The Burning Bed
Trowa waited in the copse where he'd first seen Duo and Quatre together. The bucolic setting had changed in a great deal in the past two months; the trees were bare and six inches of snow blanketed the ground like cotton-wool. The wind moaned in the upper branches like a damned soul. Tomorrow would be the first day of winter and Mother Nature mourned the loss of her fair-weather children.
The sound of twigs snapping and feet scuffing on the snow-covered leaves broke through his rumination. He carefully stashed the case he'd carried out here into a hollow bolt hole and put his body between his contraband and the unknown person approaching. A slight figure with a heavy burden on his shoulders came into view. It was Duo and his body language bothered Trowa.
Ever since the day Quatre and he picked the lonesome boy up, a vital spark had disappeared. Gone was the manic craziness, replaced by a somber, beaten personality. Something had happened and the uni-banged boy couldn't figure out what. But he intended to.
"Hey, Trowa," Duo said, stopping just out of arm's reach. "Didcha bring it?"
"Here," Trowa answered, reaching into the trunk of the tree. "I can't say that I like this, but as you've pointed out, I owe you." He opened the case and showed the braided boy the .22 caliber semiautomatic Ruger that rested in the padding.
Duo reached into the inner pocket of his worn pea coat and drew out five hundred dollars in crumpled twenty-dollar bills. "This oughta cover the cost of the gun. So you don't get into trouble." He took the case, closed it and stuffed the rumpled bills into Trowa's hands.
"Duo..."
"Don't. Look, things will be over very soon. Trust me." He started walking away, stopped and looked over his shoulder at the quiet boy. "Thanks for bein' my friend, even if we got off to a rough start."
"Duo..."
"See ya!" he yelled, rushing away from Trowa.
"I hope I didn't mess things up." Trowa shook his head and followed Duo's tracks out of the woods. "Maybe I should've told Quatre about this. I don't like it." He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial for his little love. "Quatre, I think I just made a huge mistake."
Duo walked into his family's garage, opened the case, drew out the gun and loaded it with the rounds he "borrowed" from his father. He left the empty case on Owen's workbench. He flipped the safety off the weapon and quickly pocketed the pistol. The sight of his father's car resting in its stall, snow falling off the undercarriage with wet, sad plops made him angry. The increase in adrenaline got him ready for what was going to happen next.
He stole into the room, keeping his feet as quiet as possible and praying that the damp soles wouldn't squeak on the high-priced linoleum. The sight of a familiar package brought an up-swelling of anger and hatred that threatened to choke him out. Another damned gift from Roger Muscat and one that Owen had gladly accepted. Once again his father was feeding him into the chop shop of his ego; and because they didn't dare let Mr. Winner know exactly how Owen got and kept his clients, Duo would once again be sacrificed. He'd end up crucified on the cross of Owen's need and greed.
The absolute silence of the house caused Duo's nerves to jump, knowing that any moment his father's ugly mug would come into focus and he would have to face another abuser. But this time things were a wee bit different….now that he had Trowa's gun, there would be nothing to stop him from extracting his pound of flesh.
The soft creak of the loose floorboards in the kitchen was the only advanced warning that Duo got. As soon as he stepped further into the room, he was grabbed in a bone-crushing hug; one that was so tight that his joints and spine popped and cracked like so much stale popcorn.
Owen grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, but Duo had enough room to wriggle about and place the barrel of the pistol against Owen's lower ribs. He cocked the gun back, allowing his father time to register the fact that there was a loaded weapon threatening him life and limb.
"Give me a reason, old man," Duo growled, whirling around as Owen's grip loosened. "Just give me one reason why I shouldn't blast the living fuck out of you. If only to see what you really have hiding in there. I doubt that there's a heart tucked away, but who knows, we might just find something useful."
"You dumb bitch!" Owen snarled. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Who do you think I am?"
"You're the stupid bastard that's been using me as a stepping stone for your career and not giving a shit about what happens to me," Duo said, pulling away from the taller man. "I'm done being nothing more than a means to an end. From now on, the only one I think of is me. Got that, old man?"
"Why you worthless piece of trash, I oughtta…." Owen's voice trailed off in shock as Duo moved the barrel of the pistol from his ribs to his groin. He looked into the braided boy's eyes and saw the deep fire he started all those years ago. A frisson of fear crawled its way up his spine and a realization dawned on him. The abuse that he had heaped on this one poor child was coming back to haunt him.
Duo smiled up at his father with a feral grin, pulled the hammer back and fired the gun. Bits and pieces of torn flesh and splatters of blood covered his right hand, arm and side. He scooped up a dishtowel and pressed it against the gaping wound that had once been his father's instrument of torture. It now threatened to take the man's life.
"Oh no you don't, ya old fart," Duo said, slapping Owen's cheek hard to keeping him from passing out. "You don't get to go n'night until you tell me where I'm supposed to meet that piece of shit Muscat, got me?"
Owen gasped in pain. "He's waiting at the apartment and you're to wear what's in the box."
"Oh, great! Another whore's outfit. There ain't no way in hell that I'm putting anything that fraud's picked out, on. He'll just have to be happy to see me the way I am." He graced his fallen father with another not-quite sane smile. "Don't worry about your reputation, I'm gonna take care of the problem."
He walked over to the phone and picked it up off the cradle, hit the blue emergency button and waited until someone answered.
"911 to you have an emergency?" a woman's voice came over the receiver.
"Yeah, I just shot my old man in the balls. He needs an ambulance before he bleeds to death. And tell the cops that I won't be here when they get here, so to just let themselves in the front door." He considered his next words carefully. "My older brother is hiding under his bed, upstairs, so if they don't wanna smell piss, they'd better avoid that area." He dropped the phone, pocketed the gun and walked out of the house.
He headed for the apartment, taking the trails and paths known only to the younger generation to avoid any police involvement with his business. They weren't there to protect him when he needed it, so why should he allow them the right to interfere with his revenge. By the time they found him, Roger Muscat would be dead and Duo's life would be starting over.
He reached the building and took the elevator to the top floor. Nothing but the best for clients of Winner Enterprises and that even extended to the 'love nests' provided them by one Owen Reid. Who cares that the ones really sealing the deal were children who were forced into this by an unscrupulous asshole who only thought of himself and never of those whom he used to get ahead.
Duo approached the apartment carefully; he didn't want Roger getting the jump on him. He listened at the door, until it flew open and the man inside dragged him out of the relative safety of the hallway and into not purgatory, but hell itself. Roger drew his hand back and backhanded the small figure in front of him. Duo struggled to stay alert as each blow fell about his head and shoulders. The slimy snake wasn't constraining his hand to keep everyone from knowing what happened in this place.
Darkness painted Duo's eyesight, but the heavy weight of the gun in his pocket kept him from losing his battle. This was one war that Roger Muscat wouldn't win. The conqueror in this little game wasn't going to be the man who thought he owned people. No, the winner and new world's champion was Duo Maxwell. It's just that Roger didn't know that yet.
"Stupid, little bitch!" Roger snarled, shaking Duo and then throwing him to the floor. "Here I buy you a nice present and how am I repaid? You can't even wear the clothes I picked out special for you. Stupid brat!"
"Freeze, motherfucker," Duo snarled, pulling the gun out of his pocket and aiming at the man's forehead. "One more move and I'll blow your fucking brains out. Got it, bastard?"
"You think you can tell me what to do?"
"Yeah, I do. Ya see, I'm the one with the gun and you're not." Duo brandished the weapon so that the man in front of him could see the bloody mouth of the pistol.
"I guess that you'll do really well in prison," Roger drawled, taking a relaxed pose. "I mean, you already bark so pretty and just think of all the new and exciting friends you'll make. Too bad you won't see any of their faces."
"Shut up!"
"Touch a nerve, there; did I?"
"I'm not gonna listen to you anymore. There's nothin' that you can do to me that hasn't been done before." The braided boy looked at his tormentor and smiled. "You've got no power over me." He pulled the trigger and stood, wreathed in smoke as Roger's body fell to the floor, twitching its last involuntary spasms of life.
The bastard's brains lay, splattered all over the carpeting and wall behind him. Duo placed the gun on the table, sat down on the floor and just waited until the police got there. That was the one good thing about this building; if anyone heard gunshots they would call the cops.
Heero had seen the boy that had run into him the other day entering his family's building with a fey, wild look in his eyes. He stood, near the stoop, and debated whether or not to follow the baka in when Trowa and Quatre came upon him.
"Heero-kun," Quatre squealed, racing over to him.
"Don't call me that," Heero responded, turning to meet his friends. "You're not Japanese and your accent is horrendous."
Trowa laughed softly and gripped his best friend's shoulder. "What are you doing here?"
"The boy that you two were visiting just entered the building and I'm trying to decide whether or not to see what he's up to." Heero's gaze was drawn upward. "There was something not right about him and I have a feeling that we're going to be needed here."
Trowa's face lost its joviality and he looked at his friends. "Did it look like he might have something in his pocket?"
"His right jacket pocket looked like it was hanging lower than the rest of the coat. Why?"
"Damn," Trowa swore under his breath.
"Trowa, what is it?" Quatre asked, laying his hand on his boyfriend's arm.
"I did something that I think I'm already regretting."
"And that would be?" Heero asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
"I owed Duo a really big favor for something that happened that ended up with him in the hospital and he called in the debt."
"Oh no, Trowa!" Quatre gasped, his hand involuntarily tightening on Trowa's sleeve, "what did you do?"
"I gave him a gun. He wanted it for protection from someone who's been hurting him so I borrowed one of my dad's and gave it to him." He looked down at his feet, his hair hiding most of his face. "I didn't think that he would use it on anyone. But I also thought that he'd better be protected from people like that man we met in the hospital."
"Enough recriminations," Heero snapped as he headed into the building. "Do either of you know where he might be headed?"
"I think there's a hospitality suite here that Mr. Reid keeps for visiting clients. It's on the penthouse floor." Quatre headed into the building without waiting for Trowa and Heero. The two of them could talk a matter to death and he didn't intend on waiting until something really wrong happened to Duo. The two followed in his footsteps, Heero looking a bit confused at Quatre's independent streak. Trowa just gave him a powerless smile and a thoroughly Gaelic shrug of the shoulders.
The three of them rode the elevator to the twelfth floor in silence, each of them wrapped up in their own thoughts. The gentle bump of the car as it rose higher and higher and the ding of the bell announcing each floor they passed the only sounds. Then, over the mechanical noises, a muffled pop and stillness. Trowa cursed under his breath and willed the lift to hurry.
Quatre laid an understanding hand on his arm and gently squeezed. "It'll be okay," he said. "We're almost to the top and then we'll be able to do something about whatever's going on, all right?"
"It's gonna have to be," Trowa answered, unconsciously mimicking Duo's speech patterns.
The car crept up the last three floors at a snail's pace and the three boys in it were about ready to get off and take the stairs up the last flight. The door slowly opened and they crowded each other to exit their trap.
One of the doors had a small amount of smoke wafting out from under it and Heero pounded on that one.
"C'mon in," a voice that sounded somewhat like Duo's answered. Heero tried the knob and it opened easily.
Sitting on the floor, covered in blood, was Duo. His braid lay against his butt and his eyes were the same, blank that they had been in the hospital. He looked up at them without any sign of recognition.
"I did it," he kept repeating. "I killed him."