either.  Heero has always been one of those people who has to be the best at everything, or so I thought.  Of course, I hadn't ever thought of him living with a kid and not killing the midget out of pure annoyance, either.  Had he really changed all that much?  It was hard to believe.

"I'm sure he'll be here soon."

"Prob'ly.  He always catches up sooner or later.  We go to the store every day except Saturday's and Sunday's and he sometimes let's me carry stuff, like milk," Mike told me, making a face.  "I don't like milk.  Do you?"

"I like it with chocolate.  And when I dunk cookies in it."

"I've never done that.  My father says that it's bad to mix food together and he doesn't let me have many cookies anyway.  He says that it's not good for me to eat a lot of sugar because it'll make my teeth fall out."  He looked up at me.  "Is that true?"

I shrugged.  "Mine haven't fallen out yet."  I grinned at him.  "How old are you, Mike?"

"Five, but I'll be six really soon."

"How soon?" I asked.  Mike just shrugged, making me grin.  He really was quite the kid--one second he would be as quiet as anything and the next he'd be even more garrulous than I.  He was pretty cool, so far as little kids go.

"Ten and a half months."

I looked over to my left, where Heero was standing, arms wrapped around two large paper bags, and somehow managed to pull off a smile.  "Soon enough, I guess.  You want help with that?"

"You've got your own things to carry," he said shortly, eyes looking at the box in my lap for a brief moment or two.  "Michael can help."

Mike rushed over to take one of the bags from Heero, who handed him the one that was obviously lighter, after taking out a few things that must have weighed it down considerably.  It looked like Mike was having a tough time with the bag anyway and it made me smile to watch him struggle earnestly to carry the bag up the steps. He was definitely trying to show off for someone.  Me?  Heero?  It didn't matter; it was cute.

"Then I can at least open the door for you two," I said, getting up and hoisting the box in one hand as I reached over Mike's head to grasp the handle.  Mike thanked me as he went through, heading for the elevator and Heero brushed past me without a word.  I joined them in the elevator.

Christ, stop giving me that awful look!  It's not like I was planning to abduct Mike or anything, nor was I trying to stalk them; if you remember, my floor was just one above their own.  Why take the stairs just to avoid them when I could hitch a ride on the creaky elevator?

Mike set down his bag as soon as the elevator door shut and tugged on the leg of Heero's jeans.  "Can Mister Mackell--"

"Maxwell," Heero corrected without even really thinking about it.  That made me smile; it's kind of funny to see something like that, especially from Heero.

"Can Mister McWell come over and play for a little while?" Mike asked.  I flushed.  Jeez, I'd just met the kid that morning and already I'd been adopted as a play-buddy?  Don't get me wrong--I definitely wasn't complaining, given that I absolutely love kids and Mike was plain adorable, it just struck me as different.  I felt like I was imposing on their little improvised family life, something I'm almost positive Heero didn't appreciate, given the hostility when the two of us had parted ways all those years ago, and I wasn't sure I liked pissing Heero off.  Things were uncomfortable enough between the two of us; it had been a lot better when we hadn't even been aware that we lived in the same building.  Besides, it seemed as though Heero had put a lot of work into making sure no one found out that Mike was living there.  Heero only took the kid out during regular nine to five work hours, for Christ's sake, which was actually pretty damn smart of him, considering, but I could guarantee that it wasn't doing Mike any good.  Poor kid probably didn't have a whole lot of friends.

Heero shot a look my way and made a grunting noise that gave the impression of a negative answer.  Mike deflated.  Not literally, of course, though that would be pretty damn creepy, but he kind of drooped.  Yeah, that's the word for it--he drooped, kind of wilted a little.  He looked really disappointed.  "Oh," he said glumly.  "Okay."

I decided to play devil's advocate for a minute or two, really just to cheer the kid up.  "He can play at my apartment, if that's any better," I offered.  Heero frowned at me, which almost made me regret making the offer, but Mike perked up.  He looked at Heero hopefully.

"May I?"

Heero didn't respond for a long while, but when the elevator doors opened on his floor, he shrugged, taking the bag Mike had been carrying in his arms and walking out.  "Fine.  Don't break anything and be back before three o'clock."

The doors closed behind Heero and Mike cheered, pumping his fist up in the air.  "Yeah!  We're going to have the best time, Mister McWell!"

"Just call me Duo, Mike."

"Okay.  We're going to have the best time, Duo!" he said, repeating himself.  I grinned at him as we stepped out of the elevator.  Who would have thought that spending three hours in my apartment was such a big deal?

I opened the door of my apartment and ushered him inside, locking the door behind me and setting my box on the floor next to the couch.  "So what do you want to do?"

"You have a big apartment," Mike remarked, looking around and ignoring my question.  I peered at the familiar surroundings and shrugged.

"Not really.  There's just not a lot of furniture in here."  That was true.  I've never really seen the point of having a lot of chairs and things.  All I had in the apartment was a futon that folded out into a bed over in the guestroom, a cot in the main bedroom, a couch, a table, two chairs, and three of those huge beanbag things, which I had stuffed in my closet.  I pulled them out when I needed them.  I had an old black and white television, too, but I didn't use it much.  It was plugged into the wall in the bathroom, which probably wasn't all that smart, now that I think of it.  I also had a micro-fridge, but it was tiny and didn't matter much.  The whole place wasn't much to speak of, honestly, but it was enough for me and that was all that mattered, considering that I lived alone. Wufei, when he came over, would complain that the beanbag chairs weren't good for his health, but I found that more amusing than anything else.

Mike looked at me.  "Can we play cops and robbers?  My father never lets me play it because he says it'll make a lot of noise and that's a bad thing to do."

"All right; we can play that.  Do you want to be the cop or the robber?"

"The robber--he's the bad guy with a gun," Mike told me, making sure I understood that he wanted to be the bad guy.

"So I get to be the cop?  The good guy?"

"Ahuh.  You can have a gun, too.  Just point your finger like this."  Mike demonstrated for me, pointing his makeshift weapon at me.  "Bang!  Got you!"

"Hey, no fair!  We haven't even started playing yet!"

"So what?"

"So what?" I repeated, pretending to be alarmed.  "I'll show you 'so what'!" I said, lunging at him.  "It's time for some tickle torture!"

He shrieked with glee, rolling around on the floor while I tickled him until he cried for mercy a few shrill minutes later.  Playing with Mike was a lot of fun and the hours passed by quickly.  I didn't even notice when three o'clock came and went and didn't care when we accidentally dropped a plate on the floor and it shattered into about a trillion pieces.

That's another thing I've noticed over the years.  When a plate breaks it doesn't just make a few clean breaks and get happily swept away.  It would be easy to pick up broken china if it only broke into three big pieces.  But no, it has to burst into as many tiny pieces as it can and go everywhere, just to piss people off.  There's no reason for that, so far as I can see, except for the imminent purpose of being an annoyance.  And you know what I hate the most about it?  Microscopic pieces turn up years later, after a million times of vacuuming and sweeping.  They haunt you until the day you die--or at least until the day you move out.

So what was I talking about?  Oh, playing with Mike, that's right.

Okay, so we didn't really notice what time it was until I accidentally knocked over my clock radio and managed to catch a glimpse of the red numbers.  I got the clock radio for Christmas a few years back, from Wufei, who knew all too well that I'd been on a James Bond kick for awhile and that every time I looked at that clock I would think of Agent 007 disabling those bombs.  I had creepy dreams about saving the world from certain doom for a long while after I was presented with that gift...  Do you know how long they've been making James Bond movies?  Since before the colonies went up, can you believe that!  I guess some things just never get old.  Or that people really like things they know, and trust me, by now people know about James Bond.

Anyway, as I was saying.  The numbers on the clock spelled out the magic number of three forty-five in glowing symbols of doom and I had to stop myself from cursing.  I didn't know just how much Heero had changed over the years, but back when I knew him he had been a stickler for time and punctuality.  This wasn't going to be fun.

"Mike, it's time to get going.  Your dad's probably wondering where we are right about now and we don't want to him to come looking for you."

He got to his feet, frowning.  "It's time to go already?"

"Afraid so.  Come on, let's get you home before your dad freaks out."

Mike giggled at that image.  "I don't think I've ever seen him freak out before.  Have you?"

"Once," I admitted carefully.  I really did have to be careful about what I said, too.  I didn't want him to be asking when and how I'd seen Heero freak, did I?  If Mike decided to play parrot, I would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.  "A long, long time ago.  And, to be honest, I don't think I ever want to see it again.  So let's go, okay?"

"Okay."  He took my hand and we left my apartment and headed down for the elevator.  I didn't even lock my door; why bother?  It's not like I had anything to steal but my James Bond Bomb Clock, and any thief was more than welcome to that.  It would give me an excuse to get a different clock, anyway, and I would definitely count that as a blessing.

The trip down to Heero's apartment took a little bit longer than usual because we had to wait for the elevator and then got the third degree from one of my crabby old neighbors.  I warded her off by explaining that Mike was just visiting me for a little while and I was going to be taking him home now.  It wasn't a lie, really, it was just kind of telling her the exact truth and skipping over all of the important bits.  Those insignificant delays put us in front of Heero's door at almost exactly three fifty-eight.

Mike hummed a tune as he opened the door and led me inside.  "Dad?" he called out.  No one answered his call so he shrugged and went over to the table.

I frowned, looking around.  "Where is he?"

"He might have gone without me," Mike said vaguely, picking something up off the table and looking at it funny.  "To the train station."

"Why would he go there?"

"To take my mother home," he told me.  "Do you know what this says?" he asked, handing me the paper.  "My father tried to teach me how to read a little while ago but I didn't really figure it out.  He said that was okay, though."

"Yeah, I can read it."  I squinted at it, trying to read Heero's handwriting, which was still as varied and unpredictable as I remembered it being.  He'd done that for a reason, I remembered, since he could write extremely well if we wanted to, but the purpose escaped me.  I'd lose a lot sleep trying to remember it later.  The note was short and brief, reminding me of the mission reports Heero always used to fill out.  It read: 'You were late.  Am taking Stacey home.  Watch Michael until I return.  Stay here.'  Nothing very exciting.  I read it aloud for Mike.

"Oh," he said when I'd finished.  "So can we play some more?"

"Quietly, I guess.  Who's Stacey?" I asked as I followed him to the closet, where he pulled out a shoebox full of toy trains and cars.  Mike pulled out a little police car and started to make it zoom across the floor, pushing it along.  He made little "whee-whee-whee" sounds, like an alarm, as he moved it.

Mike shrugged.  "My mom.  She was staying with us yesterday and today and now my father is taking her home so I won't have to see her until next month."

"So she was here this morning?"  That explained one mystery, at least.  The person Heero had been speaking to when I'd brought Mike home must have been the kid's mother, who'd been visiting them for a few days.

"Ahuh."

"Okay."  Talking about his mother obviously bothered him, so I let the subject drop.  I couldn't help but wonder, though, what the deal was.  Kids usually love their mothers to death, don't they?  Especially around Mike's age, what with the Oedipus Complex and all that, right?

I'd be losing sleep thinking about that, too.

I sorted through the shoebox until I found a little red convertible.  Mike giggled when I made the convertible run into a telephone pole and started to talk in a high, squeaky voice.  The dialog mostly consisted of "help, help, save me," but it was enough to keep both our minds off of things.  After safely depositing my convertible-person in jail for both speeding and a bank-robbery (his logic, not mine.  I run into a pole and he decides I've committed all sorts of crimes; next thing he'd be giving me the death penalty for murder), Mike switched to the fire-truck and I pretended to be a worried civilian with a cat stuck in a tree.  He liked that one even more.

After about sixteen mock rescues and emergencies (and one high-speed car chase), the door opened and Heero came in, footfalls making barely a sound.  He nudged a few toy cars out of the way with his foot before he opened the closet and hung up his jacket, then crossed his arms and looked down at the two of us.  Mike looked up with wide blue eyes.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, smiling at his father.  Then, without another word, he went back to his toy ambulance.  "Whee-ooo, whee-ooo!  Don't worry, I'll save you!"

The corners of Heero's mouth turned up slightly at that and I suppressed a grin of triumph--even Heero had thought Mike was being pretty damn cute.  Maybe he had a trace of human blood in him after all.  "It looks like you two have been having fun," he remarked with a bit more feeling than I was used to hearing from him.  It sounded as though he was having a good day.

"Ahuh," Mike said as he put his ambulance back in the shoebox without even bothering to save Dave the Daring Duckling (the shoebox had a few small stuffed animals in it, too) from the perils of a broken leg.  Playtime was obviously over.

"Good.  Go wash up."  As Mike scampered off to the nearest sink, Heero frowned at me.  "You were late getting him home."

I shrugged.  "Not by much, really.  We just lost track of time is all."

His eyes narrowed a bit, giving me the impression that he had waited a long while before taking off with Stacey, but he didn't say anything about that.  "I need to ask a favor."

Whoa, talk about an attitude change.  A second ago he'd been all spiteful and accusatory; now he was practically on his knees begging me to help him.

All right, you caught me.  I'm exaggerating a little bit, you're right, but the point stays the same.  He switched from being anal retentive, over protective and downright irritated to being the congenial good neighbor, asking me for favors and cups of sugar, in less than an instant.  Zero to sixty in point five seconds.  The whole favor thing was outrageous to consider--especially given our past history and the not-so-friendly things that had passed between us so many years ago.  And that's not even mentioning the idle threats, general blackmail, and suspicious glances that passed between us every damn day back then.  Considering that the only time he'd ever helped me out was by offering to shoot me, I was a little bit wary of giving him a hand with much of anything.  You have no idea how tempted I was just to blow him off and walk away before he could even register what was going on.  I didn't even want to hear what the favor was.

Well, being the overall nice guy that I am, I decided to hear him out.  Just this once.

"Okay," I said, grinning.  "Shoot."

"I have to go out of town for business and someone needs to watch Michael.  He gets along with you fairly well and I would have to be stupid to leave him with his mother."

Jeez, if he hated the woman so much, why did he have her stay at his apartment once every month?  "Bad divorce?"

"No.  She's mentally unstable."

"Oh."

"It would only be for three, maybe four, days.  You would have to stay here, in this apartment, and make sure Michael stayed fairly quiet."  He frowned at my lack of response.  "I'd be willing to pay you for the inconvenience."

Ka-ching!  The magic words!

Don't look at me like that.  I was going to do it anyway, you know.  Mike was an addictive little bugger and it wasn't like I had to go to work or anything in any case.  I just wanted to see Heero sweat a little.  Besides, getting money only sweetened the deal.  Without a job I was going to be hard-pressed to pay my rent and, when things get tight, every little bit counts.  Pretty much everyone knows that.  This was a good deal--I'd get paid for playing with my favorite munchkin and for making sure no one stole the apartment, and, when Mike was asleep, I could go through the want ads and find myself a new job.  It would work out.

"You've got a deal."

"Good.  I leave tomorrow at five o'clock.  Get here around four."

And so, with my future somewhat secure and a grin plastered on my face, I said goodbye to Mike and went back upstairs, to my own apartment, where I spent the rest of the night watching R-rated movies and debating whether or not I should call Wufei.

--to be continued--