Impossible

A Gundam Wing Fan Fiction

Rambled Off by The Manwell

Book Three: PARTNERS

Duo Maxwell

Okay, why in the hell hadn't this particular detail been included in the mission briefing?

It pains me, but I manage to swallow back a glare of lethal proportions. At least until I can gift its intended recipient with it.

Yes, I'd like to lodge a formal complaint concerning the purposeful withholding of vital information by a fellow Preventer agent. But, seeing as how I can't get my hands on those ever-popular and Internal Affairs-provided Your Ass Is Grass forms, I'll just have to make do with mental rants and elaborate torture scenarios.

I offer a sage nod in response to some indecipherable – and likely completely asinine – comment Dr. Adamsson's assistant generates. He doesn't seem to notice that 1) I'm not doing any of the work his company is supposedly paying me for, and 2) I haven't contributed to the conversation during the last twenty-three minutes. It's really quite remarkable that the man can go this long without either repeating himself or suffering from oxygen deprivation. This clearly defies the known and accepted facts of human biology and psychology.

Hence, Heero should have bloody mentioned it.

And I can't even use my own personally tailored military hand signals to bitch him out about it in real time.

I carefully do not glare at what I can see of him as I hover nearby, awaiting an obscure grunt which I will have to correctly translate into a request for some tool or supply which I supposedly have in my possession. Note to self: do not, under any circumstances, offer to help Heero with home improvement projects.

As I attempt to keep my eyes from glazing over from overexposure to chem-geek jargon, I reflect on how damn lucky Heero is to be wound tighter than your average Swiss watch because, otherwise, I'm pretty sure he would have fallen asleep from sheer boredom by now. It's a mystery to me how I'm managing to keep myself from spasmodically twitching in a vain attempt to circumvent mental atrophy.

Damn, but these dweeby science guys can talk!

"That's a rather interesting point," I interject with lightning-quick reflexes when I sense the presence of semi-closing punctuation in his rambling address. Deciding to check to make sure Heero really is still conscious where he's hidden in the cozy utility access cubby – and indulge in just a bit of petty revenge – I continue, "Have you talked to Rupe about your theory? He's really into maximizing calcium ion channel flow in African anteaters."

I think it's quite obvious that I have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. In fact, I'm not even sure there actually are African anteaters. Let alone if their neurons communicate with calcium ion channels.

I'm a machine kinda guy. I only know enough about the inner workings of the human body to point out, in the event that I have the opportunity, to Wufei that he's about to eat something that will only make bowel movement more strenuous in two days' time. Oh, and I can do a passable job of patching myself up in the middle of Armageddon while up to my armpits in blood and mud. But I doubt the next Nobel Prize laureate here would appreciate the lecture I could deliver on the topic. To say nothing of me having to explain why a childhood supplemented with MacGyver re-runs could equip me with such technical knowledge...

So, I entertain myself with wondering if Heero's going to counter my ruthless attempt to redirect the focus of our local pharmacist to him. Mr. I Have No Life doesn't have enough time to do more than raise his brows and look in the direction of where Heero's torso probably is, before a droll comment rolls out of the hole in the wall.

"It's melanin production levels in South American fruit bats that I'm studying up on lately." I have an instant in which to admire Heero's swift reply and wonder where in the hell that little fiction had come from before a martyred sigh echoes out into the small laboratory. Heero affects in a bored drawl, "Would it kill you to actually pay attention to a conversation for once, MacGyver?"

I'm trying to decide between which subtle verbal smacking I want to go with but the assistant jumps – figuratively – between us in a scarily perky attempt to moderate our exchange.

"That's not fair, Rupert. I can't really blame anyone for not being particularly interested in my area of research. It's not exactly mainstream."

Or even remotely interesting.

"So why don't you tell me about you, Felix?"

I shrug. "What's to tell?" I begin and start weaving a yarn about my fictional adolescence and the following – equally fictional – college years. Of course I paint myself as an underappreciated genius amongst dullards. Nedly the Nerd seems to relate to those bits, especially. I'm somewhat content discussing various adventures in electrical engineering projects I'd supposedly undertaken while still in that mythical university I'd never attended, when quite suddenly, the conversation takes an odd turn.

"So, I suppose, if you could have anything it would be recognition for your innovations?"

I open my mouth to shoot off a reply but I feel myself stumbling over a tangle of words that seem to be a very-in-character ready agreement and an alien assertion that has something to do with my partner. "Erm..." I hear myself fumbling. But it appears this is confirmation enough for Nedly.

"Well, what's stopping you, Felix?"

If I'd had the luxury, I would have allowed my eyebrows to arc at that. This guy certainly doesn't believe in doing things half way, does he? Either he's boring me to tears or he's firmly pushing against the boundaries of what constitutes polite conversation. Still, it's not like he's the first guy I've ever met to be so under-socialized in his little lab-world that he's lost all concept of tact. Just look at wartime Heero. Yowza.

"Uh... well the normal stuff, I guess," I mutter and commence with a nice bit of hemming and hawing about the unfairness of life and know-it-all managers and obnoxious patent laws.

I'm still nattering on about how great my life would have been if I'd been the one to invent Post-It Notes, when Heero squirms out from the utility access compartment and announces the completion of his project with the following truism:

"Stop boring the clients, MacGyver. Come on. Let's shut you up – I mean, feed you."

The assistant looks positively scandalized by that deliberate abuse, but I laugh. And in that moment, I really see what I've gained in Heero: more than a working relationship, more than camaraderie, maybe even more than friendship. And I'm suddenly nostalgic over all of the good laughs we might have had if I hadn't spent the last two years being such a bastard. And I'm wondering if we're going to be able to enjoy this new dynamic between us in the future. I'm wondering if Heero's going to give us that time before he does something stupid like checking himself into one of those funny farms for maladjusted veterans. But I don't have to wonder what he'll do if I don't use this chance to show him he's not some sort of ticking time bomb. I know this is the first, last, and only chance I'm going to get to present my case.

And I know I shouldn't be throwing all my chips onto the table for this one, big crap shoot. But, God damn it, something has got to pan out. After all, nobody has this much shitty luck indefinitely. At least, not if I have anything to say about it.