Heero Yuy, here we are again.
I don't know why you put yourself between me and that bullet. I don't even know how you saw it coming, but you did. Of course you did.
It took the last of the bandages and a towel for the bleeding to subside. You're all pale and covered in sweat, and you have a raging fever. You can't keep doing this, these close calls with death have got to stop; they aren't at all healthy. You're lucky to be alive. I got off fairly lightly compared to you, my injuries are all superficial. Cuts and bruises, sticks and stones, nothing I haven't seen before.
I took a quick shower when I was finished with you. It had to be quick, because I was concerned that I may come back and find that you had stopped breathing. I knew when I was done because the water stopped running red with our combined blood.
And you're still right there, where I left you. So still, so silent, you haven't moved an inch. I wander over to the bed and rest my hand on your forehead. You're still too hot, feverish, but you've cooled down somewhat since last time and that's always a good sign – unless you're dead, but I can see the gentle rise and fall of your chest, so I know that you're still among the living. It is so dark in here; we can't afford to have the lights on in the middle of the night because it would draw unnecessary attention to us. In the dim light, the moonlight hits your face at all the right angles. You look so peaceful, Heero. You look innocent, despite your injuries. If I didn't know better, I would never have suspect that you were a soldier.
This room is tiny. Money is a luxury that we don't have, the money that we do have is the result of kindness, gratitude or theft. We only have one bed. Probably my fault, I tossed a wad of cash at the man at the reception and grabbed any old key. You were bleeding and we can't go to hospitals, I didn't have time to enquire about accommodations.
You're in pain. Stop making those sounds, those little pained groans. You scoot over, make room for me. I take it as an invitation and climb in the bed beside you. I know that the sensible thing to do would be to ignore your gesture, to stand watch for the rest of the night, just in case OZ should manage to track us down and come after us. But we'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it, because I'm too tired.
The sheets are sticky with blood and I don't know whether it's my own or yours. It's disgusting, really, and I just showered. Then again, I'm used to being covered in blood, be it my own or that of others, so I don't have a problem with it.
"Trowa..." You say, softly, in such a melancholic tone. It's unlike you. Normally, you're cold, you speak flatly and concisely.
"Yeah?"
"I'm Sorry." I prop myself up on one elbow, turning so that I can study your face.
"You ate a bullet for me, and you are apologising?" I'm trying to make you feel better, I realise. I know you are apologising because you think you screwed up the mission and nearly got us both killed; because you feel weak and helpless and ashamed.
You grumble, too tired to argue. I close my eyes and wrap my arm protectively around your waist, being careful to avoid your wounds, and draw you closer to me. I hold you tightly, feel your warmth, and whisper into your ear,
"I forgive you, I always will." I place a gentle kiss on the back of your neck and lay beside you. Don't worry, I won't let go. I won't leave you.
You cry in your sleep, Heero. But don't worry, because I probably do it too.