I will write a fanfic or drabble with the pairing
Heero/Hilde
rated
NC-17
and include the following things:
bullet, angst, book

Warriors

She awoke to the vicious knocks raging against her door.

Hugging herself in the chill, Hilde padded bare-foot through her small house, approaching the entrance. The door shuddered, like a mad thing. Hilde, thinking only to silence it, flung it open without any thought or caution. The wind howled a greeting, and she was startled to see the blue shadow looming over her. She thought fleetingly that Death had come to meet her. But the thing pushed its way into the lowly lit hallway, hunched beneath a heavy burden

"Duo?" His breathing was shaky but deep.

"I'm sorry, Hilde," he said, blue eyes reflecting urgency.

Hilde could not decide whether to laugh or yell. Her brow furrowed lightly, her dim eyes trying to put shape to the form slung around Duo's shoulders. He moved forward into the house and released his burden heavily onto the sofa.

"I have to ask you for a favor." She nodded solemnly. "This is my friend . . . Heero. I can't take care of him right now, but I need some place to keep him out of the storm."

Hilde shook her head in anxiety. "But wh-where – what?"

"I can't," Duo said quickly, already retracing his steps back out to the door. "In the morning," he said, stopping and turning at the threshold. He placed a palm on her shoulder. "Thanks, baby," he smiled weakly, and lifted his hand to tousle her black mop of hair.

Then he was gone.

She surveyed the young man with the scrutinizing gaze only a woman can hold. Though Hilde was little, she had skillfully moved him from the living space into her small bedroom. Once laid out on the bed, unconscious and sprawling, she had a chance to look at him.

He was large, with long limbs, but fragile-looking, as though he had been weakly put together. His shirt and slacks were mercilessly torn, revealing deep gashes in tender skin. His shaggy bangs feel deeply into his eyes, and the thick lashes trembled on his cheeks, betraying nightmares. She leaned over him tentatively to get a better look.

Heero.

Her gaze trailed down his neck onto his chest. The largest gash was just below his right ribcage, obviously made by a bullet, but where the object was now, she could only guess. Probably Duo had removed it at some point.

Drawn to abrupt awareness by this last observation, Hilde leapt into the bathroom and tore apart the cabinets looking for bandages and ointments to secure the wound. It was no longer bleeding, but if it was left open for too long, infection would be certain.

Returning, she undid the remainder of his shirt and carefully parted it to make room to work. She had been a warrior, for quite some time, but the nurturing and healing nature had never left her. She tucked her arm around his waist and hoisted him to his side facing her. The move must have been rough, because the arms of her invalid came up abruptly and grasped her own.

She gasped involuntarily.

His eyes flew open, wide and alert, a cobalt blue. But he was not looking at her.

"He-Heero?" she stammered softly.

His eyes fixated on an invisible object in space.

"It's okay, Heero," she murmured. She lowered him down gingerly, trying to ease his anxiety. But it was like yanking herself from a Chinese torture contraption. The harder she pulled the harder he held her. She had to wait.

She moved herself onto the side of the bed, his hands still grasping her. His eyes found her then, but she felt none the better. They were cold and beautiful, like hematite, and alarmed and tense. She felt nervous, but she placed both her hands on one of his and began to rub it, gently massaging. She did this for a while, until she felt his grip relax, and she was able to take his palm and gently place it next him on the bed. The other came away easily.

Hilde leaned hesitantly and placed a cool palm to his forehead. "My name's Hilde," she said, "I'm Duo's friend."

But his eyes were gone again, vacant, as if a thin film had slid over them, and she rose quietly and left the room, leaving him there to regain her bearings.

When she came back in, his eyes were lidded. She felt uneasy leaving him alone, so she lowered a chair next to him and tucked a book into her lap and read. She went through a good third of the novel, rubbing the pages between her thin fingertips, taking in the textured paper.

She was quite absorbed, until a voice broke in intrusively. "You don't have to stay awake."

She started and pressed a hand to her chest. "You startled me," she breathed.

He was awake. But his deep, cold eyes engaged only the ceiling.

She waited for a while, and when it became clear that he wouldn't speak again, she closed her book carefully, and tugged at the sheets, trying to cover his elbow.

"You've got quite a gash," she said sympathetically. "Casualties were always the part of battle I dreaded most – both for myself and others."

When he didn't respond for quite some time, she rose slowly. But his voice stopped her again.

"You're a warrior," he said quietly.

"I was," she admitted.

He closed his eyes. She saw his chest rise up, then fall down. His bullet wound must pain him terribly. But he showed no sign of it.

Hilde sat back down, lightly, like a bird. Several more minutes passed without speaking.

"Go," he said finally.

Hilde blinked.

"You don't need to take care of me." He said it bluntly, without emotion, but something about the way his mouth moved let her know to stay was despicable to him.

"Heero . . .," she said quietly, steadily.

Still, he ignored her.

Suddenly, her face broke into a smile. She laughed, "You're in my house, baka."

His gaze found her.

"Come, now," she said playfully. "There really can't be anything too bad about letting a woman take care of you."

He watched her with a blank gaze. Then, slowly, he lifted his arms and tucked them underneath the blankets.

"Women are bossy," he quipped, matter-of-factly.

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows. "Do you know many of us? Or are you thinking of one in particular?"

He adopted the far-away expression again, and she deduced the answer from that.

"Is she pretty?" she asked, quietly.

Heero looked at her again. "Yes."

Hilde stroked the cover of her book, strangely mournful.

He was peering at her harshly.

"What?"

He refused to answer.

"Well," she said, rather breathlessly, "if she has to deal with anything like what I've put up with, I wish her the best of luck."

He shut his eyes fast. Hilde wondered what in the world he was doing, until she realized, with a twist in her abdomen, that he had been shot with a knife of pain.

It undid him. The moment was brief, and passed with all the swiftness and poignancy of an arrow, but she saw it. The angst, the agony, the fear, the broken hope, the sorrow was all revealed in that instant when he had to drop everything to focus in on the task at hand. She watched, amazed, as that extraordinary man suppressed all his humanity and shut it neatly into an iron safe.

She found herself stepping softly, moving backwards. She wanted to get away, before she burst into tears.

His brows trembled. His eyes flew open. This time, they looked directly at her. "Where -?"

They both paused, locked on each other.

Then, with an obvious effort, Heero jerked himself onto his side, showing his bare, bruised back to her.

Hilde breathed, shallow slips of air. As carefully as she had begun to leave, she tip-toed back to his bedside and sat carefully in her chair.

She felt terribly. He was angry, she knew it. Because in his moment of pain, she tried to leave him.

And because he had wanted her.

Her head nodded, her sharp chin burying into her collarbone. Her discomfort meant she slept only shallowly, and so she stirred a little in reaction to the stealthy, though un-maskable movements in the room.

She lifted her face and opened her eyes sleepily. The Gundam pilot moved stiffly, replacing his torn shirt and muddied jacket. She watched him as he, unnoticing, struggled to lean over his black-laced boots. The blue-grey light filtering through the window betrayed the dim morning. It fell on him like a dirty halo.

He turned, with a mechanic, jerky movement, and saw her watching. Wihtout a word, he stood abruptly, his steps heavy as he left the room.

Hilde jumped up after him, following helplessly. She felt as though she should say something to stop him, but one night alone with this stranger made it clear he would not be persuaded by anything or anyone outside his own head.

And yet . . . He had asked . . . almost.

He unlatched the lock heavily, and flung open the door. Just as he made to exit, she put a slender arm in front of him, crossing the width of the doorpost.

"Just a minute," she said sternly.

He needn't speak. His gaze demanded the question.

"You forgot this," she said, opening his palm and closing it again around a cool, thin object.

Then he left.

He tramped into the growing light, each shudder of pain running through him at once halted and reprimanded by the neat clench of teeth.

He opened his palm. Against his pale skin, a silver piece of metal flashed greyly. He looked closer.

It read:

Hilde Schbeiker

Fourth Infantry

OZ