Title: To Be Young Again
Author: Viridian Magpie
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing.
Summary: Perhaps Maxwell had the right idea. (giftfic)
AN: a first venture into this particular fandom; please, let me know what you think

Up. And down. Up. And down. Up. And down.

Black-clad arms were moving in a rhythm which would most certainly be hypnotising him if they weren't performed by Duo Maxwell and if he weren't Heero Yuy.

Up. And down. Up….

As it was, he was not slowly slipping into a trance, eye-lids growing heavy and mind numb. Quite to the contrary, he was becoming amused. Standing by the window of their little hidey-hole in northern Finland – which wasn't really so much small as comfortably spaced but Maxwell had dubbed it a "hidey-hole", anyway, and thus a "hidey-hole" it was –, he watched Deathscythe's pilot make a complete and utter fool of himself.

More so than usually, he corrected himself.

'Tch. Snow angels.' Heero sneered, then snorted as he saw Maxwell standing up, careful not to ruin his work, and start building a snow man.

01 rolled his eyes. At times, he really did wonder just how old the other pilot was.

When it came to his psyche, he couldn't be older than five. A child, which was waving at him now. Heero studiously ignored that and turned his gaze away. It came to rest on the snow angel again. He studied it, noting the pristine colour (of course, it was snow), the slight indentation where Maxwell's fat ass had rested, and the unmarred wings, which looked like they would move any moment now and bear the angel away to wherever its fancy took it.

A barely noticeable sheen stole over Heero's eyes, giving them the appearance of wistful dreaming. Only for a moment, however, because as soon as Chang approached from his left, any and all expression vanished from 01's face.

Pilot 05 stopped beside him, grunting when he glanced out of the window.

"Idiot," he asserted.

"Hn."

Indeed, and one they should leave to his own devices. Heero did so.

Evening came and night followed fast. The sun had long since set when a lone figure left the cottage and entered the forest. Hidden from sight behind some trees it halted and lay down spread-eagled in a snow covered clearing. Slowly it began to move its arms, steadily and in a tightly controlled rhythm: Up. And down. And up. And down. And up…

Then it lay still, for through the darkness someone else made their way towards it on silent feet.

Heero sat up quickly, hand going for his gun before his conscious mind had registered the movement. Then the stranger stepped into a patch of light and he relaxed a bit.

Wufei Chang inclined his head, a greeting, then raised a questioning eyebrow, gaze flickering to Heero's right.

He nodded and Chang sat down next to him.

They stared at the trees for a while, quiet and contemplating.

"Sometimes," Chang began, "angels need to stretch their wings."

Heero – hands growing cold from the frigid air – did not at first reply to this cryptic remark.

Chang waited patiently.

"What if they're broken?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Heero saw the other pursing his lips, frowning in concentration.

"They don't," he finally said, "they just get cramped and weak from disuse."

"Like muscles." This was more familiar territory.

"Yes."

His own breathing, Heero noticed, was not optimal. And his voice, when he spoke again, was perhaps a bit unsure.

"Muscles need to be exercised."

They did not look at each other, but a silent understanding passed, anyway, and so they let themselves fall back and spread their wings.