Aurora Borealis

D – Return of the Girl Hunter

Staring grimly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Dearka starts violating his manliness by forlornly wishing that he had some makeup at hand. After all, it is quite embarrassing to turn up with a large, blue-black mark covering a large part of his face, especially when everyone will know that it appeared in between battles. And Dearka is well aware that powder and such stuff can be used for far better ends than beautifying girls – time and time again Yzak has woken up with marks, only to have somehow gotten rid off them while officially brushing his teeth. All day the bruises are gone, but after their owner's washing his face before going to bed they're present again. It's magic or makeup, and so long as Yzak doesn't hear him say it Dearka will bet his money on the latter.

Once, when he'd learnt about it just days before, back when they were still in school, they had wandered into the clothes section of a department store and Dearka couldn't help teasing, needed to bring up the subject somehow because there was something off. So he pointed at a dress featured on a mannequin to their left, saying, "Would you look darling in that?"

Casting a brief glance at the fashion, Yzak raised a disdainful eyebrow. "No way. That color would so not sympathize with my hair, can't you see that? If I were to wear a dress it would be something along the lines of that-" he nodded at a blue one, then caught sight of a black one and inclined his head towards it "-or that. Idiot."

"Um, Yzak… I will probably regret saying this, but you seem to have a frighteningly good idea of which women's clothes you'd fit in."

"You're right," Yzak replied, surprisingly unruffled, and arrogant as always. "You will regret saying that."

He did, right then, because his friend has never been a gentle soul, but in the long run he doesn't. Why would he bother to waste regret on something so easily and readily forgiven when so much worse has happened?

Yzak's mouth on his, soft and eager

Yzak's fist in his face, hard and reluctant.

Both sensations are far too vivid, far too familiar, the stuff of which his life is made.

Well, fuck that. I'm off anyway, apparently. He can't decide how he feels about the mission to go take charge of the transportation of the Archangel from the Debris Belt where it was evidently hidden and back to ZAFT territory. The order was given to him a mere hour ago, just after they let Athrun and his little lover out of Le Klueze's office at last.

"I expect it to be a smooth run," the commander told him, "but we can afford to send one of you and the legged ship has a history of creating trouble for us. 4th Squad has already taken custody of the ship and started moving it; you need only take Buster there and assure that there are no problems. Remember that the objective is to capture, not kill, even if the EA should send additional forces. I expect you'll be back in time for the surveillance visit from the Council."

Grimacing at his reflection he decides that there's no use crying over spilt milk (or, as the case is here, lack of makeup) and starts for his Gundam. To send him seems more than a tad overkill but it's not for him to judge and he can see why he was chosen, much as he attempts to expel that particular subjects from his thoughts. Under normal circumstances Nicol ought to be the one picked for waste-of-time assignments such as this one, being that the little softie isn't much good in real battle anyway, but the situation has gotten out of hand. More so than he allowed himself to realize, if Le Klueze is letting it affect his decisions. Obviously, and for obvious reasons, half the objective with the mission is to give him and Yzak some time apart, and considering the peaceful overtones to the assignment Dearka's considerably better suited than the Duel pilot.

Sighing and rubbing tiredly at his eyes he reflects that he should be relived, should consider it a welcome respite to calm his thoughts, but he sure as hell doesn't. To leave Yzak, even for just two days or so, is too much like leaving himself.

He seriously contemplates searching the volatile but attached Duel pilot out to say goodbye. The memory of the kiss, the sensation of which is seemingly tattooed onto his lips, drives him towards that course of action even as the re-starting ache from the ugly bruise holds him back.

Before he's gotten anywhere near a decision Yzak is there, appears silvery and sudden like a ghost. Eyes that are usually sapphire in hue gleam darker now, midnight-colored, haunted and so cold they're hot, like ice on skin. Stop it, Dearka tells himself, stop thinking that he looks waif-y and that you wanna hug him, it's demeaning and he'd kill you. But it's tempting because Yzak must have rushed here, and the only feasible reason for that would be that he's heard that Dearka's taking off and wanted to see him before that – whitish hair provide a ruffed halo, clear evidence of Yzak hurrying because he never allows it to do that, always tames it and has it hanging like a smooth velvety drapery.

"I'll kill you," he says now through the errant silver stand of hair clinging to his mouth, a dark intensity to words so hard they're brittle.

I my fat idiot, Dearka thinks. Ouch.

Actually, "ouch" doesn't even begin to cover it.

He has himself to blame, of course. To think Yzak couldn't move very fast simply because he seems weary and frail – that's a dangerous sort of stupidity. His croutch pays for it through the sudden blazing reacquainting with the other pilot's knee. Unable to even groan, to do anything save pant heavily through desperately clenched teeth, he takes two halting steps before keeling over. Aided by Yzak's hand on his shoulder he ends up on his back, soon with the other leaning closely over him in a perverse echo of when they shagged.

What kind of sick circle have we stumbled into? Lust and violence just continuing to intertwine – is it gonna end by us sleeping together again and subsequently killing each other? We have to… have to stop this, make things right again, somehow, because

His thoughts fall gradually silent, soon forgotten, for reason is fickle and unimportant compared to the hot-smooth, hard-soft feeling of Yzak's fingers ghosting over his face. First there's the light scratch of nails, then the exquisite silk of finger-pads, finally the familiar coarseness of callused palms. All these sensations steal lightly over his features before firming, becoming a bowl of bony limbs cupping his face, one stray fingertip burying itself in his hair and tentatively poking at the skin of his scalp.

Right when the pain has finally abided sufficiently to allow him the ability of speech Yzak kisses him. They're lying on the floor in one of the public corridors and Yzak is kissing him, not a chaste or shy peck but a deep, devouring snog that would tempt Dearka to respond by rolling over and pinning him if it weren't for the hurt caused by getting excited after so recently having a knee showed into his groin.

Though apparently through kissing him Yzak doesn't remove himself but rather leans even more heavily on him, tucking his head under Dearka's chin, cheek resting against the Buster pilot's upper torso. "I'll kill you if you die," he says, finishing the line from before. "Do you hear me? If you ever dare die I'll fucking kill you."

"Yeah," Dearka replies, rearranging his arms to that they're draped heavily over Yzak's back, one hand playing over his neck. "I won't ever leave you."

As fast as the silly, untrue, cheesy words are out of his mouth he braces himself for impact but none comes; there are a few moments of still silence, then Yzak pushes himself up on one elbow, peers down at Dearka's face, his own inscrutable. For a second the Buster pilot thinks, knows, hopes that the other is about to brush their lips together again but after a light sigh Yzak merely raises one eyebrow and says, "And here I thought that was exactly what you had been ordered to and were in the process of doing?"

"Well, eh, that's…" Dearka's famous for his talent for bullshitting but they're both aware it's never done him much good around Yzak and he's afraid suddenly of saying the wrong things even as he tries to understand what the wrong things are.

"Let's get you going, then," the Duel pilot cuts him off, rising to his feet and extending one hand in offering. Dearka grabs on to it gratefully, giving a discontent snort as Yzak helps pull him to his feet. The pain is still there but no worse than that he can move mostly freely, and after assessing as much his former roommate nods a little and turns to stalk away. For whatever reason, though, he has neglected to free his hand, which is still resting in Dearka's, and following some crazy impulse (half just plain not wanting to part, half not wanting to be reduced to merely reacting to what his counterpart does) the Buster pilot tightens his fingers around it, tugs Yzak back towards him. Perhaps surprised the other doesn't struggle, allows Dearka to haul him in and start the kissing anew.

He meant it to be a mere goodbye peck, but then again, that evening after the French disaster he only meant to see if Yzak was hurt, not halfway sleep with him, so perhaps he oughtn't to be surprised that it doesn't precisely go according to plan.

For the first time since their odd liaison began Yzak neither responds in kind nor hits him, instead just stands there passively for a handful of seconds letting himself be frenched. Eventually he tugs loose, gaze fixed on a crack in the ceiling.

"So, eh, I guess I'll, uh, see you later, then," Dearka stutters, trying to bridge the rapidly increasing distance with words now that physical contact has been denied him.

No answer is given, not in word or gesture or expression; Yzak walks back towards the living area and Dearka trots towards the machine hall.

Seated rather comfortably inside his Gundam he lazily muses over the unlikeliness of the situation, the ridiculously low odds Athrun and his little brunette had for stumbling over the legged ship. On the other hand the blunette always has been lucky like that and it's never much use to look a gift horse in the mouth. Following this last train of thought to its logical conclusion Dearka turns on the autopilot and leans back, preparing to nod off.

The warning beep that wakes him up a couple of hours later announces that he's arrived at the outmost edge of the Debris Belt; from here on he'll have to navigate by himself. A few quick commands later he has the exact position of the Archangel and proceeds to land.

It's humbler than he expected it to be, he concludes after storing Buster in the machine hall and exiting the unit. Oh, certainly it's a miracle compared to all other EA vessels he's ever seen or heard of, but it's been sort of a long time since it sank in that this Archangel isn't exactly an ordinary ship in any way, and when using ZAFT models as reference it really isn't all that great.

Two 4th Squad officers greet him, giving him a brief tour of the vessel. Between their dull company and the lack of obvious entertainment it doesn't take Dearka longer than half a minute to decide that it's going to be a very long two days before he's back where he belongs.

The only feature that could possibly provide him with any amusement is the prisoners, some of whom he's actually familiar with rumors about. Mu La Flaga, Hawk of Endymion, is supposed to be something as extravagant and peculiar as a competent natural. The two concepts don't fit, usually seem to be mutually exclusive, but according to popular belief the lieutenant in question is a more than fair strategist and an exceedingly accomplished fighter. Well, he'd have to be for Commander Le Klueze to take an interest in him.

The other one he's heard rumors about is the Allister girl. Reading news papers has never been high on his list of favorite activities, but when you're holed up in a waiting room and the choice is flipping through the paper or staring blindly into the wall for half an hour – well. Since the texts weren't especially interesting he spent a good five minutes staring at the picture of the spoiled red-haired girl. Kinda pretty, least if he'd seen her when boobs still ranked top on his List of Most Important Features.

To pour his sarcasm and general mean comments over the ZAFT crew wouldn't be very rewarding – 4th Squad aren't known for their intelligence so why throw pearls before swine? Plus it isn't exactly smart to make his subordinates hate him, however tempting it might currently seem.

The prisoners, on the other hand… and he has to admit he's faintly curious as to what kind of naturals managed to escape them for such a long stretch of time. Now, let's see, there are the civilians confined in a hall further inside the ship, but what he's interested in is the crew, and if he remembers correctly they ought to be locked up in the private rooms adjourning to that corridor they passed while they were showing him the layout of the place.

Not having bothered to find out who's where or even to decide whom he wants to see, the picks the first door at random and starts fiddling with the lock. It's surprisingly easy, even for a natural ship, and allows the door to glide open after only a few seconds. Heck, his primary school computer had a more advanced security system.

It's quite a dull room, but not significantly worse than the ones he regularly inhabits himself and right now it has its good sides – namely two girls seated on the farthest bed, both of them his own age and both dressed in the extremely sexist pink uniform of junior female EA employees. Closest to him is a bland chick with vaguely cute but entirely forgettable features, mainstream gold-brown hair and mainstream blue eyes. In between her and the wall, crouched around her up-drawn knees and staring at him with blearily watchful eyes, is Fllay Allister.

"Hello," he calls cheerfully. "Dearka Elthman here."

"Who…" the brunette girl says uncertainly. "You're… you're the ZAFT officer come to take charge?"

"Well, yeah, pretty much," he says, trying to decide whether to be amused or insulted at her incredulity. He's almost settled for the first option when Fllay Allister suddenly and shockingly charges, throwing herself recklessly forward, attacking him like an angry cat. Hissing, clawing and crying she launches herself at him, almost managing to smash into him before he catches himself and restrains her. "Oi, oi, calm down," he tries to reassure/rebuke the hysterical girl, unfortunately not with much success. This is not the sort of situation he is at all familiar with, and frustration frays his nerves as he finds himself continually unable to provide any aid or relief. "Come on!" he snaps, giving her a shake, fingers closed hard around her shoulders. "Look, I respect your grieving your father, but wailing about it to me won't help any! People die in wars, all right, and it's not like he was even halfway innocent!"

She chokes, gurgles, then starts trashing even more violently in his hold, and he doesn't know what to do; is subsequently relived when the other girl gets up from the bed and walks over to them, fitting calm, kind hands around Fllay. "Come here," she says softly, and her words have all the impact that Dearka's evidently didn't, allows her to lead the other girl back to the bed and gently seat her on it. Then, after a last motherly caress over matted red hair, she turns back towards the Coordinator, sweet face suddenly tight and cloudy with dark emotion.

"You piece of shit!" she exclaims, and Dearka barely manages to catch her hand before she can slap him. "I don't care who you think you are, you are no better or worse than any of us, how can you just go and say such things, don't you have a caring bone in your body! I know we're at war and everything but there are limits! I'm tired of all you solider boys marching in and out and thinking you're the only ones entitled to be hurt! The girl lost her father! You… you…!"

Tears enchant her eyes, make them darker and have them glimmering; he stares, entranced, hardly noticing how sobs strangle her words or how her face scrunches up with the force of her crying. She spoke about a father and she's so hurt and blue, blue eyes are gazing up at him and unlike the person he sort of wishes she were she seems willing to let him help, doesn't argue at all as he tentatively, uncertainly, uncomfortably wraps his arms around her, rocking back and forth and stroking her back and clumsily trying to assure her that everything will turn out all right in the end.

He'd never say that to Yzak, because they are both far too well aware that the Duel pilot wouldn't believe him.

That ends now, though. He's going to make Yzak believe, in him and them and happy endings, whether his comrade wants to or not. He'll make Yzak make them both fix everything, and so what if the happy ending is a lie, so long as they come out of it alive and together?

"It's okay," he tells the girl crying against his chest. "We'll make sure it's okay. How about that, miss…?"

"Miriallia," she says, smiling a little through the tears. "Miriallia Haww. Pleased to – well, considering the circumstances I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I say I'm pleased to meet you, but I'm not displeased about it either."

"That's a start, I guess," he finds himself replying, thoughts fixed firmly on Yzak. Well, nothing new there.

xxxxx