Gundam Wing Block Party

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Heero-centric, implied future 1x5x3. This might grow into something more .

Rating: Teen for swearing

Fickle Faithful

“These aren’t bad.”

Heero’s head snapped up from the mess of paint-splattered papers and half-prepared canvas on his workbench. He glared at Quatre’s slender, well-tailored back as it bent over the group of canvases Heero had tucked carefully into the corner. They were garbage, but he hadn’t had the time to sand and prep the canvas for reuse. The opening was in less than a month.

“Don’t bother, babe,” Duo said, cutting across Heero’s grumble with arching precision. He buttoned his dress shirt rough and haphazardly. “Won’t fucking hear it.”

Heero flushed. Duo had been his model for years—since he got back, really—so he was used to Heero’s deadline moods and self-depreciating tendencies. But Heero would admit he had been particularly nasty the last couple of weeks. He didn’t blame Duo for taking it personally, and made a note to make it up to him.

“They’re not right,” Heero mumbled. Duo paused, giving him an annoyed but oddly approving look. “Khushrenda bitches about my work enough already. I show up with those,” Heero waved impatiently at the canvases, “he’ll cancel my show.”

Quatre made a quiet, disagreeable noise before walking across the main room of Heero’s high-ceiling studio to rescue Duo’s shirt. He tugged Duo into the weak autumn light before starting to unbutton and rebutton his shirt.

“They’re not your forest series, but they’re lovely,” he insisted as he delicately worked narrow buttons through narrow holes. “The black and gray one is stunning. I might have to buy it.”

It was a dark painting, the grays between the black water and the pale, almost-iridescent figure Duo had become meticulously mixed for each gradient. Duo had come up with the brilliant idea to suspend a harness from the ceiling to get a truly weightless feel; he had bitched the entire time he was up there.

“Help yourself,” Heero said with a shrug, gathering up his tools once he finally convinced himself that no, he was getting nothing else done. “It’s just going to get sanded and gesso’d.”

“I’ll bring you a check next time,” Quatre insisted.

“Gift,” he countered, and ignored every protest.

Heero carried brushes, knives and palettes over to the deep sink along the wall, his hurried and irritated movements knocking a few dirty brushes out of his hands and onto the floor. Diana took the clattering as her release. Wriggling out from under the bench, she scooped the brushes carefully into her mouth and trotted them after Heero. She sat at his right side, tail thumping along the floor as he ran the water.

He smiled and reached a clean, mostly dry hand down for the brushes. He dumped them in the sink before scratching the top of the red sable shepherd’s head. She ducked around his hand and licked his fingers.

Heero sighed. He was glad he paid extra for paint that was animal-safe. Diana was a brilliant service dog, but sometimes a very silly shepherd.

Quatre whistled at her. Diana waited for Heero’s nod before prancing over to her old trainer for pets. Heero held in a sigh. The paint ran thin and murky over his fingers as he rinsed his brushes and tucked them carefully onto the towel he always kept beside the sink. When he started on his palette knives, his leg twinged, as it always seemed to do when he was stressed.

He had nothing, he realized in the failing daylight, and his body knew it.

Khushrenda always underestimated just how stubborn Heero was.

Their, albeit brief, phone call kept Heero up most of the night. He sneered at the light baritone playing constantly in his ear, reminding him that “was always welcome to take a break, if he was feeling dried up.” And that Khushrenda had “plenty of other promising artists to fill in if Heero’s slump lasted over long.”

Like Merquise. Must be nice fucking a gallery owner.

The call had plagued him, poisoning his dreams, and at five in the morning—after Diana sat on him for a third time to break the night terror—Heero decided sleep was a wash. He buried his face in her warm thick fur until he was calm, and then gave Diana the thumping pets she preferred.

“Let’s go for a run.”

Diana was off like a shot, bounding into the closet and pulling open the lower drawer to the storage tower he kept there. Heero wasn’t ashamed, but he had learned potential partners didn’t particularly like seeing the paraphernalia all over the bedroom.

Come to think of it, they didn’t like the paraphernalia period. Or the scar. But Heero tried not to think about that.

He pulled clean running clothes and a sock from the dresser beside the bed, and was dressed by the time Diana brought his running leg over. Heero ran his fingers over the scar—raw and strange to the touch even after a few years, but no longer red—before slipping the sock over. He fitted the prosthetic on with ease.

Diana fetched saddle bag and service vest as Heero made his way through the dark apartment to the front door. He checked her bag—water for the two of them, her bowl, a couple toys, his medicine, an emergency letter and contact list (just in case)—before fastening vest and bag over her broad chest and back. Then Heero put on his one running shoe. He tucked keys and phone into Diana’s saddle bag before heading out.

Heero lived over his studio, and he had learned from experience it was easier to leave the hall light on. He kept odd hours—and worse hours, when things got bad. It had taken only one spill down the long narrow stairs that connected apartment and studio to teach him a high electricity bill was worth not cracking his head open. Or dislocating his shoulder again.

Diana took the stairs first, waiting at the bottom with anxious energy as Heero descended carefully. He could make it easier on himself: rearrange the studio to make the upstairs storage, find a one-floor place, or get one of those damn ascending chairs installed. He wouldn’t; Heero wasn’t that broken yet.

Outside, dawn neared, grey and damp. Weeds in the sidewalk caught the morning dew and the concrete held the clean smell of late-night rain. Heero stretched—a perfunctory matter—before setting off down the street at brisk walk. The street lights were still on, but already the city was shaking itself awake with delivery trucks and waste management rumbling down the streets and café and bakery workers rolling up their sleeves as their grounds and ovens warmed.

At the third block, Heero shifted into a mild jog, Diana trotting along beside him. By the time he hit the first mile, he was comfortably into his run, and the jar of the running leg was already a distant sensation, easily ignored. He was tempted to toss Diana’s leash over her back. She was working and unlikely to break from his side. Unless something ahead or behind became an active threat against him. Sanq had leash laws, though, and Heero preferred to stay on pleasant terms with local law enforcement. Especially the grumpy beat cops with nothing better to do than check leashes.

Once they hit the park two miles from his studio, things were different. He waited until they were out of sight of the street before tossing Diana’s leash. She gave a little skip in her trot before cantering ahead. She kept well out of the way of the handful of other runners, and circled back to trot along beside him often.

Heero followed a winding course through the park, letting the chill of the morning and the hot thudding of his heart burn away the panic and banish lingering clutch of the night terrors. He did well, most of the time, but stress made them worse. He had been nothing but stressed since Khushrenda scheduled this showing. It had been a reluctant, underhanded “favor,” on the back of very positive reviews from prominent critics and the whispers that Heero hadn’t painted anything since his previous show.

Heero picked up the pace, closing the gap between him and Diana. Now was not the time to think of that.

The pair slowed near the center of the park, where a long but delicate reflecting pool was inlaid against a bed of granite marble. A series of broad stone steps led down to the water. Heero had already trained Diana not to cavort in the water, or worse drink it, but she trotted down the stairs with him happily. Heero settled himself down on one of the lowest steps and pulled water bottle and bowl out of Diana’s bag. She drank, grateful, noisy and messy, before dropping down beside Heero. She chuffed as Heero ran his fingers through her ruff.

The pool was still and silent, the morning still too new for even the burbling of water. So Heero was able to hear most everything around the fountain. The comings and goings of joggers and runners. The occasional walker. Commuters hurrying to their early starts.

And the odd stretch of vinyl.

Heero recognized the young man, after a fashion. He was almost always practicing yoga in the early morning when Heero makes the time to run; Heero imagined he was more habitual about his stretches than he was about his runs. Heero had seen him all over the park: in the green expanses, under the blossoming cherries and magnolias, near Noin’s steel installation. He had never seen him at the fountain, but Heero wasn’t surprised. The steps more than accommodated a yoga mat’s width.

He lifted his eyes, taking in the young man’s inversion as he finished his water. Heero reached over and put the empty bottle into Diana’s bag. Tapped out Diana’s bowl and tucked it away too. He gave her a quick command to rise and turned.

The wind had picked up and pushed the pale gray clouds apart enough to let the gold of rising sun pour through. The young man hung silhouetted against it, the long lines and curves of his body stark and sharp against the sky. He held himself, head raised, hair slipping from a clip and down across his face into slightly parted lips.

Heero sucked in a breath. The sun continued to rise. Gold haloed the young man’s head. His hair—stoked embers, on the verge of dying out—glittered.

The young man stretched perfectly across the still fountain, inverted but beautiful. The water began to burble.

Rush hour in Sanq was the worst, regardless of the way you traveled. Heero could drive, but he preferred not to and had selected a studio warehouse well situated in the middle of most of his needs. Still, walking between the hours of 5 and 7 in the evening tended to be a test of his patience—and one Heero did his best to avoid.

But he had run out of his favorite red. He had to have that fucking red.

Diana made it a little more manageable, marching at his side with her head high, exuding an admittedly nerve-wracking air of “bomb dog at work.” She wasn’t, of course, but the association of German Shepherds with law enforcement work remained and pedestrians tended to give her a wide birth. Even with her service vest plainly visible against her fur. Heero kept her leash loosely wound about his hand, just for everyone else’s peace of mind.

Heero juggled leash and bags as they wound their way slowly down the sidewalk. The paint—and a few additional colors and supplies Heero knew he would need, or had been putting off restocking—bounced against his good thigh. The grocery bag he kept tucked against his left hip, arm around it just enough that he could balance it and hold Diana’s leash. He could have done without the extra stop and weight, but Diana deserved her dinner. He was perfectly happy to skip meals but he would never ask her to do the same.

And once she had seen them going into the grocery store, she wouldn’t stop butting him in the back until he picked up something to eat himself.

Heero waited at the third light from his studio, shifting the weight of his bags and ignoring the small empty space the pedestrians allowed him and Diana. Diana sat at his side, tail making a wide slow sweep as she watched the crosswalk light. She would alert him, so Heero let his mind wander.

He would have to be very careful, he realized as he watched the cars idling on his left while they waited for their turn. The auburn was very specific. He needed the right shade of red, but he would have to be careful when mixing it with the brown or else Heero would muddy it. A touch of black, to get the sense of ember and coal.

And maybe a little of that gold. Just a hint. To bring out the shine in—

Across the street, one of the parked cars swung open its driver’s door. The timing was perfect: a break in the traffic, except for one bicyclist. The high, screeching scratch of metal on metal broke Heero’s concentration. He blinked as he watched the bicyclist flip over the driver’s door. The bike skidded to the street, and the rider managed a mess roll, landing with a noisy “oomph on his ass.

“Stupid fucking bitch, you scratched my car!”

The rider grunted as he got to his feet, brushing himself off and straightening his helmet. “I’m fine, asshole, thanks for asking.”

Heero didn’t think so. The fall had clearly hurt him, judging by the way he favored one side. He had torn his jeans nicely at the knee and shin, and his bag had gone clean off his shoulders. The rider wasn’t bleeding, though (as far as Heero could tell), and there were no broken bones.

“You scratched my fucking car.” The car in question had an impressive line across the otherwise pristine white door. Its driver was looking less pristine, neck pulsing and bulging in a too-tight collar even as the high-end tie hung limp over his shoulder.

The rider wasn’t intimated. “You opened it in my face.”

“What are you doing, riding on this side of the street?”

“What are you doing, looking at your fucking phone?”

“I checked!”

“The hell you did!”

Diana whined. The light had turned and the crowd was surging forward, studiously ignoring the argument breaking out just a few feet away. She tugged. Heero shook his head once and retreated out of the mass of pedestrians. Sighing, Diana followed and then plopped down beside him.

The rider, a young man, had rescued his bag and searched it anxiously. He pulled out a white plastic bag, the weight of its contents and the tight knot at the top distorting the yellow smiley face imprinted on the side. Heero could see colorful vegetables and fried rolls through the plastic. The young man cursed.

“You’re freaking out over fucking take out,” the driver snapped.

“This comes out of my paycheck.”

“What about my fucking car?”

Heero had seen enough arguments to know when blows were only a breath or two away. He clicked his tongue at Diana. She was immediately on her feet, tail aloft and ears perked. Heero nodded shortly toward the driver.

“Lick him,” he said quietly, loosening his hold on the leash.

Diana was a sweet thing, when she wasn’t on duty or actively protective Heero. But at almost 100 pounds and seven feet tall on her hind legs, she was enormous. Heero wasn’t surprised when the driver jumped at her booming bark, or backed into his car at her bounding gait. Diana leapt. Her front paws knocked him into the car before she proceeded to lick him around the ears.

“Diana no!”

Ever intelligent, Diana recognized the lack of urgency in Heero’s voice. Her tail wagged wildly.

“Get it off!”

“I’m so sorry,” Heero said, hurrying forward just enough to seem like he was actually concerned. “She’s still learning. Diana, get down.”

Heero turned his head slightly as Diana huffed and hopped off the driver. He meant it to be a glance, a quick look and a nod to send the delivery bicyclist on his way without further incident.

His words stuck in his mouth. The young man scowled, breath coming out in a quick pant as he looked anxiously at the large dog that had clambered up the driver and Heero. A long, sleek ponytail draped over one shoulder, impossibly black against the twilight, flickering street lights and idling headlights. There was a smudge on one of his high cheek bones; it made his skin seem unbelievably pale.

And then he was gone, running alongside his bike a few paces before he swung a leg up and astride. His white windbreaker lingered in Heero’s sight.

“Like, is this normal?”

When he was sniping, sure. Quatre gave a curt nod instead. It wasn’t, of course. Well, not for sniping. Such a flurry of activity—pacing back and forth between easel and paint storage, scrolling rapidly through his laptop, flipping anxiously through his portfolio of reference images—would have ruined a sniping mission, when precision had been key.

But the focus was the same. The narrow, intense gaze, pupils contracted and irises dark. Quatre hadn’t seen Heero like this in years. At least not about his art.

“Shit,” Heero cursed. He had one paint brush tucked behind his ear and one balanced awkwardly between his fingers so he wouldn’t get paint on the laptop. “I lost the pose.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Duo said, heaving himself up. Diana made a curious and then disappointed noise, dropping her tennis ball as Duo hurried from the wall they were playing fetch along. Quatre smiled and stroked her head as he watched Duo fuss with the laptop. Heero bounced on the balls of his feet behind him.

When Duo got whatever pose back up, Heero nudged him none-too-gently away from his easel space. He did thank him, though.

Quatre picked up Diana’s ball and bounced it for her as he looked around the warehouse. It had been a week or two since he had last stepped inside Heero’s studio to pick his lover up. Canvas everywhere. Half dried, still drying, balanced carefully in the sunlight to get the additional heat. Prepped pieces, waiting patiently near his work space, the canvas marked up with light shapes in graphite that will guide Heero toward the finished piece.

And the finished pieces.

Quatre examined one carefully before deciding to lift it, not wanting to disturb any still-not-hardened oil. He turned it just so into the light. The white veil over the young man’s face was thin and delicate, the gossamer giving hints of star-strewn sky where it had caught in a wind. The brown eyes were deep, and held galaxies in the lighter flecks. The effect was more profound when Quatre set it back down and stepped away. At a distant, in the light, he caught the pale streams of purple and blue in the deep blue background, and the gold sheen in the young man’s black hair.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Duo asked quietly.

“This is,” Quatre struggled for the words. “This is next level for him.”

“It is, and I’m bored as fuck,” Duo sighed. He smiled as he said it though. “He’s only wanted me posing for the drafting phase. Rest of the time, I’m helping him research or watching the girl.”

“I mean, you could not come in,” Quatre said, but not seriously.

“Are you crazy? He’ll be here all fucking night.”

Quatre imagined Heero was here all night anyway, considering the number of finished and almost-finished canvases. But Duo’s comings and goings probably cued Heero to take a break. Or at least enough of one to see Diana fed, taken out and entertained.

He glanced down at Diana, wagging her tail at his side. He nodded once. Quatre tugged off his suit jacket and hung it up before heading to the stairs.

“Where you going, babe?”

“Upstairs. I imagine it’s open, Heero?”

Heero let out a curious noise as he worked his canvas.

“Apartment? Open,” Quatre called a little louder. Heero grunted but he caught a nod. “I’m taking Diana. Come on.”

Diana let out a short, pleased bark—one she never seemed to lose from puppyhood—before trotting off. Duo frowned and leaned on the stair rail.

 “Babe?”

“Keeping helping him,” Quatre said with a smile. “I’m going to make dinner. He probably hasn’t even thought of it, and I know a couple things that will keep for a few days.”

“I don’t even think he has anything up there.”

 “Then I suppose one of us will have to go to the store.”

Khushrenda’s gallery, in the heart of the art district, was the last place Trowa ever expected to be. And certainly not for a Heero Yuy exhibition opening.

Trowa knew about him, of course. You couldn’t live in Sanq without knowing about Heero Yuy: both for his heroism and for his talent. He had been on nearly half a dozen tours—and decorated in dozens of medals and commendations—before the IED. It had been something of a scandal that Yuy retired to Sanq after physical therapy and fitting for his prosthetic. It was Quatre Winner’s home, not his, but Yuy had been insistent.

The city had thrown him a grand welcome that Yuy begrudgingly attended at (rumors had it) Quatre’s insistence.

When the city learned Yuy had professional trained as an artist before his service, there was wild speculation about his work. Trenches work. Accurate-to-life depictions of countries at war. Sketches and paintings of soldiers in the heat of the firefight. Sculptors of the fallen and civilians tormented by struggles they didn’t understand.

Yuy’s first opening had come as a shock.

Trowa remembered the pale oceans he had seen, walking past Khushrenda’s gallery on his way to the dance academy. He remembered nearly tripping as the wild green-brown hair of a woman beneath the waves caught his vision, and how her open mouth and distant eyes held him.

Prints of the show weren’t available for months, but Trowa bought whatever ones he could find. The smaller size didn’t do the eyes justice, but it was the best he could do.

He never thought he would see Yuy’s work in person.

Trowa felt out of place among the suits and fine dresses, but thankfully didn’t look it. He wasn’t yet a principle but he was talented enough and popular enough in the academy to dance on the main stage, and had been invited to several events. Black-tie attire was a must, and his scholarship helped him afford it. Still, the dark gray three-piece did little for his nerves.

And since he had tutorials tomorrow, he couldn’t drink.

Trowa ambled along the outer edges of the crowd, catching glimpses of Heero Yuy’s new series “Celestials” through the spaces of between high-profile bodies. What he saw was beautiful, but snatches of colors that quickly changed as people shifted just didn’t quite do Yuy justice. Trowa looked for an empty space he could linger until one of the pockets of people thinned out.

He was not alone there.

The young man was anxious, eyes darting over the rim of his champagne glass. He tensed when Trowa approached, but managed a small polite nod when Trowa did nothing more than take up a piece of wall beside him.

“Enjoying the show,” he murmured after a few silent and awkward moments. Trowa shrugged.

 “I suppose. Too many people for my tastes,” he admitted.

The young man made a noise. He reached up and tugged at the high collar of his red tunic before smoothing a hand down the front’s embroidery and frog buttons. “Crowds can be useful. Makes it harder for people to find you.”

Trowa decided not to ask. Instead, he inched a little forward and sideways, blocking the young man a bit from view. He blinked and then smiled. His eyes warmed, and Trowa thought he saw touches of amber in the more relaxed apatite-brown.

“Wufei Chang.”

“Trowa Barton.” Wufei frowned, eyes narrowing. He nodded after a beat.

“14 A. The Mongolian beef with no rice noodles, and wonton soup. Once a month, dumplings.” Trowa startled back, mouth pressing into a suspicious line. Wufei had the decency to look embarrassed. “Ah, sorry. Your building is on my delivery route.”

It took a moment for Trowa to put the face and the order together. “You work at Phoenix Wok?”

“I deliver for Phoenix Wok. The schedule works with my grad program, and it helps with the rent.”

They spoke for a moment about the restaurant, one of best in the city, settled quite nicely in the Asian district that refused to call itself a “China Town.” Wufei continued to look over Trowa’s shoulder, eyes roving the crowds every few words. Whoever he was avoiding was clearly persistent and Trowa felt an angry, protective pang. He knew how distressing it was to have such unwanted interested.

A gap appeared between the crowd and one of the delicate velvet ropes protecting Yuy’s newest work. Trowa gestured toward it.

“Shall we take in some of his work? I’d appreciate another opinion on it. Art’s not quite my forte.”

“And yet you’re at a gallery opening,” Wufei said, but he smiled and followed Trowa to the nearest piece.

Trowa still thought it was a mistake, but he had been so surprised by the black invitation card with its delicate silver calligraphy—and too curious about how he merited an invitation—tucked into his mailbox that he never stopped to think if he had the right to go. Or the credentials.

Whatever Trowa lacked, Wufei made up in earnest. He spoke with a quiet but sincere fervor as they took in “Reflection in the Evening:” a particularly quiet but lovely piece of a young man, resplendent in white and silver, laying alongside a reflective pool, fingers disturbing the bright fire star reflected there. Trowa listened, hands tucked into the small of his back, as Wufei explained color and technique, the perfect use of ratios and techniques that “old masters” were known for (and would perhaps loath in such a uniquely fantastic painting).

Trowa asked questions when he thought of them. Judging by the mildly impressed expression and then soft smile, Wufei found them at least intelligent, and perhaps charming. Trowa managed to keep his blush soft and, hopefully, unnoticed.

The two of them followed the slowly moving group of chattering guests, tucking themselves between them and the velvet barriers. It seemed to work; whoever was looking for Wufei never came over. Eventually they wound their way through most of the gallery, stopping before the central painting of Yuy’s newest collection.

Trowa stared. It was a beautiful painting, though he could not express the techniques that made it so. It was blend of light and shadow, and brought the two principle figures of the series together at last. The red-haired young man, draped in pale gold and fiery orange, stood, slightly off centered, his head tilted upwards just so. The pale young man descended upon him from the upper right, hand caressing the red-head’s cheek. The pale young man’s face just started to cover the red-head’s, and with him came the shadows: blacks and blues and deep silvers that seeped into the soft light behind the red-head.

It was an intimate piece, appropriately titled “Eclipse.” It also felt oddly…familiar.

Wufei, blushing, turned his head slightly toward Trowa. “Does it—”

“Yeah,” Trowa managed. The red rose in his face as he recognized his own green eyes and auburn hair, made more spectacular in oil and a master’s experienced hand.

Behind them, there was a quiet click, like a cane on fine tile. “Thank goodness,” a low voice said. “I wasn’t sure either of you would accept the invitation.”

Heero Yuy was shorter than Trowa imagined, although the perfectly tailored suit accentuated his body in such a way that it didn’t bring too much attention to it. His service dog sat at his side, red-blue-and-gold bandana tied neatly around her neck. Trowa didn’t even have a chance to back away from the enormous animal.

So what if no one asked for an Amish romance? Challenge Accepted!!!! Below is a snippet from my entry for @gwblockparty Rewrite the Romance!!!

Enjoy

Duo inhaled slowly, relaxing his shoulders as his hands curled around his weapon, staring down his sights to the brightly lit construction site below. He tamped down on the urge to fidget, turning his focus to maintaining his breathing as he waited.

“All I’m asking is, why now?”

And on blocking out the voice of his spotter.

“We’ve had a good career. We’ve had a damn good career,” she rambled, just back and to the right of him. He coul picture her, squinting through her binoculars as she scanned the grounds before switching to her mounted rangefinder, double checking her calculations.

“This is one hell of a time to have a conscious.”

“Hilde…”

“Did you consider, perhaps,” she continued, ignoring his warning, “that we’re making a mistake, shooting the guy signing our checks?”

Duo pulled away long enough to toss her a look.

Hilde lowered her binoculars, matching his gaze with a decidedly unimpressed one of her own. She readjusted the strap of the rifle slung across her chest, then turned back to her vigil. Duo returned to his scope with a roll of his eyes.

“You remember our motto, right?” Duo asked.

He heard Hilde huff in reply. “Never look beyond the bullet. Except when you do it,” she added.

Duo sighed through his nose. “I have my reasons, and this is for the best.”

He was saved from her reply when he sensed Hilde tense.

“Target in sight,” Hilde murmured, the air suddenly charged with anticipation, the pair easily settling into a routine solidified by years of experience.

“Acknowledged,” Duo shifted slightly, relaxing into his rhythm as the moment of truth approached. “Status?”

“Couldn’t be more perfect,” she replied, confirming his own observations. “Target approaching the drop zone.”

“Roger.”

They lapsed into silence as they watched the proceedings, waiting for the moment when their target separated from the group to speak with their client.

Finally, after multiple tense minutes, their chance came. The target threw his head back in a laugh, then sauntered across the no man’s land created by the two parties.

“Take it.”

Duo didn’t need to be told twice. He inhaled, then exhaled slowly as he listened to his heartbeat, waiting for the moment between each beat, held his breath, then fired.

***

A rhythmic knock on the door broke him from his work, his eyes snapping to the door as he reached for his gun. Recognizing the code, Duo rose from the table and crossed the small room. After a quick glance in the peephole, he unlocked the door for Hilde, who quickly slipped through the cracked opening, arms clutching two large shopping bags.

“What took you so long?” Duo demanded, double checking the locks before glancing out the crack of the pulled blinds. “It doesn’t take two hours to get food.”

Hilde dropped her bags on the far bed, as the table was covered in the parts of a disassembled sniper rifle. “It’s worse than we thought,” she scowled, dumping the contents of one bag onto the comforter. She shoved the food around until she found what she wanted, ripping the box open to throw a couple protein bars at Duo’s head. “The streets are swarming with goons. With their kingpin out of the picture, all the ants have been called out of the colony looking for revenge.”

Duo ripped open one of the bars, munching on the chocolate covered bar as he sat back down at the table. “We need to lay low somewhere for a while, until they settle down again.”

Hilde glared at him over her shoulder, then ripped open the second bag, dumping a pile of fabric on the bed. “I’ve already taken care of our cover, but you’re not going to like it.”

Duo tossed the empty wrapper in the wastebasket, forgoing his second bar to eye the pile. “What is that?”

“Our cover,” Hilde answered blandly, grabbing a grey piece and throwing it at him. Duo caught the large bundle, flailing slightly as it opened and draped over his head. “The fuck is this?” He yanked the cloth off his head, eyeing the plain, grey fabric with distaste.

“Your disguise,” Hilde singsonged, a sharp grin on her face as she watched him.

Duo arched an eyebrow at her, holding the fabric between his hands. “Am I supposed to sew it myself?”

Hilde’s grin widened. She pushed off the bed and snatched the cloth from his hands, rotating it until the shape became clear.

“Oh no, nononono,” Duo waved his arms as he shook his head. “That’s not even funny.”

“Oh come on, be a good sport,” Hilde laughed, smiling at his glare. “I’m dressing like a man.”

“Funny that you feel the need to do so, when I am a perfectly good man, and you,” Duo gestured sharply at her, “are a perfectly good woman.”

“I haven’t even told you the best part,” Hilde smirked down at him, reveling in his discomfort. “We’re Amish.”

Duo stared at her blankly. “Excuse me?”

“We’re going to hide among the Amish.”

He blinked at her, for once speechless and shocked stupid.

“Why?” He finally asked, the only word he could squeeze out.

Hilde tossed the dress on the bed then sat down beside it. She held out a hand, a single finger raised. “One, because it’s the last place they would expect us to hide. Two,” she held up a second finger. “The likelihood that someone in the community has heard of Maxwell’s Demons, or Shinigami and Lady Luck, are slim to none, considering they completely shun technology, meaning no Internet, television, or radios.”

She ignored Duo’s choked complaint and barrelled on. “Three, we don’t have to stay very long, and they won’t be able to track us once we do leave.”

Duo shook his head slowly, turning back to his disassembled weapon to continue methodically cleaning each piece as his brain struggled to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

“So why do I have to dress like a girl?” He asked with a frown.

“A young woman,” Hilde corrected. “Because of Amish tradition.”

“They’re a sect of crossdressers?” Duo deadpanned, earning another protein bar as a reward. He smirked as it landed in his lap after bouncing off his head.

“Because,” Hilde said pointedly, “the women all have long hair and the men all keep theirs short, so unless you feel like cutting your hair,” she trailed off, smirking when Duo blanched at the suggestion, “then you have to play the doting housewife.”

Duo shook his head, methodically reassembling the gun as he stared blankly into open space. “I hate everything about what you just said.”

“Did I mention you’re also mute?”

Duo nearly dropped the barrel as he snapped his head to her. “What the fuck? It’s bad enough I have to wear a goddamn funeral home’s circus tent, but now I can’t speak either?”

Hilde glared back. “The moment you open your mouth, you’ll blow our cover. Your voice is way too deep to even remotely pass as a woman.”

Duo scowled fiercely, turning back to his task. He continued assembling the weapon in sharp, jerking motions, fuming as he silently conceded her point. He hated when she was right. The pair remained silent as he finished, sighting down the barrel and checking over his work. Satisfied, he broke the rifle down and tucked the pieces into the case at his feet.

Without the distraction, Duo leaned back in his chair, turning his glare onto his longtime partner. “How do I communicate? I don’t know sign language, and I sure as shit ain’t gonna carry a notebook with me all the time.”

Hilde reached behind her and tossed the object at him. Duo caught it easily and inspected the book.

“ASL for Dummies?” He glanced up at her. “Really?”

“Better start studying,” she replied with a grin.

He pulled a face at her. “You better start studying too, since you have to understand what I’m saying.”

So, this is something I was going to do for Secret Santa, but then realised it was going to be waaaay too long. And then, it turn out time is a thing? I don’t have? So I didn’t get it finished for today either, for @gwblockparty . So, uh, have the beginning of some very gentle slow burn 2xR.

*

She’s a rich girl

She don’t try to hide it

Diamonds on the soles of her shoes

He’s a poor boy

Empty as a pocket

Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose

Paul Simon

***

“I’m sorry, Duo. I know this wasn’t what you had in mind when you planned the visit.”

Not even looking at Trowa, Duo smirked down at Heero, who was sat in a wheelchair, both legs in air boots. He looked thoroughly cross about the whole situation, scowling blue eyes glowering through his usual mussed chocolate hair, although that was somewhat displaced by the large bandage taped to his forehead. He was sulking. It was beautiful.

“You know what, man, I ain’t even mad,” Duo said, finally, still grinning at his friend who was looking increasingly more disgruntled. “It’s worth it just for this.”

Trowa just about managed to turn his chuckle into a cough and tapped the manila folder against Duo’s arm, trying to pull his attention back to the conversation at hand. Heero wasn’t used to being injured, and certainly not injured enough to be out of action for several weeks. This was a man who had set his own legs, stitched his own gunshot wounds. Indestructible - people had started humming the ‘Captain Scarlet’ theme song when he walked into the office.

But it meant he wasn’t taking his… sabbatical with good grace.

“You’d better be more focused when you’re on duty,” he snapped.

Duo didn’t even flinch, just finally took the folder, flicking it open before his gaze left Heero, chuckling quietly to himself. He was certain he didn’t imagine the undertone of a growl as he looked away.

“So the Princess ain’t got anythin’ big on anyway,” he mused, tugging the flash drive free from where it was taped to the cardboard, eyes skimming over the itinerary on the front page.

“The minister will be mostly conducting routine meetings,” Trowa confirmed, eyes flicking towards Heero as he emphasised the proper title. “Although there is a gala dinner planned for the 16th…”

“Oh yeah, I got it.” He closed the folder with a snap, tucking the flash drive into his pocket and grinning at the two of them. “So I’m her shadow for the next couple months. No big deal.”

“It’s more than that-” Heero began hotly, but Trowa held out a placating hand, ever the calming influence to soothe the ruffled ego currently incapacitated between them, sour mood filling the whole room.

“Duo knows what he’s doing,” Trowa said firmly. “And you know that.”

“Yeah, Heero,” Duo sang. “Turn that frown upside-down.”

The glare the other man shot him could have been used for welding, and Trowa just shook his head, and took a fortifying breath, praying for strength to get through the weeks until Heero was put back on active duty.

But until then? Duo was a bodyguard.

Which was HI-larious, as far as he was concerned, since he was the sort of guy bodyguards usually glanced at with deep suspicion, and shepherded their charges out of the way to avoid. Instead, he was being buzzed cheerfully through security at the lobby of the official residence for the former princess, and knocking on the door to the rooms that were entirely hers.

He heard a muffled call to come in, and obliged, the handle turning easily in his grip, the door swinging open without a sound - the former burglar in him noticing that with pleasure, the current bodyguard already wondering if he could manufacture a squeaky hinge without anyone noticing.

Stepping through the door, he moved from a short entryway into a large, bright, airy room, with a wall full of windows giving a view out across the manicured gardens for the residence. The former sniper in him loved that. The current bodyguard began to understand why Heero always looked like he was chewing on something unpleasant.

Jeez, maybe this was going to be harder work than he thought.

To his right, a comfy seating area with a sofa and a TV were arranged by a large fireplace, whilst beside the windows sat a dining table. And at the dining table, sat his new charge.

Relena Peacecraft looked over the top of her laptop and smiled at him, dazzling, big blue eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Duo Maxwell,” she said, standing and padding over to him, bare feet nearly silent in the carpet. She stopped in front of him and tilted her head back, studying him, looking pleased. “You grew up.”

“You didn’t,” he said, and she dimpled up at him in that way that made her the political sweetheart of the world.

“No, well,” she allowed, “it wasn’t for want of trying.”

She held out her hand and he took it. Her hand was soft and warm, but her grip firm and sure. No nonsense, no give. Confident. He liked that.

Duo took the moment to study her fully, tally her against what he remembered of her from the war, and what he saw on the TV.

Relena wasn’t tall – her head barely passed his shoulder – but she certainly had a presence that belied her tiny stature. She held herself straight and calm, shoulders back, chin lifted naturally. Regal, he supposed was the word. Her honey-blonde hair was partially pulled back into a twist at the back of her neck, before being coaxed to curl over one shoulder, and her blue eyes were bright, charming, and full of a sharpness that saw everything. The blue dress she was in was tailored precisely, doing nothing to hide her figure, but suggesting nothing other than a pure, dedicated professional, who was smarter than the people she worked with. Everything seemed perfectly calculated to give her the appearance of a perfectly respectable and mildly unthreatening young woman; a lot of work had gone into trying to disguise the steel in those doe eyes, the iron in her stance, and the sharp trap of her intellect.

Her lips pulled into a satisfied smile as she saw him weighing her up, and he had no doubt she was doing exactly the same for him, and he answered her smile with his own cheeky grin.

This might be kind of fun.

There was a soft knock on the door behind him, and he stepped aside as it opened a crack and a neat young woman put her head through.

“The reporters are here for the statement, Minister,” she said, “in the Garden room.“

“Thank you, I’ll be there in five minutes.” Relena turned to Duo, and dimpled at him again – that dimple was a dangerous thing. It could be weaponised. “Are you ready for your first job, Mr Maxwell?”

“Always,” he drawled, as she padded back across the room and slid into her chair, shutting down her laptop and reaching down to slide her shoes on. “Although, are you sure I’m dressed for the camera?”

Relena’s gaze flicked over him thoughtfully, lips pouted in mock consideration.

“Yes, I think you’ll do. Do you own a suit?”

“Just one,” he told her, “but I didn’t bring it with me – I was s’posed to be comin’ down for a vacation. I can pick one up after work though.”

“We’ll go buy you one this afternoon,” she said decisively, picking up her phone and apparently scrolling through her calendar, “I have nothing scheduled that can’t be done on the move, and that will spare you claiming expenses later if I can just be there to pay.” She paused, thoughtful, before tucking her phone until the folio she had on the table and closing it. “Two suits,” she said, “and a dinner jacket, and white tie.”

Relena stood up, and up – significantly further than she had done previously. Where previously she had been barefoot, her feet were encased in a pair of towering black court shoes, which did no little job at emphasising the shape of her legs, lengthening them considerably, and seeming to enhance the curve of her hips, and from there her slim waist. She obviously noticed the surprise flicker across his face, and quirked an amused eyebrow.

“Everything alright, Mr Maxwell?”

“You’ve acquired some legs,” he told her, smirking as she sailed back across the room towards him, making walking in those heels look easy. “You didn’t have those when you were fifteen.”

“I’m surprised you weren’t aware of my ‘shoe habit’,” Relena said primly, stepping through the door as he opened it. “It’s been all over the news for years.”

“The news I watch usually only shows you from the waist up.”

“Oh, so you watch actual news then.” She strode off, walking briskly but without appearing to rush, folio tucked into the crook of her arm. Duo kept pace easily enough, one of his strides covering three of hers. “This shouldn’t take more than half an hour, then I have lunch with the Minister for Higher Education, but we can head to get your things at two - I’ll have Elaine call ahead to book an appointment.”

For @gwblockparty​‘s Rewrite the Romance challenge!!

I started out with a typically-tropey police procedural romance novel, except that it was a wlw book, and this fic has now taken on a complete life of its own and nowhere even remotely resembles the original synopsis.  In fact, it’s now a 50k monster, and I fully intend to subject all of you to it.  When it’s finished.

It falls in the same verse as Don’t You Know, but Duo and Wufei make only the briefest of appearances, later in the fic.

In the meantime, enjoy the prologue - there was no way to finish the whole thing before the deadline.

Pairings: RxH

Warnings: none

The usual guidelines apply, guys.  We just want this to be a fun, fandom-wide event, that everyone feels comfortable participating in.

Feel free to message the blog if you have any questions or concerns!

Hello fandom!  We are pleased to officially announce our next Block Party Event - Rewrite the Romance!

A fun fandom take on all the cringeworthy, ridiculous romance novel tropes we all love to hate, and the horrifying covers that go with them!  This is your chance to be the editor - pick a summary, premise, cover, or trope - and re-write or re-draw it with your favorite Gundam Wing characters!

Bodice rippers, kilts, supernatural love triangles, and unexpected babies - any amount of absurdity is up for grabs, and just in time for Valentine’s Day!

We will be accepting submissions (provided they meet the usual guidelines) from now until February 13th at 6pm EST, and the blog will promote all of them on Valentine’s Day, so you’ll have something fun to do whilst you avoid the packed restaurants and sickening public displays of affection.