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Author:Jay

[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.oocities.org/fenris_wolf0]
Category: Deathfic. Angst. Shonen ai hints.
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.)
Warning/Rating: R. Possible deathfic, depending on if your glass is half-full or half-empty.
Feedback: Hit me.
Note: Um, the original original idea for this was from an episode of Baywatch, I kid you not. I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention, but there was some sort of spirit thing that only this lifeguard could see. Blah blah blah blah. I twisted it a lot.
Okay, while not pure in its execution, this is also based on the short story, "The Lady or the Tiger." Um, when you're uninspired, it's hard to find your *own* titles. I'd suggest you read it before you read this-- it's a classic, folks. And one of my favorites. It piques the interest.

http://www.bnlhost.com/shorts/stories/tiger.html

The Lady Or The Tiger by Jay

It's a large dresser-- half of it is mine, half of it is his. Half of his drawers are pulled out-- you see novelty boxers (personal favorite: insert hand here-- and then a downwards arrow) and mismatched socks, assorted shirts and jeans. All of my drawers are in proper order-- the top drawer has my shirts, next pants and shorts, next underwear and socks. I crack a grim smile, catching my reflection in the vanity mirror.

/The Perfect Soldier./

What a fucking joke.

Glinting blue eyes look back. Cold. Indifferent. A mask of ice that glazes over my pupils.

I cock the gun in my hand, looking at it curiously-- examining the way the light hits the metal, highlights the sleek lines, pondering the mechanics of something that embeds steel into a target. Wondering what possessed someone to invent something useful for splitting flesh and splintering bone.

Place it in my mouth-- strangely erotic, the oily metal against my cheek, almost reassuring-- and look at myself again. Hair swept, overhanging those cold, glinting eyes.

BANG.

I laugh and place the gun on the dresser.

Yeah. What a fucking joke.

I don't know when it really started-- when I was younger, maybe. But the tremors of guilt and fear began anew last week. It wasn't just little flashes of doubt-- there were fear-pangs, vicious stabs into my psyche, driving wedges into the tightly knit grey matter, dividing, slicing, disregarding points of vulnerability. This was all consuming.

It's because of that little girl; her ghost. I used to see it everywhere-- a little girl, at first, fading into transparency. But the more I saw her, the more translucent she would become, the more haunting her eyes was-- the more worn she was. Tired. Her lips creased in permanent defeat and sadness, hands liftened beckoningly to me, seeking answers to questions I can't explain.

When I met Duo, though, she disappeared. There was suddenly no room in my life for the ghosts of my past-- the present happiness seemed to clear out all my mental demons. I didn't spend my nights alone, thinking about the crushed flower I held in my hands as I detonated the bombs that would destroy a city of innocents. I spent them curled up in his arms, strangely needly and childlike, his breath hot on my cheek in my fetal position, our bodies bathed in sweat and satisfaction. I didn't smell that night anymore-- the strange combination of vanilla and gunpowder. There was only Duo, his grease and cinnamon sweat, his slow heartbeat... no room for nightmares. I was safe... and secure-- really safe when I was with him.

Safe from my demons. Safe from my past.

Safe from myself.

Until last week. Which is when she reappeared.

It was a standard mission, really. It was a disaster area-- colony malfunction-- apartment building crumbling, and we had to clear it of civilians. Easy enough. We were down to the last person-- a little girl on the top floor. She'd been sitting, eyes wide and frightened, covered in a fine white dust. Her eyes slid past me-- I could have been nonexistent for her gaze-- and to Duo. She held out her arms to him, still on the floor, reaching for salvation. And my violet-eyed angel could have been that, leaning down in his uniform, sweeping her up in his arms to carry her to safety.

And me? I stared at a corner of the room.

At her.

She was so thin, ravaged by the pains of memory. So small. She could have never hurt anyone, but now she wasn't just weak-- she was pitiful. She sat, in her torn dress, bonnet half-off, to reveal disheveled hair, unmoving. Bruises and scrapes decorated her face. Her thin arms wrapped around her trembling form, eyes beseeching. Questioning. Martyr's eyes.

I remember lying on the grass, gulping in air.

"Heero?" Duo's voice drifted into the haze of my thoughts.

She handed me a flower. Lost, I'd said... lost since the day I was born...

"Heero." Voice urgent.

One hand on the detonation device.

"Yeah?"

/CLICK/

"We have to go. The building's unstable."

/BANG/

Her eyes were riveted on me, intense, burning bright against her hollow face.

My eyes wander to the gun. CLICK. BANG.

How easy. As easy as punching that detonator and killing those people. Killing that little girl.

As easy as...

And then a bitter laugh escapes my lips. Stare into the mirror again. Heero Yuy. The Perfect Soldier.

/Civilian casualities: acceptable/

And ever since... I see her everywhere. I see her now, in the reflection of the mirror. Her tiny hands clasp the gun on the dresser, caressing the metal. Curious little hands. Hands that have never known war or blood. I stare at my own, daring them to be as stained as they are-- a deep scarlet and crimson, for every slain innocent that died by these hands. Her worn face looks into the mirror, alongside mine. Her eyes hold no redemption for me. They are not accusing, but blank and dead. They've lost their usual look of entreaty. Something inside me snaps.

I touch the gun, gingerly.

Duo is waiting downstairs, waiting for me. Waiting to take me into his arms. Waiting to make me forget.

/I can never forget/

The little girl in the mirror tilts her head curiously, watching my hand.

His eyes are still pure. The war's taint couldn't touch him. But it seeped into me, staining the dark crevices of my brain. And now-- now I'm crazed. Looking at a dead girl look at me, all in the mirror. Stroking the barrel of a gun.

I take it up and empty out five bullets. One remains.

I spin, watching it roll and click.

/Click. Bang/

Lift it to my head, muzzle cold against my burning skin. Give my reflection-- and the little girl-- a crooked smile.

/The lady, or the tiger?/

And pull the trigger.

[fin]

Comments: And people have to actually ask if I'm disturbed or not. ::snorts::

Jay