GW - Stealing Sweet Dreams (1x2, WIP) pro-3/?

[soracia]

So, more posting of old fics because I am working on them, yes...

Stealing Sweet Dreams

~ Prologue ~

It was a tiny motel, not a very well-kept one. It wasn't exactly seedy, but it was by no means comfortable. It did, however, smell strongly of disinfectant and other cleaning products, so apparently it was at least clean. The rooms gave a new definition to the word 'small', and the only available one was a single room. Still, there were just the two of them; they could share the bed if they had to. They had been in worse places, many times.

Heero sat at the tiny table, in a less-than-trustworthy, uncomfortable chair, his laptop on the table in front of him. He was not looking at the screen. On the other side of the small room, Duo Maxwell sat wearing only his boxers, brushing his hair. Heero himself was already done with his nighttime preparations, and he was waiting, somewhat impatiently, for Maxwell to finish so that they could turn out the lights and get some sleep.

He felt somehow threatened as he sat there, a vague sense of impending doom, but he could not attach it to any specific factors. He sat, silent, watching the brush move in it's long, smooth rhythmic strokes through the gleaming mass. That incredibly long hair. Such a useless vanity, what a waste of time and energy. He opened his mouth to say brusquely, "You should cut it all off," --and closed it again without a word. What business was it of his, what Maxwell did with his hair?

Maxwell laid the brush down, and perhaps he felt the weight of Heero's impatient scrutiny more keenly than usual, for instead of rebraiding it for the night as he usually did, he looked over and said, "Done. Hit the lights on your way over here, will you?" And without further comment he climbed under the covers, taking the side closest to the wall.

Heero had already gotten up as soon as Maxwell finished speaking, reaching for the light switch, but his mind was still processing the comment. That was odd. He had figured he still had another five or so minutes to wait, while Maxwell remade his braid. He frowned to himself. He hadn't been that annoyed, had he? He wondered if his impatience had shown more than he meant it to. Feeling at a bit of a loss, he stood in the tiny clear space in the center of the room, puzzling over it.

"Are you just going to stand there all night?" came the bemused voice. "I don't bite, Yuy. Jeez. You're freaking me out." He could feel those deep blue eyes, peering at him in the darkness with wary confusion. He heard more than saw a hand pat the empty side of the mattress. "Come and get into bed." Was the faint coaxing note in the tone only his imagination?

'Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.' Startled out of his thoughts, Heero frowned. Where did that come from? He snorted and mentally smacked himself. Jeez, indeed. He crossed the now dark room and crawled in beside the other boy.

Damn, he'd forgotten how Maxwell was a restless sleeper. The Deathscythe pilot turned over, several times, changing his position on the lumpy mattress. Heero hadn't been kicked outright yet, but it was a near thing, he felt. Maxwell stretched again, and flopped back against his pillow with a sigh.

"Maxwell, will you hold still."

"Sorry," the other boy muttered. Heero did not reply. At his silence, Maxwell turned to face the wall--and Heero choked suddenly as he found himself with a faceful of hair.

"Maxwell!" he growled, clawing his face free and throwing the other pilot's hair at him. "Why the hell didn't you braid this mess?"

"Because you were sitting there glaring at me already, that's why!" Maxwell snapped back. "See if I ever care what you think again," he muttered. Sitting up, he pulled his hair over his shoulder and twisted it several times into a loose rope. Then he laid down again facing the wall, his back stiff with frustration and annoyance as he held his hair against him.

Heero restrained a sigh. So much for that. He hadn't really meant to be so obvious with his impatient stare--he prided himself normally on doing a good job of hiding what he was thinking. He'd been sloppy, letting his guard down like that. This was Maxwell's fault, he was sure of it. He lay on his back and closed his eyes, exercising his training to put himself to sleep. As he faded into unconsciousness, a stray thought in his mind identified the scent of Maxwell's shampoo: the faintest hint of lavender.

=_=_=_=_=

In the morning he woke early, as he often did, and found himself laying on his side. Instantly alert, he held still for a moment...something was not quite right. Something tickled his nose, and he opened his eyes just a crack--oh. Maxwell's hair had gotten away from him again, and was currently pooled on the bed between them, inches from his nose. He held back a sneeze, and for a moment, idly watched the highlights glinting on the chestnut strands.

Raising a hand to scratch his nose, he froze, his eyes opening wide. What the hell? Grimacing, suddenly disgusted with himself, he shook off the handful of Maxwell's hair he'd been...well, it had been tangled around his hand. He sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed, and shivered suddenly at the rush of cool air on his skin. It had nothing to do with the silky feeling of light brown hair sliding over his arm as he turned away.

He felt Maxwell come awake behind him at his movement, tensing as he took inventory of his surroundings. Then a half-groan of protest--at the earliness of the hour, he supposed--and rustling as Maxwell curled himself into a ball and buried his face in his pillow.

Shaking his head, Heero wondered if he would have to drag the Deathscythe pilot out of bed later. He hoped not. He rubbed his face with his hands, sighing. He felt alert and rested, and his mind was already tracking the problems and possiblities of the day ahead. Getting to his feet, he snagged his jeans and towel and headed for the shower. He did not have to glance behind him to know what he would see: Maxwell was curled up with his face hidden, denying daylight for as long as possible. Several inches of his bare back were showing where he had not bothered to cover it again, and his long loose hair was flung out behind him, heavy ripples of chestnut and mahogany on the stark white sheets.

"Maxwell, get up," he threw over his shoulder in a sharp tone. "We have a lot to do today." There was an edge to his voice that had nothing to do with Maxwell's supposed laziness, and everything to do with the clearness in his mind of the image he had not seen.

He did not slam the door.


=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=_=

CHAPTER 1

Heero sighed as he shut down the systems of Wing and unstrapped himself from the cockpit. Mission accomplished. He was looking forward to sleeping for several hours. And not sleeping next to Maxwell. In fact, he was looking forward to not sleeping in the same room as Maxwell.

Maxwell was a lot of things, but first and foremost, he was goddamned annoying; and sharing a bed with him was not at the top of Heero's list of favorite things. It didn't even make the list. Even if it was just one night. He wasn't entirely sure why, but it had been one of the more uncomfortable and unsettling experiences of his life, and he was not looking to repeat it. Ever.

He had half a mind to send a message to Dr J. to ensure this. Although once he had finally gotten to sleep, he had slept well; but his lingering unease had made things awkward between them today as they completed the mission. It was not going to happen again.

Putting it out of his mind for the last time, he levered himself out of the cockpit and climbed down, standing for a minute and stretching tense muscles. The red light of sunset spilled in the opening of the comparatively small hanger, washing the concrete in a ruby glow and highlighting subtle glints of pink and silver on the edges of the machinery.

Across the open space, Deathscythe's hatch opened and pilot 02 appeared, grinning, his blue eyes looking more violet than usual in the evening light, as they shone with humor and the high of a successful mission.

"Hey, Yuy, made it back in one piece I see."

Of course he was in one piece--why would he be otherwise? He didn't bother to answer the obvious statement. Maxwell swung himself down and dropped lightly to the ground, his long braid falling down over his shoulder. He flipped it back as he sauntered forward, still grinning like he'd just put one over on somebody. Maybe he had.

Heero shook his head and turned to go, not really listening to the ensuing chatter, wondering absently why Maxwell was fighting in this war. He certainly seemed to be passionate and dedicated enough. It was a most comfortable thing, to have the God of Death on your side.

What kind of history would make you call yourself the God of Death? Not that it mattered. This was only the latest of times that Heero had watched the glowing scythe chew through opposing mobile suits like waxworks. 02 was a very, very good pilot, as good as Heero himself--maybe better, although it hurt his pride to admit it. He would, of course, not admit it aloud to anyone.

Forgetting Maxwell, Heero flexed his fingers, and rubbed his thumb over the calluses left by years of piloting. He loved flying Wing, and took great pride in doing it well. One of the few things he truly enjoyed, it was a relief to him to let go, throwing himself into the near-instinctive patterns of flight without having to think about anything except the clean, clear precision of his trajectory and the empty space beyond. He was a skilled soldier, trained for perfection in all areas of fighting and anything that might be necessary to complete his missions; but above all else he was an excellent pilot. Flying anything was a thrill--but flying a Gundam was incredible beyond compare.

It was one of the few places he felt truly free, in the metal shell of his Gundam, racing effortlessly through the starry blackness of space, or soaring high in the air over Earth, with enough firepower at his fingertips to take out a base singlehandedly. An indestructible force, unstoppable by anything--save another of it's kind. The feeling of sheer speed and power he got from being at the controls of Wing was a rush of euphoria that he thought must be like a kind of fierce joy. He was not very familiar with that emotion, so he couldn't say for sure.

Whatever it was, most of the time it almost made up for the harsh, cold fact that the Gundam was a war machine, designed to inflict death and destruction on just about anything in its path; and it's pilot, merely a weapon, an extension of itself. Most of the time, he could ignore the fact that the only purpose of either was to complete whatever mission was assigned to him.

He preferred not to think of it too often. Rather, he focused on the freeness of flight, the adrenaline of a fight, the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that came from being very, very good at what he did. He could be counted on to complete the mission, every time, no matter what. Even if it meant putting up with the less than enjoyable company of 02 when they had to work together.

Shaking his head, Heero followed the other pilot up to the house, absently watching the braid thump against his back, almost brushing his ass as he walked. If the other guys had already taken bunks that left him rooming with Maxwell again, he was going to sleep on the couch.

=_=_=_=_=

Duo had a feeling that Yuy wasn't really listening to him at all as he led the way out of the hangar, but at least it filled the silence, taking the edge off the strained atmosphere that had existed between them since last night. Had it only been last night? God, but it had been a long mission.

Okay, so it hadn't been that long...but it had seemed like a lifetime. He hadn't slept well at all. What kind of moron had arranged for them to stay in a place that only had single rooms? Jeez...not that he minded getting a little closer to Yuy, he was damn sexy, but it would be a lot more fun with a little cooperation from his partner.

He sneaked a glance at the other boy out of the corner of his eye. Yuy was definitely not listening to him. He wasn't really saying much, though, nothing important, just making conversation. Well, conversation was not the best word--to converse implied at least a two-way chat, and this was definitely one-sided. But it was much, much better than silence.

Silence was a warning. Silence meant trouble. Streets that were too quiet meant something was wrong, a quiet which was too often just the calm before the storm. Silent people were even worse--hard to read, they didn't give you anything to work with. Silence meant they had something to hide. Silence gave you no cover, no distraction to keep someone else from reading you too well.

Silence...meant you had too much time to think. Not the quick, sharp thoughts that kept you alive, but the slow, deep treacherous thoughts that pulled you in and pulled you under, dulled your edge, made you slow down and stop fighting. The kind that made you wonder if living was really worth it.

Duo didn't like silence. So he kept chattering about nothing, a diversionary tactic that he had down to a fine art. When they reached the house, a plain, boring frame house that might once have been a farmhouse, Duo felt the slight easing of tension that came with being in a 'safe' place. A place where you didn't have to stay on high alert; he sighed a little, and relaxed somewhat.

He was looking forward to caffeine, food, a hot shower and a warm bed, in that order. Dumping his gear beside the door for the time being, he watched Yuy disappear down the hall without a word, and shook his head as he headed for the kitchen.

He was relieved to find Quatre there, someone he felt more at ease with, his closest friend among the other Gundam pilots. Someone who would banter with him as he let down, releasing the stress of the mission.

"You made coffee!" he exclaimed with a wide, grateful grin. "You're a lifesaver, Kat."

"Of course," the blonde boy smiled at him. "I knew you would be coming in, wanting it."

Finding a mug in one of the metal cabinets, Duo poured himself a full cup, sniffing deeply as the fragrant steam rose. He took a gulp of the strong black coffee, not quite hot enough to burn, and felt a little better all over. Yeah, that should keep him awake until he managed to get fed and clean.

Though small, the room was warm and comfortable--a good place to sit and eat, or just sit and talk at the sturdy, square wooden table. There were bright yellow curtains at the now dark window above the sink, and Duo wondered briefly if that was color people referred to as 'sunny'. It did give a certain homelike touch to the functional safe house kitchen. Quatre sat at the table with his own cup of tea, keeping him company while he rummaged for something to eat. "How'd it go this time?"

"Oh, the usual," Duo answered, sounding somewhat preoccupied as he made himself a sandwich. "Find the target, blow stuff up, shoot any Ozzies, get out without gettin' captured or killed...mission accomplished."

Quatre chuckled at the flippant answer, and Duo flashed a quick grin in his direction as he replaced the sandwich fixings in the fridge. It was an ugly shade of mustard that clashed with the more greenish yellow of the linoleum that covered the floor--notwithstanding the faint brown pattern, almost too light too see. If someone was going for the sunny theme with all the yellows, here, they had overdone it. Or maybe, they had just been real high on something at the time.

And thank you for not sharing, Duo thought to himself, smirking. Food in one hand and coffee in the other, he hooked a chair with one foot and turned it sideways, dropping into it with a sigh of appreciation.

Quatre gave him a sharp look. "Tired much?"

"I'm beat," Duo admitted ruefully, setting his mug down so he could pay attention to the sandwich with both hands. "Didn' get much sleep last night." He knew that Heero had hated every minute of the night they had been forced to spend together, and it hadn't been so easy on him either. It had taken him a long, long time to get to sleep, and he knew he'd been restless when he finally did sleep. He'd woken up several times, paranoid about the state of his hair, and annoyed that he was letting it bother him that much.

Finally, disgusted with both the situation and his reaction to it, he had simply given up, turning on his stomach and letting the hair fall where it would. It was Yuy's problem, and if he didn't like it, he could shove it. Duo didn't care what he thought.

Liar. Yeah, right. So, he cared. He snorted in self-mocking amusement. Lot of good that was going to do him--Yuy was determined to dislike him, no matter what he did. It didn't matter anymore. There was nothing he could do to change the other boy's mind about him, and he sure wasn't going to bust a gut trying.

"Say, Kat?" he asked around a mouthful, trying to sound casual. He swallowed and took another drink of his coffee before he continued. "Suppose you could do me a favor, and make sure Yuy and I aren't roomies this time? We've...had about enough of each other's company for a few days."

Raised eyebrows greeted this request. Quatre was aware of Duo's interest in the Wing pilot, and knew that he often went out of his way to reach out to him, in spite of the lack of response to his friendliness. Duo wanting to avoid Yuy completely was highly unusual. "Something happen between you?"

Duo sighed, and winced inwardly. Sometimes Kat was entirely too perceptive. "Not really." He smirked, unable to resist the chance to tease. "We just slept together, that's all." At Quatre's shocked gasp, he chuckled and explained, "Some idiot decided to skimp on our motel room--we had to share the bed. Yuy was not happy."

After a moment, Quatre broke into startled laughter. "Oh my!....I see," he replied, amused. "Well, it won't be a problem--we've each taken a room so far. You can have the other bunk in my room and Yuy will be in with Chang or Trowa."

Thank goodness for small mercies, Duo thought, a phrase he vaguely remembered hearing Sister Helen use. "Good," he said aloud, hoping his relief wasn't too obvious. From the look on Quatre's face, which suggested he was holding back more laughter, it was. "It's not that funny, Kat," he growled, glaring at his friend.

Quatre did laugh then, a bright, infectious sound that made Duo smile in spite of himself. "I suppose not, for you, but...oh my...I can just imagine the two of you spending an entire night in the same bed...I wish I could have seen it. The looks on your faces must have been quite entertaining."

That got a reluctant chuckle, and Duo shook his head. "Smartass. I'd like to see you spend a night with Trowa--"

"No, that's okay," Quatre cut him off hastily. "I'll just laugh at your expense, thank you--it's much more fun." He smiled cheekily.

With a mock glare, Duo finished off his sandwich and got up from the table. "You just wait, Kat, when it's your turn, you ain't gettin' no sympathy from me. What-so-ever." He scowled threateningly for half a second, then grinned and stretched lazily. "Thanks for the coffee."

"No problem," Quatre answered affectionately. "Go get some sleep. My room is second on the right down the hall. Bathroom is first door on the left if you want a shower."

"I do," Duo agreed fervently, "I do indeed. Nice an' hot, with plenty of scrubbing--feel like I'm covered in grease and grime." He grimaced, and shoved a hand through his bangs. His braid swung as he shook his hair back; he wondered if he was up to dealing with that tonight. It was a mess, and it would feel so good to get his hair clean, but he didn't know if he could stay awake that long.

In the end, he went ahead and washed it, just to get it over with. He knew he'd sleep better if he did, even though it would still be damp when he re-braided it. But he didn't spend as much time on it as he usually did, not bothering to do more than apply shampoo and conditioning once each, getting in and out of the bathroom as quickly as possible. He could see signs of someone else's recent shower, and assumed Yuy had already taken his.

At last, Duo stretched out on the bed with a long sigh of relief. Man, that felt good. A bed all to himself, and no bright blue glare to hassle him across the room. Quatre's eyes smiled a softer blue as he asked if Duo was ready to turn out the light. He murmured a vague affirmative, and Quatre snorted and shook his head as he hit the switch.

"I don't know why I bothered to ask," he said with a dry grin.

"I dunno either," Duo mumbled, trying to grin back, but he was having trouble keeping his eyes open now, and Quatre couldn't see him in the dark, anyway. He shivered, his skin tingling slightly as a stray flash of memory brought back the freaky-odd feeling of Yuy staring at him in the dark last night from the middle of the room.

It was a shame, he thought hazily, that a guy as hot as Yuy was such an uptight jerkoff. Spent a whole night in bed with him, and didn't even remotely get to enjoy it, on any level. He would have appreciated just being that near the guy, sharing body heat and pretending it meant something more; but Yuy's cold attitude and the argument about his hair had killed even that small pleasure.

Yeah, he decided, it was a damn shame. Well, it would be more of a shame to let that night ruin one of his favorite fantasies: A night, just one night to watch Heero Yuy's ice melt, to watch the fire in the blue eyes melt into passion instead of anger. One night to have that passion that surely must exist, somewhere in there, directed at him, Duo Maxwell.

A sleepy, silly smile did cross his face then as he finally drifted off. Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?


=_=_=_=_=

CHAPTER 2

Over the next week or so, Duo decided that his fantasy had definitely not been ruined. In fact, it was better than before--he had a whole new beginning for it. It had made him uncomfortable, knowing how irritated Yuy had been, to have the other boy watching him brush his hair. But that didn't change the fact that the intense stare had still made his skin tingle and his stomach feel funny. Kind of an interesting, twisty feeling, that was not entirely unpleasant.

He thought that having that deep blue gaze watching him with a hungry, intent look rather than the usual annoyance or indifference would be very sensual. His fantasy now began with him brushing his hair, and Yuy watching, and in his mind, the eyes on him were not cold and annoyed, but heated and smoldering with desire. The idea made him shiver; even if it was highly unlikely in reality.

Shivering while you worked on your Gundam was not conducive to making good repairs. Duo swore softly as he dropped a bolt, and it rolled away into the farthest recesses of the cockpit where he was working. "Shit," he muttered. He shivered again for good measure, and pushed the fiery blue eyes to the back of his mind for the hundredth time that day.

He really had to stop this, he told himself again, it was pointless to have a thing for a guy who so obviously couldn't stand him. He hung his head, exhaling in a not-quite-sigh, and flexed his shoulders, working the tension out of his muscles. He had resolved, numerous times, to forget it, to stop letting Yuy affect him that way, to accept that they were going to be reluctant partners and nothing more.

Every time he decided that it just wasn't worth it, every time he almost convinced himself that Yuy was just too much of a jerk to be attractive in the least...he would find himself watching the quick, clever motions of his fingers as he typed on that ever present laptop. Watching the way the messy dark hair hung in his eyes, almost hiding the startling blue. So damn touchable, that hair looked...Duo had to restrain himself a dozen times a day from just reaching out and brushing it back to reveal those incredible eyes.

Or he'd find himself watching the way the smooth golden skin rippled across the muscles in Yuy's arms and shoulders as he worked. That damn tanktop didn't really hide anything...and then there were the times that he'd come out of shower wrapped only in a towel, exposing the firm hard lines of his finely toned body, his skin still damp and looking so fucking delicious...and Duo was left with an ache in his groin and a feeling of frustrated longing as his determination crumbled. It was so not fair that Yuy could have this kind of effect on him, and was, apparently, totally incapable of being affected by Duo in return.

And it wasn't for lack of trying, either. He teased, he flirted, he used any excuse to touch him, even if it was just a friendly pat on the back or an arm over his shoulders. Yuy would just completely ignore him, making no response to either the teasing or the contact, as if Duo didn't even exist. If he ever did bother to notice him, it was merely to glare at him, or tell him to fuck off and go annoy someone else for a change. The only time Yuy spoke to him voluntarily or with any kind of civility was on a mission.

On a mission, their differences melted away as if they had never been. They worked as a team, moving in perfect tandem, seeming to be able to guess each others moves. They backed each other up, covered for one another, fought side by side as partners, their talents meshing with a seemingly effortless grace. Duo lived for that feeling of synergy, the euphoria of that unified teamwork, and the satisfaction of knowing that if nothing else, Yuy respected and relied on him as a soldier and a pilot. As a partner. They made a good team, a *damn* good team.

Duo couldn't help but feel that they would make a damn good team off the field, as well. If Yuy would just lighten up a little, let him in, stop freezing him out at the slightest gesture of friendliness. That if the Wing pilot could just turn that fierceness, that fire he showed when he was fighting, and focus it on *him*...they could light each other up like wildfire.

Duo's breath hissed between his teeth, and the spanner he was using slipped out of his suddenly fumbling fingers. It cracked loudly against the control panel he was working on, leaving the glass covering one of the gauges with an oblique, hairline fracture across it's clear surface. "Ahh, *fuck*!" he groaned, sitting back on his heels. He resisted, with some effort, the urge to cuss out the inanimate object. With a heavy sigh he sank down into a sitting position against the opposite panel, resting an elbow on an upraised knee.

He doubted that Yuy would appreciate how ironic it was that he never thought about Duo at all, while Duo seemed to be unable to stop thinking about him. It would be incredibly funny--if only it was someone else's life. He smiled, rather wistfully. Hell, it was funny anyway. A wry laugh and a shake of his head expressed his reluctant amusement. Damn it, he was so screwed.

He gave up and leaned back, letting his mind follow the familiar path, lent a new feeling of reality by the possibility of what might have been. Closing his eyes, he allowed the images to play, seeing how that night *could* have been--if Yuy didn't have such a large stick up his ass.

----

//...Duo sat brushing his hair, the long brown waves rippling as he did so, feeling the weight of a hungry gaze. He threw a heated glance at Yuy out of the corner of his eye, and smiled--a slow, lascivious expression. Yuy's eyes darkened, burning into him, although he didn't move. Duo pulled his hair back and separated it into three strands, preparing to braid it.

Yuy was on his feet and halfway across the tiny room in the space of a heartbeat, laying a restraining hand on his arm. The heat from his body radiated from the touch like a flashpoint, raising hairs up and down Duo's arm and on the back of his neck. A flood of warmth washed over him, magnified and echoed by the nearness of that sexy body he only dreamed about touching. Duo paused, looking up at him as he stood there, putting an innocent, questioning look on his face.

"Leave it," Yuy said, and his voice was husky, even deeper than usual.

A tingle ran down Duo's spine and he shuddered briefly, but he smiled disingenuously. "Hm?" he answered, pretending not to understand the request.

"Leave it down," Yuy repeated, reaching to disentangle Duo's fingers from the heavy mass of hair.

"Why?"

"Because," came the rumbled answer, very close to his ear, "I like to see you like this."//

----

Duo moaned softly; it was at this point in his fantasy that things either got very intense, very quickly....or he lost the illusion completely, as the gap between fantasy and reality became too great to sustain. Sometimes, he couldn't even imagine that happening, couldn't even picture Yuy saying something like that--it was just too far from the truth. Regret was sharp as he realized that today was one of those times; the image wavered and faded out from behind his eyes, vanishing like candle-smoke.

"God damn it," he growled in frustration, snapping his head back, banging it against the hard surface of the control panel he was seated in front of. It didn't even make him wince; he was that upset. He didn't know if he was more frustrated that he'd lost the illusion, or that he'd felt, and given in to, the need to call it up in the first place. Idiot.

Bloody hell, but that night was going to haunt him for months. If he'd ever had a hope of erasing the dream, it was all shot to hell. The images and the pull of fascination it held were ten times as strong, now that he'd come so close it for real. Part of the problem was, he wasn't sure if he wanted to erase it.

And yet the sharp edge of discord which separated the dream from the memory, the difference of what had really happened from what he'd dreamed might happen, would sneak up and throw him if he wasn't careful. It stung, that apparently unbridgeable gap. Why the hell couldn't he let go of something that was never, ever going to happen?

Unless they were actually on a mission, Yuy's manner toward him was abrupt, almost hostile, treating Duo as if he were an enemy, rather than an ally. As a general rule he avoided Duo as much as possible, and ignored him or snapped at him when it wasn't. But once the shooting started, once mission mode kicked in, they flowed seamlessly as a unit, working as if they were two halves of a perfect whole.

It really ticked him off--actually, he couldn't decide whether he was more hurt or ticked off, but that usually won--when they returned to whatever 'safe' place they were staying at, and cold indifference and general contempt and disapproval resurfaced. He knew the Wing pilot didn't like him--he just wished he knew why.

=_=_=_=_=

The late afternoon sun was falling through the living room window, throwing shadows across the floor. It was quiet. Trowa was stretched out on the couch, feeling lazy, idly watching the shadows ripple when a gust of wind caused the tree outside the window to sway.

He wondered vaguely where everyone was. Nobody had a mission today, but they all seemed to have vanished. Quatre had been in here earlier, which had been nice. Trowa had watched him watch TV, thinking to himself what a wide range of expressions some people's faces had. Quatre seemed to have a different expression for every emotion; Trowa hadn't realized it was possible to be that expressive about something as passive as watching TV.

But then, Quatre was expressive about everything. Not in the same high-energy fashion that Maxwell was, but with a quiet animation that showed his thoughts passing on his face like clouds on a summer sky. Whatever he was doing, his emotions flitted across it in a ever-changing series of expressions that were as easy to read as if he were speaking. Not to everyone, maybe. But Trowa had a habit of watching people, and it amazed him sometimes the things that people could tell you if you learned to pay attention to what their faces and body language said.

Watching Quatre was more enjoyable than watching most people, though. He might look innocent and simple enough, but he had a devious streak a mile wide. Trowa had seen with some amusement and a lot more bemusement the way that Maxwell seemed to bring this out in him. The gleam Quatre's eyes got when he was teasing Maxwell was pure mischief.

Trowa smiled to himself, remembering the other night when Quatre had, with a perfectly straight face except for that gleam in his eye, handed Maxwell his usual cup of coffee. Trowa had watched with covert interest as Maxwell took a drink, coughed, sputtered, and made a truly amazing face.

"What the hell is that?" he had growled when he could talk again.

Quatre had smiled, and the gleam in his eyes was quite obvious now; Trowa wondered if Maxwell had noticed. The smile itself was innocuous enough, though, and the words even more so. "Coffee." He had paused, waiting until Maxwell was about to launch an outraged protest before he continued, "Sweetened coffee. Very sweet. Not so easy to swallow, is it?"

Maxwell had turned an interesting shade of red, and shut his mouth with a snap. "Sweet?" he finally asked suspiciously.

Quatre just nodded, his smile now openly devilish. After a moment, Maxwell had shaken his head ruefully, and very carefully tasted the drink again. He screwed up his face as he swallowed it, and shuddered. He had looked from Quatre to the coffee and back again, then broke into a crooked grin. "Okay, okay," he'd said, laughing finally. "You win, Kat. I can *not* drink this stuff." And he had walked over to the sink and poured it out.

Trowa had been more intrigued by the triumphant smirk on Quatre's face as Maxwell retreated. He never did find out what exactly that had been in retaliation for, but he was fairly certain that it had something to do with a comment Maxwell had made about Quatre being too sweet to be in this line of work. Trowa grinned to himself. He might be sweet, but that didn't make him any less dangerous. It just made him more interesting.

An sudden shout from the upper floor shattered the quiet afternoon--apparently the others were in the house after all.

"Maxwell, you are dead!" came the angry threat. Quickly followed by running feet, a crash and a faint thud, and a slamming door.

Trowa sat up with easy grace, stretching his long limbs briefly, and wandered out to see if he could find someone who knew what all the excitement was about.

=_=_=_=_=

Upstairs, Heero stood in the middle of their room, breathing hard. He glared fiercely at the braided pilot, who was sprawled across his own bed as if he'd been thrown there. Heero didn't know why it bothered him so much to have Maxwell getting into his things, just that it did. He didn't want Maxwell anywhere near his stuff, didn't even want him on this side of the room. Damn him.

He must have been here for awhile too--what was he doing, laying on the bed? Why didn't he use his own for god's sake? Now Heero's entire half of the room smelled faintly of lavender, instead of just the bit of it he caught every now and then when Maxwell walked by.

Maxwell was looking at him warily, still in the spot where he'd landed when Heero had shoved him. "I wasn't doing anything!" he protested loudly, a look of innocent hurt on his gamin's face. Heero wasn't buying it.

He glared at the Deathscythe pilot, wishing he knew more about interrogation techniques. He was sure Maxwell had been up to something, but 02 was a master of evasion...he didn't know where to start. As they remained frozen in their staring match, they could hear faint echoes of a conversation downstairs.

"What's going on?" Trowa's voice floated up, asking no one in particular.

Wufei answered absently, "Maxwell and Yuy are fighting, again." He sounded bored. It was a fairly common occurrence, nothing to get excited about.

"Ahh." Trowa was silent for a moment, needing no other explanation. Then his quiet voice came again, "We shouldn't let them room together. It's bad for mission security. They're loud enough for the neighbors to hear, when we have neighbors.

"Aa," Wufei agreed, "but they're partners. They work so well together; why can't they live together?"

Duo was silently wondering the same thing, but he stayed motionless on the bed. Sometimes you had to treat Yuy with the same caution as a wild animal--you didn't want to make any sudden moves.

Heero, on the other hand, had frozen as soon he heard the word 'mission'. His anger suddenly faded in a wash of self-recrimination. Dammit! Maxwell was doing it again--getting past his guard, getting under his skin, making him react in ways he normally wouldn't. Trowa was right; this kind of behavior was a potential risk to the team's security. Fuck. Maxwell was an idiot, anyway.

Realizing that 02 was still watching him warily, waiting for a reply, he repeated it aloud as he turned away, growling, "You're an idiot, Maxwell. Stay the hell out of my stuff."

But the room still smelled like lavender.

=_=_=_=_=

It had been a long couple of weeks for Heero. Yet again he'd been stuck in a room with Maxwell for most of that time, and he was so frustrated, he wanted to hit something. Maxwell would do nicely, he thought. He couldn't do that, though, since they were supposedly on the same side. And he actually liked having 02 as a partner, they got along remarkably well for being as incompatible as they were. Heero liked having someone at his side he could depend on, and 02 was good. Really good.

He was sharp and quick, and he put that chatter of his to good use for a change--he could talk anyone into or out of just about anything, it seemed. And Heero almost enjoyed the witty remarks when they were directed at someone else; he'd come near to laughing a few times when he'd heard certain things over the com that Maxwell yelled at the enemy. It was, of course, a waste of energy in the middle of a fight--but it didn't seem to affect his piloting skills any. He could still fly circles around pretty much anything they faced. And shoot them down afterward, too.

Heero would rather have Shinigami back him up on a mission than any two of the other guys put together. But that didn't make him any easier to live with. Maxwell was irritating as hell, and twice as obnoxious. But Heero was more puzzled by the nagging feeling of threat he got from just being around the other boy.

He was...dangerous. To the enemy, obviously; but Heero felt the danger on a personal level, a wariness, as if Maxwell would blow up in his face if he got too close. He talked too much, smiled too much, got way too close and into your personal space if he decided he was going to be your friend. And for some unfathomable reason, he had decided that Heero was his friend. If he wasn't so damn good at what he did, it would be a lot easier to avoid him. Maybe.

The fact was, they were more effective together than either would have been on their own. It was logical and efficient for them to fight together. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

As he took his shower that night, he used the time alone to analyze the problem.

Heero didn't know what it was about 02 that irritated him so, but something about him just put Heero on the defensive. Whenever he was around, there was a faint air of tension, like a warning, that made Heero feel restless and on edge, all the damn time--it was exhausting.

It was impossible to keep his guard up like that continually. Eventually he would wear down, and a seductive sort of lassitude would take hold of him, an ease and almost an apathy, where he wasn't really paying attention to Maxwell at all. And while that might seem a good thing, since Heero went out of his way to ignore him when possible, this was a different sort of inattention that was damn scary.

It was a feeling as if he'd been lulled into turning his back on an enemy--except 02 wasn't an enemy, right? He would find himself listening to the Deathscythe pilot's chatter, not the words so much but the cadence of it, an almost hypnotic soothing sensation, as if the words and presence were an enchantment, to snare him into a false sense of security.

For that was the feeling it gave him, that apathetic state, a sense that all was well, and someone else had point, and he didn't need to think or worry about anything. A feeling almost of quiet peace, and *that* scared the hell out of him. How could he even think that anything like peace existed in this war torn world?

The shock would snap him out of it, making him aware again with a sharp, screaming sense of wrongness and betrayal. And he would be back to the edgy, wary restlessness that was 02's usual effect on him. It was a vicious cycle that he was getting very damn tired of. And he wanted a pair of scissors, or a knife, even, in the worst way.

The hot water streaming down had done a good job of relaxing his tense muscles as he thought, but now he could feel them tightening again. That fucking braid, god, Heero hated the braid. It was a fucking menace.

He just knew it was part of the hypnosis. It would swing back and forth, back and forth against Maxwell's back as he walked, drawing the eye irresistibly to the swaying motion. If it wasn't swinging with his every move, then he was playing with the end of it, brushing or swatting something with it. It was a miracle it didn't get caught in things like slammed doors as Maxwell banged through them. Heero smiled grimly, imagining that scenario.

An incredibly impractical and pointless thing, he thought, and he made a conscious effort to relax himself again. He reached for the shampoo to wash his hair. The shower wasn't helping to ease his tension anymore, and he wanted to finish as quickly as possible. Damn...he'd forgotten to replace his shampoo and there was barely any left. He growled in annoyance, as he worked the small amount into his hair, and realized that it wasn't enough to work up a lather.

Sighing, he grabbed someone else's and borrowed some, in his haste accidentally squeezing out more than enough. He wanted out of here, goddammit, so he could go to bed and sleep, and put all of his confusing thoughts out of his mind.

Said thoughts continued circling around in his mind as he hurriedly finished with his hair. That stupid braid. He scowled. He had to catch himself often to keep from growling at the other boy to just get rid of it. Cut the damn thing already. Sometimes he didn't catch himself in time, and he made a snide or bitingly sarcastic comment about the uselessness of it, which was embarrassing.

Embarrassing because it was, after all, none of his damn business, and Maxwell would invariably laugh at his comment as if he found it very amusing, telling him that it had it's uses. And that Heero shouldn't care anyway as long as he didn't have to take care of it. A statement that was always accompanied by a suggestive look, as if to imply that Heero could take care of it if he wanted to.

A suggestion that had appalled Heero the first time he had caught it, and now more often left him with conflicting reactions of annoyance, confusion, anger, and frustration. A quick retort of 'Hell no!', was the first thing that came to mind. But he didn't know if that was the proper way to respond to it. He had a feeling that Maxwell would find that even more amusing.

He didn't really think that Maxwell was serious about it, that was just how he was. Flirting and suggestiveness seemed to come naturally to him, it was part of his teasing nature; but Heero didn't know the rules of that game, and didn't want to play if he had known them.

Finally rinsing his hair out completely, he shut off the water with a sigh of relief and got out. He toweled himself off with mechanical efficiency, then used the dry side to rub the excess moisture out of his hair with a few quick, rough motions. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he shook his hair into place in it's usual messy fashion, and went to seek the sanctuary of sleep.

It was only later, as he rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in the slightly damp pillow, that he realized that the shampoo he'd borrowed had been Maxwell's. He groaned internally. Great, just great. Like there wasn't too much of that scent in the room already.

He flipped determinedly onto his back and firmly shut his eyes. Forget it. He refused to let Maxwell annoy his rest as well as his waking hours. Taking a deep breath, he let his training kick in, forcing his heart rate to slow and his breathing to become regulated, putting him safely under in a matter of minutes.


=_=_=_=_=

CHAPTER 3

Oddly enough, Heero slept well that night, in spite of the scent of lavender that colored his dreams. And with a faint feeling of unease, he realized the next day that he couldn't remember any of them. His dreams were usually colorful and vivid, the images of death and destruction easily recalled to his waking mind. They didn't intrude on his conscious thoughts often, but if a stray remark or image brought them to mind, his memory of them was sickeningly clear. Due to his training and his practical nature, he didn't allow himself to dwell on them, banishing them the moment they resurfaced--but he was vaguely disturbed by this sudden inability to recall them at all.

He put shampoo on the supply list so that it would be sure to get picked up on the next run to the store, and promptly forgot about it. No use worrying about things you couldn't do anything about. It was a waste of time.

Unfortunately, the supply run wasn't scheduled to be made for several days yet. But it didn't matter. He would just keep using Maxwell's. He smirked to himself as he decided this; there was a certain satisfaction, a feeling of justice in giving Maxwell a taste of his own medicine. If it were anyone else he would feel that he had to ask...but he felt no particular guilt over not asking this time. The pilot of Deathscythe was always using his things without permission, and it grated on Heero's nerves.

They were his, the only personal possessions he truly owned, and the easy familiarity with which Maxwell appropriated them whenever he felt like it made Heero feel helplessly unsettled. As usual, such a feeling transmuted into anger before he really registered the initial reaction, and he would lash out at the cheerful thief in what might seem an overreaction--but he hated it when the few things he did have control over were violated in such a careless fashion.

It was a familiarity, a liberty one might allow a close and trusted friend, and while 02 might consider him to be so, he could not say he returned the sentiment. That obvious difference in how they viewed each other unnerved him, to say the least. How could Maxwell let someone in so easily, be so ready to befriend him to that degree? He was himself still somewhat wary of his forced allies, and he couldn't help feeling angry when his personal space was threatened in such a way by someone he barely trusted and certainly didn't like.

Perhaps it was an unreasonable response, but Maxwell was *annoying*. He was confusing and frustrating and half the time Heero didn't know how the hell to react to him. It was a relief to have a single, clear-cut emotion to latch onto and let loose with. Anger was simple, easy, and familiar. Anger meant you were attacking instead of on the defensive.

Heero hated more than anything the defensive, guarded feeling that Maxwell often provoked in him. He was a soldier, a weapon, and defense was an alien concept for him. He was used to facing a threat and eliminating it without mercy; but the nebulous, elusive threat that 02 seemed to be was hard to qualify and impossible to pin down. How could you eliminate a threat if you didn't know what it was, exactly?

The more obvious, if simplistic offense of theft, while it was petty and did not deserve such an extreme response, was much easier to recognize and fight. It might be overwhelming and out of proportion, but the fights his anger invariably precipitated were almost soothing in their familiarity. Comfortable, in fact--one of the few predictable things about Maxwell.

He would pick up something of Heero's, play with it, use it, or wear it, depending on what it was, then put it back; almost always in a different place. Heero would see him, yell at him, cuss him out and Maxwell would retaliate with that sharp tongue of his. Often, they came to physical blows, though they had yet to seriously injure each other. Maxwell's feelings about it usually seemed to be primarily confusion, irritation, and amusement. To his credit, he honestly didn't seem to think it was that big of a deal. Heero knew that the conflict was all his fault; Maxwell wasn't picking fights on purpose. There wouldn't be any fights if Heero didn't start them. But he couldn't seem to help releasing his anger and frustration that way once he had a semi-legitimate excuse.

He knew he shouldn't make so much out of something that wasn't all that important in the scheme of things. And maybe, all by itself, it wasn't. But there was so much about the other boy that just infuriated him, and this was simply one thing too many. He couldn't explain to Maxwell *why* it bothered him so much; he did have his pride. And Maxwell couldn't seem to understand why it would be a problem. *He* was very free with his things among those he considered friends, and he didn't see why anyone else should be different.

It was just one of many things that drove Heero crazy about him. So now he got a certain perverse pleasure out of this--using something of Maxwell's without telling him. Poetic justice or some such. And it saved him the trouble and embarrassment of asking to use someone else's. A satisfactory solution all around. That settled, Heero put the whole affair out of his mind.


=_=_=_=_=

Meanwhile, Quatre had watched with some concern the general state of moodiness that Duo had settled into. After what he had taken to calling the 'one night stand'--because it made Duo laugh--his friend had been by turns breezily dismissive, irritable and more sharply sarcastic than usual about anything to do with Yuy. Sometimes he would sit brooding with a dark look on his face that worried Kat because it seemed so contrary to his usual carefree demeanor. When he tried to ask about it or probe for further details about that night, Duo made light of it all as he usually did, but Kat could tell it was bothering him more than he let on.

After the third time in as many weeks that Duo had come back from a mission with Yuy, still sporting his Shinigami grin and in a generally edgy and dangerous mood, Kat had decided not to let him get away with the brush off this time. Unfortunately, he still hadn't gotten very far.

"Duo," he had begun hesitantly. They were sitting on the steps of the back porch, having their usual letdown time. He was perched on the edge of the top step, both hands wrapped around the cup resting on his knees. Duo was sprawled on a lower step, leaning back against the railing, one knee propped up and the other leg stretched out in front of him. Quatre frowned down into his cup of tea, wondering how to ask this in a way that would get Duo to actually talk to him about it.

Duo gave him a sharp look, knowing from the tone of his voice that Kat was about to get serious. He didn't want to get serious. Humor was his defense and his coping mechanism, and although right now it was manifesting mostly as biting sarcasm, it was still more palatable than the bitter regret that would seep through if he let the mask drop.

He ignored the comment with merely a quick grin, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as he relayed the events of the day.

Kat sighed, knowing that Duo was well aware of his intention. He listened to him talk, noticing that most of the witty remarks and derision were at the expense of the OZ soldiers they had faced, not his partner. Duo might be upset with Yuy, but he was honest, taking his frustration out on a target that deserved it.

Actually, Kat suspected that Duo was more angry with himself than with Yuy. He knew that Duo was convinced that Yuy was a hopeless cause, and had pretty much given up on ever really becoming friendly with him, much less anything else. Most of the problem seemed to be the fact that Duo still wished it was otherwise, and was frustrated with himself for still wanting it.

"You're not listening to me, are you?" Duo asked him, raising an eyebrow and grinning.

"I was listening," Kat answered mildly. "You haven't said anything yet."

Duo's smile hardened, and his eyes flashed. "Whatever you wanna hear is not something I'm gonna talk about, Kat. It's over and done with, forget it."

"You haven't," was the sober response.

Duo groaned theatrically, his head thudding back against the wooden railing. "And if you insist on talking about it, I won't, now will I?" Shit, this was exactly where he did not want this conversation to go.

Kat took a careful sip of his tea. "You mad at him?"

"Hell yes, I'm mad at him!" Duo scowled. Then the expression eased into a troubled frown. "No...yes...I don't know. I'm gettin' damn tired of trying to figure him out, Kat. He's great as a partner, awesome in fact, but as a roommate he sucks."

Kat opened his mouth, and Duo cut him off with a short, sharp laugh. "And before you say it, smartass, actually he doesn't, which is the problem." He took a drink of his coffee, then glared at the mug as if it had offended him.

Kat hid his smile. "I was going to say," he said reprovingly, "that we could make sure you don't room with him anymore. You want to call and request that you're not assigned with him anymore?"

"No!" Duo shot back, a little too quickly. He sighed, and reached up to set his coffee on the porch. "I like workin' with him, Kat--hell, I love it. On a mission he's fantastic, we make an amazing team...it's just that it's all over as soon as we get back to base. He's smart and focused, and fast, and a damn good shot, and you know how he can fly that Gundam of his. He's not a bad guy, really--believe it or not, he actually has a sense of humor."

Kat raised an eyebrow at this unlikely statement, and Duo chuckled. "Yeah, I know, it's hard to imagine, but every now and then he comes out with these dry comments that are funny as hell. And that little smirk of his is just sexy." He shook his head. "I just can't figure out why he shuts down like he does once we're Mission Accomplished, and he doesn't need me anymore."

That last came out rather bitter, and Kat winced. "Maybe he's not used to having guys his own age around," he suggested. "He might not know how to act in a social situation."

"Yeah, maybe." Duo didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he just hates my guts. I don't notice him treating anyone else like they're the most annoying idiot on Earth or the colonies." He picked up his mug again and eyed it, swirling the liquid around the bottom in an absentminded fashion.

"You're the only one that goes out of his way to be friendly with him," Kat pointed out. "The rest of us aren't a threat to him."

Duo snorted. "It takes a pretty cold bastard to see a friend as a threat...tight-assed freak." Ahhh...bad choice of words. Yuy had a *nice* tight ass. Duo spent a lot of time watching that ass out of the corner of his eye. He rubbed his eyes, sighing heavily.

"I dunno, Kat, an' I don't care. He really dislikes me, and I don't know why. But it's his problem, not mine. I don't give a damn anymore." He finished off his coffee in a single gulp and set the mug down with /thunk/ of finality.

Kat had given him a skeptical look, though he didn't press the issue. Duo wasn't listening to him anyway. But he was not so sure that Yuy was as indifferent to Duo as he seemed. That had been about a week ago, and he was still trying to work up the courage to talk to Yuy about his side of it.

Now they had been sent on a separate mission, and he was going to be spending a lot of time with Yuy, who seemed to have relaxed somewhat now that Duo was not around. This was probably the best chance he was going to get. So now he was going to try to talk to him, although he had his doubts about getting anything out of that impenetrable facade. Duo seemed to be the only one who could get him to crack enough to get any kind of reaction out of him. But before he could open a conversation on the subject, something happened that rendered it fairly out of the question.

=_=_=_=_=

It had ended up being another four days before Heero got his shampoo replaced, immediately before he and Winner were sent out on a mission together. As part of getting ready for the mission, he had stocked up on rations, clothing, and personal items for the both of them, shampoo being one of the latter. Being cheap and practical, he had gotten something generic, not really caring what it was or what the hell it smelled like so long as it did the job.

He didn't have any objections to the assignment; Winner didn't bother him the way that Maxwell did. He was just glad that particular irritating pilot wasn't around to confuse him. He needed a break after the stress of the last few weeks, a chance to get himself centered again. A chance to get back to the way things used to be, when Maxwell had been a minor annoyance instead of a major one.

It hadn't occurred to him until the first night, that there had been a strange lack of nightmares during the last several days. When you have constant horrific nightmares and they suddenly stop, you thank the gods or your star or what the hell ever and you *don't* ask why. That night his nightmares had returned in full force, almost the worst they had ever been, and he had woken up in a panic trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

"Yuy! Yuy, wake up!" The voice held a sharp note of command--Heero bolted awake, sweating, chest heaving, feeling disoriented as he forced the world around him to fall into place again.

Winner was standing near his bed, moving closer now that he saw Heero was awake. "Are you alright? You were having a nightmare." His pale blue eyes were wide with concern, but he kept his distance, unsure of how aware the other boy was even now.

Heero stared at him, slowing his breathing as he methodically pulled himself out of the clutches of the dream. He had nightmares all the time, and had for years. He had trained himself to deal with them, so that they rarely affected him to the point of being noticeable to anyone else. He had been living with them for so long now that he'd developed the ability to deal with them so that they didn't affect his performance. This...this loss of control, to the point where he was evidently crying out in his sleep...it was mortifying and mystifying and wholly unacceptable.

How, or why...or *what* could have caused such a drastic change? He shuddered hard, squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as he tried to erase the images and their effect on him. Hell...that had been a *nightmare*. He was used to those, right? They didn't usually interrupt his sleep, or that of his roommates. What the hell...?

He took a careful, calming breath, and his voice was steady as he replied, "I'm fine. It was just a dream, we all have them. Nothing to worry about."

Winner did not look convinced, but thankfully he did not question further. Heero breathed an inward sigh of relief as the young man nodded reluctantly and went back to his own bed. Dammit. This was not good...

Only then did it dawn on him that he had had no nightmares, had in fact hardly dreamed at all, for the last five days or so. It would be even later before he got any idea of why.

=_=_=_=_=

That mission was a tough one--not because it was particularly difficult or taxing, but because Heero was plagued with nightmares every night, and to his bewilderment, he seemed to have completely lost his ability to deal with them. They woke him up, and they woke Winner up, much to Heero's dismay. And while the other pilot, upon receiving a fierce glare the second time this happened, had the decency to leave him alone to deal with them, neither of them was sleeping well because of it. It had Heero frustrated, angry, and a little bit frightened. He was supposed to have this under control, it was supposed to be something he had more or less conquered years ago, at least to a level where he could live with it.

Now, suddenly and inexplicably, his defenses and his control were shaken, nearly shattered, interfering with his ability to complete the mission. And that was most certainly not acceptable. He was having to rebuild the coping mechanisms he'd developed, and reassert his control over his mind and body, while at the same time keeping his performance at an adequate level.

It left him very off balance and slightly confused. Thank the gods that Maxwell wasn't here adding to it, or he would be stressed beyond the breaking point, most likely.

Slightly confused seemed to be the way that Maxwell affected him a lot lately, either directly or indirectly. He was always doing and saying things that were completely unpredictable, and Heero had no idea how to react to him most of the time. Thus, he ignored or avoided him whenever possible. He liked things to be clear, simple, and uncomplicated, to all of which Maxwell was the very antithesis. Avoidance seemed the easiest answer.

Heero didn't like things that weren't rational, weren't logical, and didn't make sense. He didn't like things that were unpredictable, and he hated getting conflicting results for no apparent reason. He didn't like impulse, didn't like rushing into things without getting all the information first. He didn't like any of those things.

Maxwell was all of them.

It made perfect sense, then, that Heero didn't like him--of course. He was loud, obnoxious, he had to be a little bit crazy...maybe a lot crazy. The farther away from him Heero stayed, the better.

The thing he hated most about Maxwell was that not only was he impulsive and irrational, but he made Heero behave in ways that were impulsive and irrational as well. Every time they had a fight, it was about the most stupid things...nobody else could make him lose control of himself like that. It scared him to think that Maxwell could provoke such an intense reaction out of him so easily. It was dangerous. It could not be allowed.

Gradually, over the next week or so, he built up his resistance again, both to the nightmares and the dubious effects of 02's presence on his state of mind. But the incident had shaken him, and he was more determined than ever to ignore Maxwell as completely as possible. He would keep his focus. He didn't need that kind of complications in his life--he had a war to fight.


=_=_=_=_=


-tbc-