Impossible

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Rambled Off by The Manwell

Book Three: PARTNERS

Duo Maxwell

I don't have to look up from the outdated techie article I'm not reading to know the exact moment Heero resigns himself completely to this mission.

Personally, I'm rather impressed that he'd held onto his misgivings as long as he had. And, while it's unlikely that he's flushed those reservations down the proverbial crapper, at least he's going to offer more than grudging cooperation. And about damn time, too.

I'd been running out of patience.

In the long, breathless moment following our successful clearance of the Earth's atmosphere, the already-humming air between us shifts as Heero leans his head back against his seat, sighs out a lungful of air, and commences with staring blankly out the shuttle window.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is what surrender looks like... Yuy style.

I reflect on the swiftness with which he'd swapped tension for disappointment and smile down at the glossy photo of an overpriced – and now completely obsolete – external memory cache device for the busy businessman's traveling workstation.

"There's nothing remotely funny about this situation," my seatmate informs me in a flat voice.

I know with absolute certainty that he hadn't glanced away from those deceptively stationary points of light out there. It appears he's just as psychic as I am today.

"Maybe not," I agree lightly. "But you know me. I never pass up an opportunity to amuse myself."

I can easily picture the agreeing lift of Heero's brows. "Then, by all means, do share."

I flip to the next shiny page and oblige him. In a tone that would have been more appropriate for making a comment on the weather we'd left behind on Earth, I muse, "Never thought you'd be disappointed that our shuttle hadn't been engulfed in a blazing inferno. That's all."

I hope Heero doesn't ask me how I'd managed to connect that forlorn sigh to a lack of spontaneous combustion because, quite frankly, I'm not sure how I'd made that jump, myself. But it seems to fit. Which is why it's so amusing.

He snorts. "No death threats, either." He manufactures another expressive sigh and in that monotone of his, he plays along, "Nobody ever visits... Nobody writes..."

I swallow back my laughter and I try to tell myself I'm just being considerate to my fellow passengers but, honestly, I don't want to encourage the attention of Fate with the sound of my amusement. There's just something about zipping around in a glorified tin can in infinite fucking vacuum that is practically asking for a cosmic smack-down if you know what I mean.

Call me paranoid.

Irrational.

Psychotic.

I won't dispute any of them. They're all true, more or less.

I tell Heero in a tone I've wrestled into boredom, "I could arrange for someone to stalk you if that'd make you feel more comfortable."

"What a pal."

I grin at my magazine. I can tell from the acoustics of his reply that Heero still hasn't looked away from that stupid window. "Here for ya, man. Through lumpy gravy and runny eggs."

I can almost hear his wince. "Great," he grunts in response to my choice of imagery. "Just in time for the in-flight meal."

"You barf, I'll bag."

I hear the hidden bark of amusement in the obvious hitch in his breathing but – like me – he keeps a white-knuckled grip on his laughter. I wonder if I'm not the only one who always feels like an amoeba under God's microscope when I fly commercial shuttles through outer space.

Beside me, Heero shakes his head and whispers softly, "How did I let you talk me into this?"

I arc a brow and consider opening my mouth to reply, but I sense he hadn't actually intended to ask that question aloud. I let him think he hadn't voiced that thought and continue staring down at the pretty pictures winking up at me from the pages of the months-old magazine. I probably should have picked up a current issue from the spaceport duty-free shop but whatever. I'd been a little preoccupied. And, honestly, I hadn't wanted to get too engrossed in anything during the flight. After all, I've got some serious scheming to contemplate.

What I'd told Heero about the risks he'd be taking if he refused the mission had been true.

Well, mostly.

I might have exaggerated.

Played to his ingrained paranoia.

All right, all right. Blatantly manipulated him.

But it's all for a good cause.

No, really. It is.

Here's the deal: while I'm willing to accept the hypothesis that Heero's training and psyche are having a nice little tiff at the moment, I'm finding it difficult to accept that his mission to the former Lunar Base had nothing to do with it.

Before Heero had left on this mission, he'd been fine. The most solid, dependable agent on the payroll at HQ. I know. I've butted heads with him often enough over mission logistics. You could say I enjoy a bit of slack in my plans to allow for spontaneity and opportunism. Heero, on the other hand... Damn, but I think he'd be tempted to schedule our bathroom breaks if he'd thought for one second that I'd let him get away with it.

But now...

Total. One. Eighty.

So, slap a sticker on my ass that reads "Paranoid Conspiracy Freak" in nuclear fuchsia but I'm still gonna go through with this mission. Both Une's official assignment and my own clandestine investigation into this phantom catalyst.

And let's be honest. Before I can really help Heero make an informed decision about what to do next regarding his, er... internal clash of issues, I'm going to need all the information I can get. Including why this had manifested itself now.

Yeah, that's what I tell myself...

... and I ignore the very satisfying fantasy of finding that stereotypical evil bad dude who hurt my friend and putting my fist through his heavy coke-bottle lenses and sweaty face.

Yeah. No hidden priorities here. I'm an open book, doncha know?