Title: Koji ma Oshi
author: Sol 1056
rating: NC-17 for sex, violence, and dirty mouths
warning: BDSM, psychological issues, post-post-EW
pairings: 2x1, 3x5x3, 4xR
Chapter Eleven
I thought my ears were ringing, but it was my phone. Startled, I pulled it out, checking the number--a Sweeper's re-route for security. I snorted. It's a fuckin' cell phone, guys, nothing's secure in this medium. It rang again, and I answered, ignoring the cabbie's bored look in the rear view mirror.
"Maxwell," I snapped. "What's up?"
"Shepherd's in the back forty, and we're bringing lunch," a man's deep bass voice said, and I was stunned to hear code I hadn't heard in ten years.
Well, fuck me sideways. It had be one of Howard's men. Okay, Duo, set the scene and the club and these horrendous leather clothes aside and focus. Damn, is that like the word of the evening or something?
"Box lunch or brown bagging?" I was pretty sure he was telling me there was big news in Sweeper territory, and someone--or something--was to arrive shortly. Box lunch would be parts, brown bagging would be a body--live or dead.
"Box lunches, and these ain't no loaves and fishes," the man chuckled. Now that was an old, old reference, and a personal favorite of Howard's--it meant the numbers were massive. It dawned on me, as the guy kept talking, that he'd said back forty, not back twenty--L4? What the fuck? "Problem is the vernier manifold's inside-out."
Easy enough. Whoever was running the news, or driving it, was a turn-coat. "How many gallons before it blows?"
"Two. Three."
Crap. Twenty to thirty hours... Shit! If only I were on a landline, I could patch it through total security and we wouldn't be dancing in riddles. Then the guy hit me with one I'd never heard before.
"Wife says hi, and thanks for the brand-new fur coat. She loves them fancy sheepskin."
Okay, now my head hurt. Fur coat... sheepskin... I ransacked my brain for the stupid word-games Howard and G played, that were the source of so much of the bizarre, easily manipulated verbal code. A wolf in sheep's clothing. If I was right, that still didn't explain why... I suddenly had a sinking feeling in my gut.
"You mean the red one? Specially dyed?" I waited, to see if he got my leap or threw more ambiguous phrases at me. Runners wore red jackets, and if there were someone among the Runners who--
"No. Black... and the grass stains on the shoulders won't come out, but she likes it anyway."
Black... and... green? Who would be a turncoat wearing black and... on the shoulders... holy fuck. I couldn't breathe for a second.
"Turn this cab around," I hollered at the driver. "Back to where you picked me up. On the double!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" The cabbie yelled back, gleefully spinning the wheel. The move threw me against the window, and I shook my head at his enthusiasm.
"All clear," I told my anonymous insider. "Give my love to the wife, and I'll be there for lunch. Send directions."
"Righto, kid," the man said, and disconnected.
Kid? Yeah, definitely one of Howard's crew, but I had bigger worries. I had the phone on and dialing for Trowa without even checking the numbers. Come on, asshole, pick up the phone, I whispered. It's only two in the morning on a fucking Friday, where would you be but at home?
The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the club and I thrust money at the driver. "Wait here," I told him. "I'll be back in ten. Keep the engine running."
"Where's the fire?" He asked, but took the money. "I'll be here. Your credit, not mine."
"Right," I said, and bolted into the club. I flashed my bracelet at the girl at the door, and she opened her mouth but one smile from me and she nodded to Fenris. He looked unimpressed but let me through the doors.
Just as the club's beat slammed into my skull, Trowa picked up. Oh, just lovely.
"Hold on," I shouted into the phone. "Don't hang up, I've got news--" I strode across the club's floor, skirting the dance area and too pissed and upset to bother going around the tight clumps of club-goers. I just walked in a direct line and let people get the damn bloody hell outta my way--and they did, scattering like pigeons.
Through the archway and up the stairs; it quieted enough for me to hear myself think again. "Meet me at the office in twenty," I told him. "Just talked to someone with a rather intriguing bit of news."
"Duo, it's--"
"I know the time, I've got a fuckin' watch," I barked. Two submissives in the hallway, and a Dungeon Master behind them, all looked up in alarm as I moved past them. "Just do it!" I hung up, and tucked the phone away.
Through the doors, into the back piano room. If Heero wasn't here, I wasn't going to his apartment for him, but I probably could've just called him--why the fuck did I just come back? I should've called, but if he were here, what were the chances his phone would be on?
"Dao!" Libri saw me, and threaded her arm through mine. "You came back. Missed me?" She'd been drinking, after the scene; her breath smelled like peppermint and roses.
"Not now, Libri," I said, extricating myself from her grip. "I need to find someone." When she laughed, I narrowed my eyes at her. "Emergency. You familiar with someone named Heero?"
"Uh... yeah," she replied, faltering. I nodded curtly, waiting, and she pointed towards a cluster of people near the stage. "I think I saw him over there, about ten minutes ago... Sorry, I was just being--"
"Not now, Libri." I relented, and patted her on the shoulder, already walking away. "Later."
Ten strides, maybe less, and I had cleared a path from the bar straight to Heero's group. He was there, and I got the third damned punch in one night--that guy Rex was standing behind Heero, with his arm around Heero's waist. Since when did Heero let anyone stand that close to him, so nonchalant, let alone behind him, in his blindspot--oh, shut the fuck up, brain. Make a note to schedule a fit for later, right now there's more important throats to slit.
"Heero," I said, coming to stand in front of him.
I figured I'd arrived like the devil was on my tail, but I wasn't gonna lose cool completely. Earlier I may have been all a-dither or some such girly crap, but I had a job to do. I stared Heero down, daring him silently to challenge me on my entrance. Go ahead, Heero, because if you give me any lip I'll just fucking deck you and carry you out. Behind Heero, Rex tensed, opening his mouth, and I widened my stare to include him. Rex and I locked gazes, and in that moment I didn't give a flying fuck whether he was groping Heero's ass or had adopted Heero as his only living son. If Heero didn't snap to attention pretty damn fast and--
"Roger," Heero said, flat, and even.
No more than a half-minute had passed, perhaps less, between me getting his attention and his agreement. He stepped away from Rex without even looking back, and I spun on my heel, moving through the crowd a half-foot ahead of him. Hell, did that look choreographed or what? Nope, just old habit--how many times had I walked up to Heero at school with a mission in mind, called his name, and we left without word to anyone? Too many times to count... I wondered if the club-goers would assume the same as our classmates, and gossip about our alleged ongoing fights in the alleyway.
Once again people did their level best to get out of my way, and I smiled tightly, enjoying the reaction--and not really caring if they didn't manage it. I'd just run them over, but I noticed people gave us even more berth--probably Heero's influence, glowering at my side.
Out on the street, the cabbie was waiting, and I pulled the door open, ignoring the folks gawking at us. Heero halted on the sidewalk, his eyes narrowed, and a light breeze caught his coat, blowing it open to reveal a bare chest.
"Get in," I ordered, and Heero practically snarled before slipping into the cab's back seat. He had to be hating the lack of information, for all that he'd left so willingly. I got in behind him, and gave the cabbie the office address. "Go as fast as you can, with no tickets, and I'll pay double the fare," I said.
"Gotcha, boss," the cabbie said, grinning wickedly. He slammed on the gas and the cab peeled away from the club with smoking tires.
Five minutes later we arrived at the office--now there was a damned record if I'd ever seen one--and Heero waited on the curb while I paid the taxi driver. The cab pulled away with the guy waving cheerfully, and I turned to face Heero. He looked somewhere between mystified and thoroughly pissed-off.
"Any particular reason for this wild midnight ride?" He crossed his arms and glared. I bit back the impulse to ask him if I'd interrupted a particularly good ass-groping or bizarre adoption ceremony.
"Just a small thing. Nothing big," I shot back, sarcasm making my voice as low and edged as his. "So if you'd rather go back to socializing... "
I didn't care if my attitude was one-eighty counter to my idyllic fantasy of subbing to him--this was my mission, my damn vendetta, really--and nothing was gonna screw that up. Damn asshole, glaring at me like that. What, he thought I just yanked him out of there for my health? Or his? Bastard.
"Duo," Heero warned.
"Got a call from an old Sweeper friend of Howard's. Unsecured line, and he used old code. But in a nutshell, there's a massive sale coming through."
"We've seen nothing of that on the surveillance," Heero replied, shaking his head. "Your informant's--"
"My informant," I interrupted, "implied that the dealers are Preventers."
That got his attention damn fast. He stared at me, and all signs of amusement or exhaustion or even annoyance shifted into that old, hard look. The tight lips, the narrowed eyes, the slight quirk of the eyebrow: these were the signs of battle-readiness for the boy I'd known at fifteen. At twenty-seven, that look hadn't faded, but it was far more beautiful, and probably ten times more deadly, if that were possible.
"I see," Heero said, in a controlled voice.
"Spoke to Trowa already," I replied, before he could even ask. Car lights flashed across us, and a sleek black coupe pulled into the unloading space in front of the building. "Speak of the devil," I added.
Trowa got out of the car, Wufei following him from the passenger's side.
"This had better be good," Wufei told me. He looked rumpled and half-asleep, and for a moment I saved the image to replay later to reassure myself that Wufei was human, too.
"I wish it were good, gentlemen," I told them, and unlocked the door to the office building. "But I'm afraid it may be very bad."
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"Check belts," the Runner called. "Breaking through atmosphere in ten."
I gritted my teeth. Damn kid, I cut my teeth on flights like these without a fucking suit, let alone a cushy cockpit with enough room that swinging your arms on either side wouldn't knock against a wall. I glanced over to see Heero smirking--that faint, barely-there twist to his lips--and grinned slyly. Why should I be even remotely surprised that he knew what I was thinking? We'd always been on the same wavelength about some things.
"I'd rather you were piloting," he whispered; his head was down and he probably looked like he was talking himself through the complex body-cross-belts.
"I will be once we transfer at the MEO," I grunted. I made a point of yawning at the impact of 5 Gs, boosting us through the atmosphere. The young man running the shuttle whooped like this was a huge thing, and I did my best not to roll my eyes. More of a kid than I'd ever been, but still, just a kid. Let him have his fun.
Besides, I was too busy thanking space that we'd been able to squeeze an hour to run by our respective apartments and grab a bag of clothes. Trying to slip leather pants down inside a pressure suit--or changing back into leather pants once in space--would've been just too hellacious for words. Not to mention the fact that Trowa and Wufei already got an eyeful. Any Sweepers or Runners never would've let me live it down. Trowa and Wufei, at least, could be counted on just to look smug, and they already had enough blackmail material far more useful, in my opinion.
"MEO in twelve, bearing five-nineteen," the kid called out.
Heero grumbled something inaudible, and I chuckled. A cup of coffee and a pair of fuzzy dice and I'd win the bet that he was complaining about the kid announcing every move. Not the movies, kid: just pilot and shut your trap. We're not here for the scenery.
At MEO 9845-SG, we transferred over to one of Howard's fleet, a slim little ship used mostly for quick runs. It was one of Hilde's favorite models, and she'd used one similar when doing the L2 to L5 jump, every few months to check out the L5 reconstruction process. It occured to me that it was the same model the guy on L2 had used. I made a note to drop him a line if I came up with any improvements mid-flight. He'd probably like that, and really, I did still owe him one.
I slid into the seat and flexed my hands around the Stingray controls with a sigh of satisfaction, already firing up the boosters and knocking us sideways out of the station into a smooth barrel roll before Heero was even belted in. The false gravity pushed Heero down into his seat, and he made a face and clasped the buckle. So not surprised, again, to see him lean back, head down, arms crossed. Ah, another old, familiar sight: Heero sleeping peacefully while I piloted us through the long dark corridors of interplanetary space.
"Sweet dreams," I whispered, under my breath.
An hour later, I'd run checks on all systems and finally pried my fingers off the controls, setting the computer up for a course. We had clear lines of sight, running a good distance from the main travel lanes. Not exactly legal, but we were aiming for speed, so cutting off several thousand miles wouldn't hurt. Besides, we technically weren't acting as Preventers, but as a Sweeper and his human cargo.
I began a series of alerts along Sweeper channels, looking for more information on what we'd learned. The surveillance had yielded limited intel, but an investigation of this scope rarely had breakthroughs in just one week. Thing was, looked like the L1 crackdown was not a limited thing--the colonial Preventers offices were in on the traffic. Or, perhaps, enough corrupt officers in the right places--and the rest willing to ignore the anomalies--and that would do the trick. Everything going in and out of any colony, resource satellite, or free-floating sub-station was supposedly checked by Preventers... yeah, because who's gonna watch the one who's watching?
Not the best system, I thought. But then, that was just one more reason I'd not joined ten years before, after the second Eve War. Okay, so that and a small problem with authority, but that should have been the obvious part of my objection.
"So how long?" Heero's soft voice caught me by surprise.
"Nine hours," I replied automatically, and was brought up short by his quiet laughter.
"No. I meant... " He shifted, shrugging one shoulder, and looked out the Stingray's side window panel.
"Oh. Since... " Crap, crap. He meant the club scene. Uh... "Since Hilde died." Well, technically that was true. "You?"
"Three years."
"Hunh." Three years? Three fucking years? What had he been doing, trying to get a degree in that, too? Okay, say something, don't let this opportunity pass you by--but no shouting "dominate me!", mouth, or I'm getting the duct tape and don't think I won't. My mouth only marginally minded my warnings. "Guess you're pretty well set up by now."
"I suppose." He glanced at me sideways, and damn if I don't remember that look--to anyone else, it's annoyance, but that was amusement, plain as day, to my eyes. "I didn't warm up right away."
I couldn't help it; I laughed, a barking sound. "Took you a year just to talk to someone."
He looked rueful, and disarmingly honest. "Six months."
"Impressive." I whistled, for his benefit, and ran another check on the hundred mile perimeter around the Stingray. At the speeds we were traveling, we'd need that much time to adjust course to stay out of radar range of any other ships moving through the darkened traffic lanes. "And now? Found your niche?"
"Maybe." He studied me for a long moment, and I let him; I just kept doing what I was doing, and felt his eyes on me... until he turned to stare at the console panel, instead. Whew. Heero's voice was low, and maybe tentative, or maybe just... fuck, really, I don't know. Sometimes he's easy to read, and then suddenly... "Maybe I've just been passing the time, waiting for someone trustworthy."
"What about your friends?" Shit, did that sound sarcastic? I flashed him a small grin, to soften the words. "I heard you're... " Fuck, Duo, find the charm! Where's the charm? Ah, to hell with it. Fall back to the old standbys. I widened the grin, as though implying something and not really caring. Just a bit of smug, and a lot of lazy.
"Only with those friends."
"So I heard."
Uh... fuck! Quick, where's the shoehorn to get my foot out of my mouth? This was so much easier when I could've cared less what he thought, when I had my own mission to focus on and we were just two comrades on the same side, thrown together. I could take him or leave him, and fight on my own and not be fazed in the least--and now I had direct orders from Une, passed down by Trowa--aka her Voice of Frickin' God or something--and ditching Heero was out of the question. I realized Heero was giving me that arched-eyebrow look again, and I shrugged to cover my confusion.
"It's a rather gossipy scene," he muttered.
"That it can be." I chuckled, trying to change the subject. "Bet they're still talking about that exit, tonight. Sorry about that, by the way," and I felt damn awkward but compelled to say it at the same time. "Didn't mean to piss off your friends."
"They'll get over it."
Spoken like a true dominant--because it's exactly what I'd say. That made me really want to bash my head against the console. Stop that, Duo. If he's dominant, play submissive. No, wait, forget that--seven hours and you'll be at L4 and would you stop thinking about Heero, shirtless, with another man's arm around his waist?
"I don't see a necklace," Heero observed.
It took me a heartbeat to shut my inner chastising down long enough to register his words. Radar was alerting me of a Runner, forty-five degrees in upward shot from us, about seventy-five miles. Necklace... oh, right.
"I'm not exclusive." Not even close, but hey. Whatever. I corrected course, taking us lower towards Earth, and angling to come around in the blindspot behind a beacon buoy.
"Neither am I."
I nearly pulled the Stingray into an upward climb when my hands tensed on the controls. Whoa, simmer down. Casual. Nonchalant. Cool as a fuckin' cucumber, whatever that means outside the Sweeper code for 'mission accomplished.' Okay. Ping the buoy, determine rotational degradation, and adjust speed to stay behind its radar beam.
And then open mouth and... "So you're saying you want to play." And then shoot self in mouth. Or foot. Or whatever.
Check the buoy, and the Runner--no signs of active radar, so they were running completely dark. Headed in same general direction. Big ship, too.
"Perhaps." Heero sounded altogether too smug, but that changed when I unbuckled and crawled under the console, slamming my fist against the internal control brainstem panel. "Duo?"
"Reprogramming the bastard," I said. "Don't mind me. Keep talking. So perhaps... gimme pros and cons."
Heero snorted, and leaned back in the co-pilot's seat, propping his booted feet up on the console's edge. "Friends scening together doesn't always work."
Friends... I did my best not to trip over his word choice. "True. Most people retain friendships only through judicious use of dishonesty." I pulled out the brainstem cord, and snagged the diagnostics keyboard from its slot above the control panel.
"On the other hand, our history may lend itself to a fuller sense of trust."
"Also true."
"But we haven't really known each other that well for some time, and given the lack of communication over the past five months, this might not be corrected so quickly."
Great space, I'd forgotten how effortlessly Heero could talk when he chose to. How much else had I forgotten? Not much--he still moved with no body consciousness; he'd been apparently oblivious to Trowa's raised eyebrows at his state of shirtlessness, earlier. Okay, concentrate on figuring out what the fuck someone did to this poor ship's programming in the last upgrade. Hell, it looked like Heero did it--sixteen steps to achieve the simplest end. Overachiever code-freaks.
"Only one way to find out," I said, punching in a series of commands. Code scrolled past on the tiny brain-stem screen, and I squinted at it. Don't frickin' tell me my eyes were going--crouching for two minutes under the console was already making my knees scream murder. I stretched out on my stomach, floating gently under the console while I tried to realign the radar system to send, not receive.
"Right." I could practically hear the echo hiding in his words: mission accepted! Batten down the hatches--whatever that fucking means--we're going in, full steam ahead into Duo's psyche. Here it comes... "What are your kinks?"
And here I was all ready to just say 'yes,' as in, 'yes, Heero, if you want to tie me up and play pony-boy, I think I could work with that... but a movie and dinner? Great!'... But no. Gotta ask the boring questions first. I gave him the list I'd given Zorya. No pissing. No age play. No excessive--or public--humiliation, and so on. Meanwhile, my fingers were moving top-speed across the keyboard, and I checked the readout on the brainstem. "Ping the buoy," I told Heero. "Gimme timeout."
"Seven point three seconds," he relayed.
Enter the code changes, and: "do it again."
"Instant timeout."
"Awesome." I tucked everything away and closed the panel, climbing back into my seat and buckling down. "We have achieved stealth, Houston."
Heero smirked.
I punched in the new coordinates, and took the Stingray past the beacon, aiming for that Runner sixty-five miles away. Heero was silent while I worked; most of what I was doing was completely on the fly--so to speak--and adjusting as we moved. Tweak it here, poke there, until I was satisfied we were flying in the Runner's shadow, if metaphorically.
I leaned back, cracked my knuckles, and hit the switch for auto-system control. Then I gave Heero a big, shit-eating grin. "I rock. So. Now you tell me your kinks."
"No... pissing stuff," he said, and chuckled, which startled me, but it was kinda cool. He had a nice laugh when we were kids--if rare--and it's only improved. It went straight to my gut, and a few inches lower. "No age play. I don't mind elaborate role-playing but I'm not very good at it. Just can't get into it. I don't care for public humiliation, either. Excessive pain does little for me."
Something in that last statement twigged in my head: does little for him? To give... or to get? It hadn't exactly done a great deal for me, either--and man if it weren't difficult to comprehend that six hours ago I was in a dark room beating some woman into a screaming, blessed-out frenzy. Yes, Duo, weirdness is your life. I had to laugh.
"What?" Heero glanced at me sideways, curious.
"Just thinking... six hours ago I was scening, and now I'm reprogramming someone's Stingray mid-run. My life was normal, and settled, and stable," I pretended to complain. "Then I meet up with you four again, and there it all goes, out the window."
"I can't believe you'd ever go for stable, let alone normal."
I ignored the jibe. "I did, too! Nine years. It was great." I sighed, and had to concentrate hard for a second not to think of Hilde and loss, but think of Hilde and a whole lotta good.
"Which was the good part? The predictability, or just keeping busy?" Heero waited, but I didn't answer--I really wasn't sure. I'd never thought of it that way. He answered my question for me, or for him, or maybe it was just that our answers would've been the same. "I know for me, it was keeping busy."
"What do you want from a scene?" Damn. All the times I'd imagined how I'd ask, and this scenario sure as hell wasn't on the list.
"Freedom," he said, after a long pause. "It's like... being in battle, again, but no one wins or loses. Just... that moment of peace."
"No past, no future," I whispered. Yeah, I understood.
"So what are your turn-ons?"
Man, he was persistent. Wait, shut up, stop complaining! Go with it! Turn-ons... I could say any of a number of things, now, and even as I pondered my next move--with the ship, and with Heero--I knew I needed more information.
I sidestepped his question with one of my own. "You said you weren't exclusive. But you have someone...?"
"A regular thing, but no strings attached." A guarded note in his voice. Hm, interesting. Must pursue.
"She's cute, but I wouldn't have pegged you for the type to go after the short, curvy kind."
He came right back with, "I prefer the loud, obnoxious kind, and my friend qualifies."
Point to Heero. Game's not over yet, buddy.
"But... that was just a favor."
I blinked. A favor? "That's vague."
"It's personal." He shrugged.
"We're negotiating. Personal is the name of the game."
"You didn't answer my question about turn-ons. And I asked first."
Great, now we sound fifteen again. I gave him a wicked grin, opting for laissez-faire--always the best way to protect my ass when it's in severe danger of being uncovered. "I should slap a leash on you and call you Bulldog."
Heero's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You'd look good with one of those forked tails."
"Not a turn-on. I prefer leather, not plastic. And neon... definitely not a turn-on." Hah, figure that one out, smart-ass. Fuck, we weren't negotiating, we were treading through a verbal minefield. This wasn't the way I'd talked with Zorya... but it was damn close to the way I'd had to deal with Libri. Okay. I could do this... adjust course again on the Stingray, adjust course again on Heero. No problem.
"Leather is good. Neon... I prefer glow-in-the-dark."
I burst out in laughter. "Great, now I'm having visions of glowing body parts."
"It's a good way to find something easily in an otherwise darkened room." He didn't seem perturbed in the least; possibly even amused. Probably at my expense. Bastard.
"Exhibition isn't a turn-on," I said, my mind jumping to another track. Guess it was because I still had that vision of him shirtless, under the leather jacket--would probably need a whole buncha incense and some dusty books and boring poetry to exorcise that visual. Nope, I'd rather savor it--wait, back up. Be honest. "Most of the time," I added, trying to keep the reluctance from my voice.
"Limited exhibition." Heero was silent for a moment. "I'd say I'm neutral on that point."
"Big shocker there. Look what you wore when we were kids." At his raised eyebrows, I made an exasperated face. Duh, Heero. "You could've gone naked and been showing no more than you were in those clothes."
"First, I didn't wear them all the time, and second, I did go naked. And I recall you squeaking."
"I did not squeak."
"Yelp."
"Hardly." I punched a few buttons on the console, just to have something to punch in emphasis.
"Protest... in a high-pitched voice."
"I did not--" I huffed, at a loss for a heartbeat before regaining my voice. "What the hell is this? Torment Duo about his teenage hang-ups hour?"
"I thought torment was what you wanted."
The cockpit was suddenly silent; the computer whirred in the background, and the engines hummed beneath our feet while we stared at each other. His expression was inscrutable. I wasn't sure whether to laugh and play it off like a joke... no. Negotiation. Not a joke.
"Maybe," I muttered. "But I don't consider ribbing me about modesty to be in the category of pleasurable torment."
"What would be?"
Damn. Right into the heart of the matter. Here, let me hand over my secrets so you can flay me alive. I sighed, and thought hard about how to put it. What had I learned from Zorya... what did I know of myself...
"Being forced... or allowed... to trust someone. Completely. And finding that trust wasn't misplaced," I murmured. I kept my eyes on the console, reviewing the readouts, keeping an eye on an auto-flight system that didn't need my assistance, really. "Being tied-up isn't a turn-on, but it does create a situation where trust is even more imperative." I shifted, scratching nervously at the nape of my neck, and managed a rough laugh. "Guess you probably know that one."
"Yeah." He didn't laugh. He was serious; his brow furrowed while he considered my answer. "What about touch? What are your limits?"
"You mean sex?"
He flinched, and nodded slowly. Boy, could we make the whole romance thing just fly out the damn hatch. Sex. Right. Down, boy, we're negotiating, not planning on trying it out right this minute.
"I've never had sex in a scene," I finally answered, and figured that was kinda close to the truth. I'd never actually been touched by another person in a sexual manner--sensual, maybe, but not sexual.
"Would you?"
I took a deep breath, and risked a look at him. His eyes were wide, remarkably blue, that deep steel-blue I recalled staring at me across a library table, on a Gundam's view screen... "We're back to the issue of trust. If it's with someone I trust, and care for... maybe I'd consider it." I liked my sex the old-fashioned way. I'd pondered doing it with extras--a little leather, some spicy oil, a crop or two--but nothing wrong with an afternoon in bed.
"Same here," he said, and it took a minute for me to realize he was agreeing with my words, not my thoughts.
"Other than sex? I don't mind touch. It's an integral part of a good scene, for me." I shrugged, moving the topic back to something less... intimate. "I guess I'm just a tactile person."
He nodded.
"So. The next--" I cut off at the alert from the system, and switched out of auto-control. "Looks like a second bogey, coming in from overhead. Trajectory--" I did the math, narrowing my eyes at the radar spread across the console's inset window. "--Looks like it'll fall right in behind our big fat Runner up ahead."
"That's two." Heero leaned forward, studying the information scrolling down the screen. "Both are quite large for moving outside the lanes. And they're on the same wavelength."
"Convoy, meeting up. Two hours to L4," I noted. "Wonder if we'll see any more of their friends?"
"Are you sure we're in total stealth mode?" Heero frowned at the details provided by the system: the Runner's model, size, and likely carrying capacity, based on production specifics. "Between the two of them, they'll be able to scope a large area."
"But running on the same waves means we're shadowed from both," I reminded him. "I'm not too worried about it. I just wonder why behemoths that size aren't in the main lanes. Most illegal Runners go for fast and quick, not fuel-eating freighters."
"Turn over program control to my side," Heero ordered abruptly. I did so, and he began typing in a series of quick commands.
"Heero, don't go fucking with my stealth mode."
"I'm not. I want a bead on those ships, and the best way to do that is to study their signature. I'm opening the Stingray's ears a bit wider."
"In other words, you're fucking with my stealth mode."
"Trust me," Heero said, in a simple, flat tone: a question, a statement, a promise.
We stared at each other for a long moment, and I nodded. "I do," I whispered.
"Good," he said, and bent his head over his work.
On to Chapter twelve
Back to chapter ten