Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What?” When Duo answered the call, he barely recognized his own voice—it was raw from having thrown up so much from the overdose, from screaming, from crying until the tears ran out.

“Duo?” Une asked, voice uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure she believed he’d picked up the phone.

“What do you want, Une?” he asked, his voice little better on a second attempt.

There was a pause, as if she were reassessing, then she said, “I know you’re upset.” He snorted, which was about what he thought that comment deserved. Upset. Sure. That was a word for it. “I know it isn’t ideal, but you have to admit, you need help.”

“You have my badge and my gun. I quit. Resigned. Gave up. Whatever you want to call it. I’m not your problem anymore.”

“You have never been my problem, Duo.”

First name again. He stared at the gun on the coffee table.

“I may have your gun and your badge, but I haven’t filed your resignation. You’re still technically a Preventer,” she told him.

“Reaper take me, Une, what the fuck do you want?” he demanded, invoking Shinigami in a way he never did, but he was beyond tired. Tired of everything.

“You need help, I think we can both agree on that,” she said, speeding up as if she didn’t want him to interrupt her. “But I’ve been thinking about it, and you have never been normal.” He could hear a hint of a tease in her voice at the running joke they usually shared. “Expecting normal intervention measures to help you was probably an error on my part. Taking you out of the field might not be the best solution.”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Just spit it out,” he said.

“I just got an unusual request from SDE.” Sphere Drug Enforcement—a relatively new agency that answered to the United Earth Sphere Council and cobbled together Interpol and other international drug agencies to try to counter international drug trafficking. “They need an undercover, and they’re particularly looking for someone with… unlisted skills. I thought you might be perfect for it.”

He made a disparaging sound at that Black Ops experience euphemism. “And?” he asked.

“Have you heard of the Kings Cartel?” she asked.

Duo hadn’t kept up with anything broader reaching than the mission before him in months, and drugs had rarely been on his and Heero’s radar, so cartels weren’t really his thing.

“Can’t say I have.”

She hummed but didn’t seem discouraged at his indifferent tone. “I’m having a file couriered to your place. It would be deep cover, probably for years. I won’t lie to you—it’s going to be extremely dangerous. But our… public falling out and your recent track record would make for a believable cover story. I do need an answer soon, though.”

“I’ll let you know,” he said and hung up before she could say anything else. He stared at the date on the screen of his phone, because if it was right—and it had to be right, when would someone have fucked with his phone?—it had been a full week since he’d walked out of the office without his gun or badge or any concrete plan of seeing the next day. He didn’t have any memory of eating or drinking anything in the last seven days. He laughed, a humorless, haunting sound, even in his own ears. He set the phone on the coffee table, ignoring the missed calls, voicemails, and texts. It was probably a good thing that the other pilots were all in space at the moment. Some part of him wondered why no one had simply shown up on his doorstep, but he didn’t care why as long as they didn’t.

He must have fallen asleep or passed out at some point, because he didn’t remember anything until a hard pounding on his door woke him up. It was the promised courier with Une’s promised and discrete file. Judging by the carefully controlled look on the courier's face, Duo's physical state probably matched his mental one.

He took the file, closed the door, locking it on autopilot, set the file on the coffee table, and laid down on the couch. The bed no longer smelled like Heero—months ago, in a fit of ill-thought through mourning, Duo washed every piece of fabric in the apartment and replaced the mattress. At the time he thought he'd go crazy if the ghostly scent of Heero kept taunting him, but he regretted that loss bitterly. He hadn’t slept in it since, crashing at HQ when he could get away with it, on the couch when he couldn't.

Duo drifted, not truly sleeping—sleep over the last six months had been less like sleep and more like blacking out to recover from missions when he had pushed past every physical reserve he had. Anything less than absolute exhaustion left him vulnerable to new nightmares: the memory of the feeling as the stairway dropped from under him, of Heero reaching for him, of the railing breaking free and swinging in a sure and terrible arc, of Heero crumpling as Duo fell—it played on a loop whenever he closed his eyes, only occasionally broken by the look on Heero’s face when he told Duo not to come back because Heero needed to move on with his life and Duo was a hinderance to that.

His bruises had bruises from him falling off whatever thing he had been sleeping on. He probably should just give up and sleep on the fucking floor at this point. The neighbors stopped calling the police after the fourth week in a row and took to banging on his door or wall until he woke up. Usually worked pretty quick.

Morning light intruded on his doze, telling him it was morning even if he had no real reason to get up. His eyes shifted to the file on the coffee table as his stomach twisted and grumbled in complaint, but Duo had been hungry before, and it was easy to ignore. Compared to the pain of Heero's absence, it was a distant irritation at best. 

His eyes lingered on the handgun sitting innocently on the coffee table. Une may have his official Preventers sidearm, but she had no domain over his personal weapons. Duo sat up and picked up the gun. He broke it down methodically, the steps long ingrained and needing no real attention. Satisfied that every piece was in working order, he reassembled it, sliding the magazine in, chambering a round, and flipping off the safety.

Duo put the barrel to his temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He heard the click of the hammer connecting, then opened his eyes and sighed. He checked the gun. The round was still chambered—jammed. A light strike. Again. He’d lost track of how many times that had happened in the last week. From guns that did not jam because they didn’t fucking dare.

He ejected the round, ignoring it as it joined countless others on the floor, then set the gun on the coffee table next to the file.

“All right,” he said, resigned. “Message received.”  

He got up, took a shower, and then made a protein shake. He wasn’t surprised he was only able to drink about half of it. He may not be able to starve to death, but apparently not eating for eight days had repercussions. He considered the rest of the shake with idle thoughts of starved prisoners who had died from overeating when they finally got food, and gave it up. If his body could reject a massive overdose of heroin with relatively little effect, it wasn't going to go from overeating. Honestly, aside from the gnawing hunger, he felt… a lot more fine than he should after eight days without eating and an overdose that should have put down a dozen people.  

With no reason not to, he sat back down at the couch, picked up Une’s file, and began to read.

And he was intrigued. 

It was a thick file, but it was almost all speculation. A good portion of the file was what Duo would consider less speculation than purely hypothetical. For such a big player, the Kings ran a seriously tight ship. They were smart and professional, reminding Duo of old-world Mafia. Where their influence held sway, people didn't talk, were not friendly to any authority figures, would rarely even attempt to point LEOs in the right direction. Radio silence. They weren't even certain about the roles the few people they had identified played.

Jesus Reyes himself was a ghost, with almost everything "known" about him conjecture. The name wasn't his, or if it was, a hacker of Heero's level had erased everything about him. People living under his cartel's influence considered him fair but merciless and unforgiving. His people were both sophisticated in their forensic countermeasures and fanatically loyal. Only lowest rungs had ever been picked up, and even the lowest on the totem pole had nothing to say. In prison, even the lowest King held status. No one was sure how the Kings had earned such respect from other criminals. In Duo's experience, it took a combination of utter ruthlessness and a rigid code they adhered to. 

Only a handful of out-of-focus, turned-away pictures existed of Reyes. He was smart and sneaky, cautious. A king ruling from the shadows. It was part of why attempts—and in the past ten years Duo had been horrified to learn various agencies had tried to get over a dozen undercovers in to get close to him—failed so spectacularly. He'd been largely left in peace over the course of the wars—few had time to deal with any threats that weren't war-related, and many government police forces ceased to be anything more than extensions of OZ. So Reyes had taken the opportunity to profit and grow his business—always people self-medicating in the wake of war. He'd also taken the opportunity to be as ruthless as he'd wanted.

And now here he was, four years after the last Eve War had ended and things at local levels were finally on solid footing again. Agencies could finally turn their attention to international headaches like the Reyes. Before the war, Reyes had been up-and-coming enough and smart enough to warrant the undercover efforts—but those agents had quickly had covers compromised and had to pull out with almost nothing to show for their efforts. 

Looking through the file, Duo thought he had a good idea of how Une had felt about their files during the war. So much conjecture and guesswork—seeing the moves only after they'd been made, the hand directing them shadowed at best. The Kings were good and careful. If they hadn't been active before the wars—and clearly still learning how they wanted to run then—they would be almost invisible now. 

Except Reyes wasn't playing as nice now. Three undercover agents had been killed—one dismembered while alive. Aside from the fact they'd been attempting to get in undercover with the Kings cartel, nothing indicated their deaths were tied to illegal activities or the Kings themselves. So, desperate to try and get something on Reyes, someone from higher up in Sphere Drug Enforcement had thought to reach out to Une, to ask if she had any special operatives in the Preventers who would be able—and willing—to take such a hazardous assignment. While mostly focused on threats to sphere-wide peace, terrorists, weapons running, and the occasional political kidnapping, Preventers were also gaining a reputation among other law-keeping agencies for having attracted a lot of vets with specialized—read: Black Ops—skills. 

The puzzle stirred something in him other than Shinigami for the first time in months. The challenge teased him. Duo might be a stealth specialist, but outright infiltration had always been more Trowa's gig. Duo could get into just about anywhere, but he was memorable in a way that didn't make him great for undercover work. Could he do it? Could he infiltrate this ultra-tight group? Could he get close to the king who ruled it all? 

The file held everything he needed. He wouldn't be able to go back to HQ—the cut had to be clean. He couldn't risk any Preventer hand touching any move he made now. He had to act exactly as he would if he had just lost his job and was turning his back on the Preventers. 

His heart clenched as he looked up from the file and around the apartment. The apartment he and Heero had shared for almost five years—that they had picked together. The first home he'd ever had that had truly been his. He wouldn't be able to keep it. He had a substantial nest egg from the hazard pay he had racked up both before and after losing Heero, plus enough hidden money stolen from OZ accounts during the war to keep it indefinitely. But the apartment was link, a kink in the armor, a bond. Logically, if he had lost his job and needed to be scarce, he couldn't waste money keeping the apartment. 

Could he leave this place behind? The lease was up for renewal in two weeks, but Duo had been ignoring it. The timing was appropriate.

Leaving the file on the coffee table, he got up and took a walk around, seeing memories more than the apartment itself. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, stared at the new bed that replaced the one they had bought and shared. The fancy new, empty bed he hadn’t slept in for three months.

Even though it twisted his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with hunger, he knew it was time to let go. He went to the closet and pulled out his go bag and an empty duffel. He wasn't surprised when, after a thorough trip through the apartment, everything that meant anything to him fit into the two bags—including a substantial weapons collection. He had sent Heero's things to him less than a month after he left, and Duo had never developed the habit of accumulation. 

Time to let go of anything he couldn't carry. 

Duo set the bags down by the door and gathered up the file. He'd been through it thoroughly, and his mind had locked it down the way it always had. He dropped it into the ceramic sink and opened the window before he began to burn it. He was careful to burn every bit of it, then washed the sink out to make sure no sign of the destroyed documents remained. 

His personal laptop had been neglected in its carry case for weeks while he'd been in the field. Now he pulled it out and used all the super-illegal and fancy programs installed on it to begin wiping himself out. 

It took several hours, during which he paused for another shake and drank two glasses of water, the thirst sneaking up on him. He moved his accounts around, told the landlord he wouldn't be renewing the lease, ended the contract on his cellphone, turned off all utilities, and canceled any subscriptions. All the credit cards were paid off, and he closed them all. He already used a PO Box for all important hard mail—several to be honest—so no need to have it forwarded. 

Everything done he could think of offhand, he packed up the laptop then pulled out his phone. He couldn't tell Une directly. He'd send her a postcard. She'd understand. He stared at the phone. It didn't have anything important or personal saved on it, a wartime habit he never managed to break. He didn't even save any contacts because, unlike the majority of people, he only needed to be told or to see a number once to remember it. It was only sentimentality that kept him holding onto it—the number Heero knew.

It's been nine months since he lost his memory, you idiot, six since he told you to leave. He's not going to remember, and he's not going to call.

Duo reached up to the nape of his neck. A moment of concentration, and he could feel the pick he wanted shift under his skin. He grabbed it, pulling it out rather than let the muscles do the work, and used it to disassemble the phone with the ease of practice; then he took the pieces to the sink, grabbing the long candle lighter he'd used on the way. Over the sink, he used the lighter to destroy any information that may be on his phone, then dropped the pieces into the sink and ran water over them for good measure. That done, he slid the pick back into its home, feeling his muscles close around it again like a custom sheath. He shifted his neck side to side to ensure it was seated properly, then headed to the door, snaring his laptop bag in one hand and slinging it over a shoulder before grabbing his go bag and duffel. He paused at the door, taking a last look at the place that had been home. 

The memories threatened to overwhelm him. He stepped out, closing the door behind him, then pulled out his keys. He slid the circle holding the keys to the apartment off the main ring and slid their circle over the door handle. 

Turning away, his mind was already turning its attention to the mission. He had a lead on where to start, but he needed a little time and a little luck. And if everything went pear-shaped and this was the job that finally killed him, well, the others would get over it. 

It was time to go to work.

Chapter Text

Jesus sat back and eyed the man before him, his first time seeing the face behind the thick skull face-painting he wore in the Arena. He wasn't impressive—short, maybe all of 5'5", not big and hulked out, like some short guys were, as if trying to make up for the lack of height with bulk. He looked small in the Arena because it was the truth. Compact, perfectly proportioned so he seemed taller than he was, but the instant someone stood next to him, the illusion was spoiled.

"Please, Gemelo," he motioned to the place across from him. "Have a seat."

He got a raised eyebrow at the man slid into the booth across from him. "Gemelo?" he asked.

"Your name, correct? Twin?"

"I'm called Twain, actually. But if you like Gemelo, I'm not particular."

Jesus waited for him to sit. "You say it well," he commented, surprised. "I didn't think you were Latino."

"I'm not. But you grow up in colony slums, you pick up a lot of bits and pieces."

"Colonist? Not a lot of your kind living in my world."

Gemelo shrugged. "I got off colony, but life isn't necessarily easier dirtside. If it were, I wouldn't be fighting for you to make ends meet."

Jesus leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. "About that. I hear one of my men recruited you. You've made me quite a lot of money winning. Undefeated, yes?"

Gemelo was wary now, watching him with obvious caution. "If you want me to lose, you're out of luck."

Jesus laughed. "There are many who want you to lose, but no, I'm not going to ask you to throw a fight. Tempting as it may be."

The wariness was still there. Gemelo clearly didn't trust him or his motives. Smart boy. Jesus had met less dangerous men who treated him with less caution.

"So if you don't want me to throw a fight, why am I here?"

"Can't I simply congratulate you?"

"Well, you could, but I don't think that's why you called for me."

"Why do you think I called for you?" Jesus was curious.

He met Jesus’s gaze fearlessly. "To ask about the last fight."

A smile tickled at his lips, but Jesus held it back. "I am curious. Very curious how someone who purports to be a slum kid, a street rat, I've heard, learned how to do what you did. My man, Rafael," he motioned to the figure standing to Gemelo's left, bracketing him in the booth. "tells me you are Death."

Purple eyes—no, surely they were just very blue—watched him warily, but Jesus saw none of the usual signs of surprise. Did those purple—surely blue—eyes widen just a fraction? The pupils dilate? An eyebrow rise? The wary stillness was the only thing he saw.

“Well?” he prompted.

“You haven’t asked a question,” Gemelo pointed out reasonably.

He could see Rafael tense out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. "I can't feel it. Rafael assures me that only some people can. He also has been to most of your fights. He told me this is the first time he’s sensed it. Why tonight?"

Gemelo appeared thoughtful, his eyes flicking to Rafael before dismissing him to watch Jesus. Finally, he said, "Because he was the better fighter."

Jesus was taken aback, and he could see Rafael was as well. "That makes no sense. He was the better fighter, but you did your..." he paused, reaching for a term before settling for, "Death thing, and he backed down. Why?"

"Cobra is the better fighter. You put us in an Arena with rules and limitations, he kicks my ass nine times out of ten, and I only get the one if I get lucky," he stated, matter-of-fact. Before Jesus could ask again, he added, "I'm the better killer."

Jesus could see Rafael tense and knew that Alejandro, at his own side, had done the same, as if Gemelo was a threat sitting there. 

"Explain."

Gemelo shrugged again. "It's simple. He's a fighter, Reyes." He trilled the initial r like he was born to it. "Fighting is what he knows, not killing. I'm a killer. If you're talking about a straight fight, he wins. You're talking about fighting to the death—I'll kill him. That's why I did my”—the right side of his mouth twisted up in a lopsided grin—“‘Death thing.’ That's why he stood down. I can't beat him in a traditional fight. But I can kill him."

He didn't seem like a killer to Jesus, though he was admittedly not a great judge of it. "You don't fight to death in the Arena," he finally said. 

"Well, no, not technically. Killing is definitely frowned upon and discouraged, but accidents happen, right?" He shrugged and leaned back, relaxed.

"By your own admission, it would not have been an accident."

Gemelo sighed. "I'm not going to lose, even if it means I need to kill. I didn't want to kill him, so I discouraged him. Lucky for him, he could take the hint.”

Jesus picked up his wine glass, swirling the red around as he contemplated the man before him. To his credit, Gemelo appeared unimpressed, was unflinching. Aren’t you an interesting puzzle. He ran his eyes over Gemelo’s face. Light brown bangs fell into his face, softening the features where the paint accentuated his thinness. He was young—which wasn’t unusual in the Arena—but maybe he was eighteen? No, those eyes were older. He’s stunning. The realization surprised him, was nearly an afterthought. He was not Jesus’s usual type—he preferred them big, masculine. Between his stature, the long hair, overlong bangs, and too-large eyes, Gemelo was easy to think of as feminine or pretty. But something in the weight of his brow, the cut of his jaw, the bridge of his nose said man and called to the part of Jesus that sought men. Perhaps most intriguing—he’s fearless.

"Was there anything else you needed from me?"

"No. Not right now. Though you're welcome to stay for dinner." The invitation was spontaneous, but Jesus found that Gemelo was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

Gemelo watched him with those penetrating purple eyes for a long moment before he said, "I think I'll pass."

"The food is excellent," Jesus volunteered, oddly reluctant to let this man out of his sight.

But Gemelo was already standing up. "Probably be wasted on me. Good night, Señor Reyes." He turned to Rafael, who—to Jesus's surprise—stepped back. "I'll see myself out."

Jesus’s eyes traced the breadth of Gemelo’s shoulders and watched a braid tease Gemelo's ass until he disappeared out the door, never once looking back.

"Rafael," he stated, making the man jump again. He had also been watching Gemelo, but it hadn't been in intrigue. 

"Sí?"

"What do you think of him?"

He could see Rafael look past him to Alejandro, but if Alejandro gave any response, Jesus didn't notice. Finally he said, "I think you should put a bullet in his head."

His candid response startled a laugh from Jesus. "Does that little boy scare you so much, Rafael?" he taunted. 

Rafael didn't miss a beat. "That man carries death with him, señor. The sooner he is off the board the better."

"Then Rafael, find someone to kill him in the Arena... if you can."

Rafael frowned. "You want to see him kill, don't you?"

“Have Fernando look into him. I want to know everything there is to know about him,” he commanded, then flashed Rafael a toothy smile. "And I wouldn't send someone you're attached to." 

Duo kept his steps up to his apartment normal even though his mind was spinning out of control Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

How had no one known that Jesus Reyes liked men? How had that not made it into his file? By Duo’s judgement, he wasn’t even a swinger, Reyes had a distinct preference for men. And not men like Duo—which was why it took him so long to get the elevator eyes. Clearly, Duo wasn’t his normal type, which meant he had a preference for “manly” men.

How the fuck had no one ever figured that out?

Some distant part of his brain registered that the pizza menu sticking out from under his door was still where it should be. He unlocked and opened the door, stepping in, and quickly closed and locked it behind him. Then he leaned against the door and let himself slide to the floor.

Okay, he needed to get some emotional distance from this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d freaked out over figuring out someone was attracted to him. Of course, it had been a while since that someone was as dangerous as Reyes was purported to be. Still, he was overreacting and he knew it. So no one had figured out Reyes swung towards guys. Irritating, but not insurmountable. There had been a failed attempt to get a UC in the romantic route, and now Duo knew why that had failed. The file speculated that Reyes was a misogynist—the Kings cartel had literally no known females in its hierarchy. But being a raving asshole about women didn’t automatically mean a man was willing to sleep with other men, and it wasn’t the sort of chance you would take with a UC unless you were pretty damn sure you were right. With the type of man Reyes was, if he were insulted badly enough, he might just kill the source of the perceived insult.

So, they hadn’t known, and so little was known about Reyes, it shouldn’t be that surprising. So why was he handling this so poorly?

Because he wants to fuck me.

He sighed and leaned back, letting his head hit the door. Okay, so he wants to fuck me. Men wanting to fuck me isn’t a new thing. Why does this one have me so freaked out?

He banged his head against the door with a bit more force this time as he acknowledged the answer: Because it’s the perfect fucking in.

Perfect! Or it would be, if it weren’t for the minor detail that he would have to actually sleep with Reyes for it to work.

C’mon, kid. You were a whore, and it’s not like you haven’t jumped in bed with an attractive psycho to get close to him.

But it was different. When he was a kid, it wasn’t for him, it was to keep his kids—the ones littler than he was—from having to. The only way he could reliably make enough to keep them fed and safe. And during the war—I got to kill the fuckers, so…

This wasn’t going to be a one-night thing. At least, if it was going to be of any value, it wouldn’t. It probably meant months in Reyes’s bed, possibly even a year or more.

But is it really so different from the war? The question niggled in the back of his mind.

“But this isn’t the war,” Duo said to the empty apartment. “I shouldn’t have to go this far.”

Une would never have given him this assignment if she’d known. Because it wasn’t the war, and there were lines—albeit not many, but they did exist—that she wouldn’t ask him to cross. Flirt, seduce, let a target get a little handsy? Sure. But actually sleep with them? For potentially months?

Stop thinking of it so personally. Back up and weigh the pros and cons.

Pro—it was a fucking gift horse. To have Reyes become independently interested in someone was the best possible opportunity. Hell, it had taken only three months of work to get a face-to-face with the man, which was more than any other UC had done.

Con—he would have to sleep with a monster.

Pro—at least he was an attractive monster. As if that mitigated it.

Con—

Con…

It probably wasn’t a good sign that he was having trouble thinking of cons beyond “he’s a monster” and “I just don’t want to.”

Time to change his approach. What happens if I turn him down?

Well, that was easy. He may as well throw the towel in now. If it were anyone other than Reyes himself, Duo could turn them down and work around it. But if he snubbed the King, he was done. Reyes was not the kind of man who would take rejection well. He may need to be undercover for years to get all the information he needed, but he didn’t have years just to be able to get access to Reyes’s inner circle. Best-case scenario had him abruptly tossed on his ass or relegated to the absolute bottom of the totem pole on a permanent basis. Worst-case scenario had Reyes killing him for the insult.

Not that the last scenario was his worst-case, exactly, but it wasn’t productive.

Admit it, if you’d known, you would have probably tried to go this route from the beginning. What difference does it really make if you didn’t plan it?

It didn’t. And he had done things like this before, if on one-off occasions. More importantly, aside from the fact that he didn’t want to sleep with anyone—it didn’t actually have much to do with Reyes himself—he didn’t have any real reason not to do it. It wasn’t like he was in a relationship anymore.

It’s been over a fucking year, and it still feels like my heart is going to collapse on itself when I think about the fact that Heero is really gone.

And that was the real reason, wasn’t it? He just didn’t want to sleep with anyone who wasn’t Heero.

So what? Are you going to be a monk for the rest of your life?

Just the thought of the rest of his life made Duo curl tightly into himself and bite back a sob. Would the pain ever just go away?

Shinigami swam up, washing through him, rolling in, as inexorable as the tide until his very fingertips seemed to tingle with it. It drowned the pain—that pain was a pain of life, and Shinigami didn’t understand it—and Duo could think clearly again in the gray-washed world.

It came down to his commitment to the mission. Was he walking away from it and turning Reyes down? Or was he going to suck it up and take the gift that had been handed to him?

Duo let Shinigami wash back out, sighed and rubbed his hands over his face as he made his decision.

Time to stop looking gift horses in the mouth.

Chapter Text

Jesus went to the Arena for every fight for the next two weeks. He knew it was bad that he was becoming predictable, but he had to see Gemelo. 

In the Arena, he used the name Calavera. He rarely took damage. He got in close and fast and vicious, and the more Jesus watched him, the more he wanted him. He needed to see the man bent, dominated, submitting. Each win churned that need hotter and higher in him. 

Then Rafael turned in a winner. Representing the Triads, Victor Xiau—Raging Tiger—had been a top kung-fu competitor before he had been busted for steroids. He apparently had an uncle connected to the Triads who had hooked him up with the Arena. He had been dominant—even more so than Cobra before him. Everyone was gearing up for him and Gemelo to collide. It was obvious from watching him that he had a significant edge over Gemelo. And the crowd wanted to see Gemelo brought low. 

Jesus didn’t ask what Xiau had done to get in Rafael's crosshairs. 

And the night had come. Gemelo stood on the hard, sealed floor, looking at ease. Black, skintight compression pants showed off an ass that Jesus desperately wanted to get his hands on. A similarly skintight black long-sleeve top teased at the form without showing skin. Jesus's hands itched to peel him out of that clothing. His hair was slicked back from his face, hidden under a tight, black hood, face painted like the calavera he used as his name, haunting and beautiful at once.

Xiau was in a black martial arts uniform. He looked like an action hero from a movie—and stood an easy eight inches taller than Gemelo—which wasn't unusual. Xiau was showing off with flashy moves, trying to rile the crowd, looking smug and sure. 

As they got ready, Xiau began trash talking. "I'm not like Cobra, kid. You're not going to scare me off."

"That's unfortunate for you." The acoustics threw even the relatively soft conversation to the entire Arena. It wasn't a taunt, or, at least, Jesus didn't think it was supposed to be. It was one of the first times Gemelo had ever deigned to speak to his opponent. 

The start of the match was called and Xiau leaped toward Gemelo, only to dodge to the side for no reason that Jesus could see. At his side, Rafael let out a small sound. Gemelo stood unconcerned.

"You won't scare me off with that. I'm going kick your ass—and unlike you, once you're down, I'm going to claim domination and fuck you in front of all these lovely guests!" He stood and raised his arms.  A victory of “domination” could be claimed and allow the winner to fuck the loser publicly if the win was lopsided enough. Almost all of Gemelo’s wins had been by domination; he never claimed the right. Xiau’s claim got a few jeers. While tension all but crackled in the air, it was the tension of gathering storm clouds, awaiting the first drops before the deluge came, not the usual raucous crowd.  

Jesus was terrible at reading voices, but despite his boast, he thought Xiau's voice had wavered just a bit.

Gemelo waited, patient. He almost never made the first move—always waited for his opponent to act before he reacted. This time, as he waited, a smile grew, a rictus grin that knew nothing of mercy. Watchers always wondered—would this be the time he's not fast enough? Would this be the time he would fall?

It never had been. As Xiau readied his rush, Jesus wondered if he ever would. 

Rafael gasped as if he’d been punched. Xiau moved; Gemelo moved faster. Faster than Jesus could follow. A sharp, ominous crack echoed through the Arena, and Xiau crumpled. His head cracked harshly on the unforgiving floor, and he did not move. The already hushed crowd fell silent as a hooded and masked officiant began to move forward. Before he got to Xiau, a whimper made its way up to the observers. 

"I... I can't move," Xiau choked out. "I can't feel my body." The officiant knelt next to him as Gemelo felt at his own cheek, ignoring the prone man. A spot of blood was bright against the black-and-white makeup. Apparently Xiau had grazed him. 

"Contender Raging Tiger’s neck appears to be broken," the officiant spoke up. "Contender Calavera is the winner."

There was no roar, just muttering, uneasy whispers. Rafael leaned down and murmured, "They're afraid, señor."

Jesus understood. It was one thing to beat a man, even to kill him. This, to most of the men (and the few women) in attendance, was a fate worse than death. 

Gemelo was walking away.

"Calavera!" Xiau yelled, voice thick with tears that Jesus could see streaming down his face. "You owe me!"

Gemelo turned back to Xiau, the haunting grin gone, but Xiau apparently couldn't even turn his head to see him. Gemelo looked to the officiant for approval before approaching. 

"I owe you?" he asked, once in Xiau's line of sight. 

"You can't leave me like this. Kill me."

Gemelo said nothing, just stared, indifferent.

"You won! Dammit! Don't leave me like this! Do the right thing! Finish it, damn you!"

Chants began, softly at first, while Gemelo appeared to debate. Kill him. Finish it. 

The officiant had the posture of listening to something—doubtless an ear piece. Jesus stood and walked to the edge of the balcony, knowing he would still be shadowed and virtually invisible. 

"My fighter has my permission to kill his opponent, if the officiants allow," he declared. It didn't happen often, but it had happened that someone had received a career-ending or life-altering injury. Weapons began to rain down at random into the fight ring. Gemelo still waited. Finally the officiant stood and held up his arms. 

"We approve. Fighter Calavera has the right of the kill. How merciful you are is at your discretion," he announced. 

For a moment Gemelo just stared at Xiau, unmoving.

"Kill me, you fucker!" Xiau screamed, hoarse. 

Without ceremony, Gemelo walked around to stand behind Xiau's head. He went to his knees with a predatory grace that made Jesus think of where else he could watch him go down. Gemelo rearranged Xiau's body so his head was in Gemelo's lap. With what appeared to be tenderness, he wiped the tears from Xiau's cheeks with his thumbs as he cradled the head in his hands. If he said anything to Xiau before sharply twisting his neck to completely sever the spinal cord and kill the man, even the impressive acoustics didn't catch it. 

Jesus watched as Gemelo closed Xiau's eyes with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, before setting him down gently. He stood and looked up, somehow finding Jesus and meeting his eyes even in the darkness. Jesus couldn't read the thoughts behind those eyes, but Gemelo left the ring without any other acknowledgement. 

The organizers would take care of Xiau's body. It was time to go. But first Jesus had some unfinished business with his fighter. 

He palmed himself, squeezing, trying to push back the need that was so intense at that moment. The flashes of Gemelo striking and dropping Xiau, then killing him, playing through his mind as if they were on a loop. He needed to have that man beneath him. 

He caught Gemelo in the ready room, makeup mostly washed away, though black still lined his eyes, drawing attention to them. His bangs framed his face, a black leather jacket topped that teasing clothing, and a black bookbag slung over one shoulder all added to the youthful illusion. He could have been any random high school or college kid.

Except for those dark-ringed eyes. No child had eyes like that.

"Well done tonight," he congratulated, standing in the doorway as Gemelo made for it. 

"Congratulate yourself. You officially pay me to kill for you," Gemelo snapped back, looking up, well within Jesus's personal space. 

"You never take your right."

"I have a thing about consent. In that I require it. No one I beat actually wants me to fuck them, so I don't."

Jesus reached for him, slowly, knowing that even though he wasn't exactly acting like it, Gemelo was almost certainly keyed up still. Gently, he set his hand on the side of Gemelo's neck and used it to tilt his face up so he could see the bruise and scratch across one perfect cheek clearly. "He actually landed a hit."

"Glancing blow. It'll heal."

Jesus tried to remember the last time he had handled someone like this without them tensing, without feeling that fine tremor that signaled fear. The realization that Gemelo truly did not fear him sent a further thrill of want through him. "I don't think they'll let you fight here again." He was pleased that his voice was steady.

"I've already been told."

Jesus moved his hand, cradling the back of Gemelo's head and tangling his fingers in that luxurious braid, feasting in its softness.

"You may pay me to kill for you, but you don't pay me to fuck you."

"You do need a new job." Jesus lowered his own head as he used his grip to tilt Gemelo's head back. Gemelo didn't fight the motion, looking up. 

"Not that hard up yet."

Every time Gemelo stood firm made Jesus's desire spike. He needed this man beneath him, but more than that, he needed him to submit. It wouldn't be enough to force him. He needed Gemelo to choose to lay himself open. 

"And if I just want to invite you to my bed? No strings."

Gemelo put his hands on Jesus's chest and leaned up, standing on his tiptoes to barely reach Jesus's ear. 

"You and I both know there's no such thing." And with surprising ease, he managed to step back and disengage from Jesus. "Your people know how to reach me." He moved to slide through the thin space between Jesus and the door. 

Jesus grabbed his arm and jerked him back, the phantom softness of Gemelo's hair teasing his fingers. He tilted Gemelo's chin up and leaned down to claim his lips. Gemelo was unresponsive for a moment before he opened his mouth and let Jesus in. Passive. Jesus growled in his chest, and moved his hand to the nape of Gemelo’s neck again to pull him in tighter. He wanted submission, not passiveness. Finally, he released Gemelo, but held his forehead pressed to the smaller man’s, keeping his grip in Gemelo’s braid.

“You could be mine.”

“You could be mine.”

It was more than Duo could have hoped for if he planned it this way. At the same time, something inside him desperately wanted to belong to someone, and to have that someone belong to him in return. He and Heero had tangled themselves together so tightly, they had virtually ceased to be individuals. No matter how often they’d been warned that they were too codependent, they hadn’t cared. And now that Heero was gone, Duo had a gaping hole that part of him desperately wanted filled. It didn’t care who filled it.

He said, “Then make me want to be.” A challenge. If Duo was going to do this, he had to make it worth his while. He couldn’t be the next in a string of one-night stands.

Jesus actually leaned back, surprised by Duo’s response. Rafael appeared offended on his master’s behalf.

“You whore—” he began, but Jesus raised a hand and cut him off.

“What did you say?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard Duo correctly.

Duo wasn’t going to let him get away with that. “If you want me to be yours, make me want to be.” He could see that Jesus was confused, so he held back a sigh and explained. “You don’t want to just fuck me. If you wanted that, you’d just offer money and be done with it.” He cast a dark glare at Rafael. Rafael gritted his teeth and seethed, but Duo put him out of his mind. “You want me to be yours. You want me to want you, to submit”—he leaned his head back and bared his throat, and knew he was on the right track when he saw Reyes’s pupils widen to practically swallow his irises—“to you. To allow you inside of me.” That last sent a fine shudder through Jesus that Duo wouldn’t have felt if Jesus hadn’t still had a hand on his neck. “You want that? Then work for it. Make me want it.”

Jesus used his grip on Duo’s nape and arm to pull him tightly against his body, and Duo went. He could feel Jesus firm against his stomach, and the grip in his hair tugged to just the edge of pain. “And why should I do that when, as Rafael pointed out, I could just pay you.”

“You could,” Duo conceded. “But you’d get the whore, not the lover.” He let his bag fall from his shoulder and reached up slowly to caress Reyes’s face. “Let me show you the difference.” He moved his hand quickly to Reyes’s shoulder to get the leverage to pull Reyes down, and their lips met. Where he’d been passive on the previous kiss, with this one, he poured himself into it. He poured his pain, his longing, his need, his barely leashed passion all into that kiss. When he broke, it was softly, tenderly, with reluctance, and they were both breathing hard. Slowly, Reyes’s eyes opened to meet his. When he did, Duo asked, “See the difference?”

“I see.” Reyes’s deep voice had deepened further with arousal, and Duo let himself enjoy that voice.

“That was just a kiss. Can you imagine what I would be like if I come to your bed because I want to be there?” he teased, still close enough that his words would tickle across Reyes’s lips. “You can’t buy that,” he assured, pulling back a little, getting some distance. “I don’t go to bed with anyone, let anyone inside me these days unless it’s for something more than a fuck. If I want to get off, I can do that with my hand and a toy, and I know the toy is clean, at least.” He pulled away from Reyes entirely and bent to pick up his bag and moved to the door.

“Gemelo!” Reyes barked, and Duo paused, glancing over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow in question. “I will make you mine.” It was a promise.

Hook, line, and sinker. Reyes couldn’t resist the challenge. Victory and dread warred in Duo’s chest.

“I look forward to it.”

If that was true, Duo didn’t examine it too closely.

Chapter Text

"So, John Doe," Sally sighed, looking at the body on her table. "Or should I say Zhang Wei?" she added, pulling back the sheet and seeing he was Asian, likely Chinese. She was in New York helping the local medical examiner to allow her to be close to Duo, but there was a reason she wasn't a coroner.  

"His name was Victor Xiau."

Sally about jumped out of her skin at the unexpected information. After a slew of her most colorful Chinese curses—in three dialects, no less—she turned to find none other than Duo Maxwell perched on an empty table. "Maxwell," she acknowledged, not bothering to ask how he'd gotten in, and always the last name when she was aggravated with him. "So, you knew him? I take it he's an Arena guy, then?" she asked.

"He's my kill."

That gave Sally pause, and she slowly set her tablet down. "Duo," she said slowly, really looking at him. He had the beginning of a bruise marring a cheek, and a shallow wound across the cheekbone. "What happened?" He was also curled up on the table, one leg dangling, one knee pulled up close to his chest in a way that always made him look much younger than his twenty years.

"It was the Arena. He was a top-tier fighter. I couldn't risk holding back. I must have hit him harder than I thought, because I broke his neck."

"Oh, Duo..." Sally knew from Une's debriefs what the cost of losing would be. Duo had been protecting himself, but he also had never adjusted from sparring with Heero and Wufei. His strength-to-weight ratios were off the charts—all of the pilots' were—and she was convinced that he had an extremely skewed sense of his own strength since he spent so much time sparring with Superman and Bruce Lee by turns. She could believe that he could misjudge his strength and break someone's neck if he wasn't careful. 

She went to feel along Xiau's neck. "Duo... his neck is broken twice."

"The first blow paralyzed him."

Without an x-ray, Sally couldn't be sure, but she'd bet that the first blow had severed part of the spinal cord. 

"It's not like you to hit someone again after they're down."

"I didn't. I knew what that crack meant when I heard it, when he dropped like a sack of stones. When he realized his neck was broken, he begged me to kill him."

Sally looked closer, could see the remnants of tear tracks on the face. For a man who had been a top-tier martial artist, the idea of being a paraplegic could certainly be worse than death. 

"I take it the Arena organizers approved?"

She saw Duo nod out of the corner of her eye, and looked up to focus on him again. "Duo... I think it's time to pull you out. You've on assignment for three months, in for two now, and now you've had to kill just to protect your cover. As both your friend and your doctor, this isn't healthy for you." Not that there was much about Duo's mental state that had been healthy since Heero had left. This had been a last-ditch effort on Une's part to try redirect Duo's self-destructive streak into something constructive. 

Duo met her eyes squarely. "I have Reyes," he said.

"What?"

"Reyes. He had me meet him for a face-to-face at Rapture two weeks ago. And he came to see me in person after..." He motioned to Xiau. 

It was the best and worst-case scenario. Sally felt her heart sink. Three months. There had been undercover operations that had been trying to get close to Reyes for years. A couple of UCs had ended up dead, with no way to tie those deaths back to Reyes. Another one had been pulled for his own safety, but hadn't had enough to bring down anyone but small players. There was only one thing she could think of that would allow him to get close to Reyes so quickly.

Now, Duo was in Reyes's crosshairs. Tonight's public kill would go far in easing suspicion. To Reyes's knowledge, no agency would risk an operative the way Maxwell had been risked, would allow him to make a kill like this to protect his cover. Preventers played fast and loose with some rules, especially where the pilots were concerned. 

Then again, if it hadn't been Duo and if he hadn't been in such a dire state, Une wouldn't have sent him in either. They always seemed to make exceptions for the pilots. 

"It isn't too late to get out, Duo. You don't... you don't have to..." She couldn't bring herself to say it. She didn't want to imagine Duo in bed with that monster. It felt too much like he was prostituting himself for the Preventers, and Sally couldn't imagine that would do Duo's mental state any good.

"I'm a big boy, Sally. I can make this call." His voice was gentle, as if she was the one who needed to be reassured or protected. 

It made her angry. People had failed to protect Duo so often in his life that he thought nothing of putting himself in harm's way. He didn't value himself over others. To him, sleeping with Reyes—and God, she wanted to believe he was getting close any other way—was just another thing he had to do to protect others. It was a means to an end. 

"I'll tell Une—"

"Sal." He said it so gently it broke her heart all over again. "We don't have enough yet. Not even close. It could take a year or more of being at his side to have enough to pull this all down from the inside. Une knew that when I took this one."

It was too much to ask of anyone. It was too much to ask of him. Because Duo would give until he had nothing left. She felt the tears gather behind her eyes, and dammit, she was stronger than this. The loss of Heero had been hard on them all in different ways, but part of Duo seemed to die. It was like losing Heero had proven something to him that she was afraid to put words to. For months, Une had escalated him to increasingly dangerous and deadlier missions until this one had come across her plate. Something that could stabilize him, keep him from seeking utter self-destruction. Now Sally wasn't sure that this wasn't just a different way to self-destruct. 

Duo jumped down and came to give her a hug. "It's okay, Sally." 

Despite herself, a sob found its way out of her throat as those thin-but-so-strong arms held her. "This is not just on you. You do not have to do this."

"Well, the other way I can think of includes me and a license to kill freely."

"There has to be another way. You don't have to do this—"

"I'm the only one who can. Seriously, it'll be okay."

"But..." what if it becomes more? Reyes was thought to be a sociopath, but he must be charismatic, like some of the most infamous were. Duo’s moral compass had always been askew. If he became Duo's... If Duo flipped and became for real what he was pretending to be...

It was a real risk. It should have been enough to put the kaput to this in its infancy. The idea of Duo at the side of a crime lord like Reyes for real was absolutely terrifying. And if Duo slept with the man for the year or more this was expected to take...

She was getting ahead of herself. Surely, it wouldn’t go that far. Surely Duo wouldn’t try to fill Heero’s void with someone like Reyes.

Why did she not believe that? 

"I've gotta get back to my place. I'm sure Reyes is going to be keeping a closer eye on me from here on out, so I don't know when I'll next get to see you in person." He pulled back and headed toward the door, but nodded to the body. "Take care of him. He got in Rafael's sights—one of Reyes's top toughs—so I'm sure he's some level of fuck-up, but it shouldn't have gone down like it did."

"I will, Duo. Please," she can't help asking. "Please. If it gets to be too much. If you're in over your head, pull out. No mission is worth your life."

The smile he gave her was so sad that Sally could feel the sobs welling up in her chest. "We both know that's not true."

And he was out the door like a ghost, no sign that he had even been there. 

Forcing down the sobs, Sally wondered if the next time she saw Duo, it would finally be on a table like this.

She was afraid he hoped so.

Chapter Text

Duo paused before he put his key into his door. Something wasn't right. The corner of a pizza menu he always left peeking out from under the door wasn't there. He pulled on Shini for a moment and felt people in his apartment. On a hunch, he simply grabbed the handle and turned. The door opened. Duo flicked a knife from his wrist sheath into his hand and crouched before moving silently inward.

"You've been out for a while."

Frowning, Duo stood and flipped on the light. "Señor Reyes," he acknowledged, palming the blade so it was invisible. Sitting at his rickety kitchen table was Jesus Reyes, looking almost laughably out of place in his impeccable suit, almost too big for the equally rickety chair. His shadows, Rafael and Alejandro, flanking him. 

"You've been gone for a week." Reyes gave nothing away in his body language or his tone of voice. 

"Did you need something?" he asked. He wasn't going to apologize. He did not—as of yet—answer to Reyes. 

"Where were you?"

"I can't go back to the Arena, so I was looking for work. You may be aware that as my sponsor, you got the majority of my take, so if I'm not fighting, I need to find something else." It was even true, aside from his side trip to see Sally. Ranging far enough that he hadn't been able to come home for a week. He took a gamble. "I didn't know you wanted to see me so soon." 

Reyes ran his eyes up Duo—elevator eyes—before meeting Duo's squarely. 

"I'm done waiting."

Irritated, Duo finally came fully inside and shut the door, dropping his bag on the flaking laminate of a peninsula. He carefully did not move into the U of the kitchen where he could be cornered. He also did not put the knife away. "You must be, if you came to wait for me instead of just summoning me."

Reyes stood and began to move toward him. He wasn't quite menacing Duo—the effort would have been wasted on Duo anyway—but the way he ran his eyes around the dingy apartment spoke volumes. It was a studio, cramped and dirty despite the thorough bleach scrubs Duo had tried to apply on a couple different occasions before giving it up as a lost cause. Old wallpaper was torn and fraying in places, discolored by some smoker in the past, but the landlord refused to let him remove it or paint over it. What paint the walls had was equally discolored and cracked. There was only one decent window in the apartment, but as late as it was, the flickering yellow light from the kitchen's bare bulb made everything thing look even dingier and dirtier. Duo had taken a look at the wiring for it, but whoever had done it hadn't known what they were doing, and Duo wasn't tearing apart walls to try and figure it out. As spoiled as he'd been in the last five years, the apartment was still a palace compared to some of the places he'd lived as a kid. Duo braced himself to defend it, as he would have if he hadn't ever gotten further up the class ladder than this. 

"If I had realized that this is where you were, I may have just sent for you instead."

Duo didn't buy it for a moment. Reyes had people who knew where he lived and knew how to get in contact with him. If he'd told them he was coming, surely someone would have asserted that it was better to bring Duo to him, not the other way around. Waiting for Duo in his place, a place that—in theory—should represent safety, that wasn't an accident. He was making a statement. Coming to Duo in the first place could too easily be seen as a sign of weakness as it was. He had to establish that Duo's space was his space, if Reyes so desired it. He was trying to assert that Duo was his, so whatever was Duo's was also his. 

As if he knew what Duo was thinking, Reyes reached out, sliding a hand up Duo's side before moving it to the center of his back, not unlike a traditional dance position, and used his leverage to pull Duo to him. With his other hand, he tilted Duo's chin back. Reyes had close to a foot on him in height, so he had to look almost straight up to meet Reyes’s eyes standing this close. 

"Come home with me."

Duo was surprised. Something in Reyes’s face, in the gentleness of the fingers under his chin, told him that it was more a request than a demand. 

"To your bed."

As if there were any doubt.

Reyes answered anyway. "Yes."

If I go with him, there will be no backing out.

Reyes's hand on his back raised to bury itself in the base of his braid and began to massage his scalp. Duo's eyes closed in pleasure, unable to resist sinking into the strong touch for at least a few moments. "You challenged me to make you want to be mine." Reyes's deep voice was oddly soothing, warming him from the inside the way the fingers on his scalp did. "But you know the truth."

Duo dragged himself away from the comfort and opened his eyes. "And what truth is that?"

"You already want to be mine." That aching hole where Heero used to be agreed—it wanted to belong to someone again. "You already are mine, Duo Maxwell."

If it hadn't been for the hand in his hair, Duo would have jerked away. As it was, it took all of his considerable self-control not to take the knife in his hand and shove it up under Reyes's ribs and into his heart. He had planned for this—had known Reyes would find out. He could be surprised, but he couldn't panic.

"So you know who I am." 

"My own wayward Preventer agent." Reyes's fingers continued their massage, but Duo found it difficult to enjoy under the circumstances. He distantly registered that Rafael and Alejandro were surprised by the news, given the way they tensed up.

"You heard about the ‘ex’ part of that equation, right?"

Reyes hmmed in agreement, backing Duo up until he was trapped between the counter and Reyes. "I did."

"And?"

"And I would rather hear the specifics from you."

"Not a lot to tell. Lost my partner, went a bit off the deep end. My body counts kept stacking up until upper management couldn't ignore it. They tried to suspend me, and I quit instead." He paused before adding, "I... may have overlooked the position that quitting when there were so many deaths against me would put me in."

"Your partner was not just your partner."

It wasn't a question, but Duo answered anyway. "No, he wasn't." He let some of the pain from that loss show in his voice, in his eyes. How could the wound be so raw after a year?

Reyes's grip in his hair became tight and painful, but it seemed insignificant next to the pain inside. Shinigami's song began to sing, rushing over the pain. This man was someone Death knew well, but for Duo, it would erase him. "Why would such a decorated Preventer run straight into my hands? Surely you joined for a reason."

With the graying world came clarity. Duo heaved himself up onto the counter, pulling Reyes forward with him, but giving him a few extra inches so that he didn't have to look straight back to look Reyes in the eye. "I was decorated because I was the best. But joining was my partner's penance thing, not mine. We did a lot of terrible things for the Rebellion. He felt the need to atone. I felt the need to be with him."

He surprised Reyes. Either he hadn't known that Duo was a vet—unlikely, since he'd been granted emancipation under the Old Soul's Statute—or he hadn't expected Duo to be so candid. 

"You said you had a body count piling up. How many?"

"I don't know."

Reyes used his grip to pull Duo's head back, but Duo didn't flinch, meeting Reyes's eyes steadily. "I really don't know. I don't keep count. I know it's in the triple digits though."

Whoever Reyes’s source was, they apparently had the exact total, because Reyes eased his grip, and began massaging again as if in apology. 

"Quite a body count," Reyes said thoughtfully.

Drop in the ocean, buddy. 

Duo nearly cut himself on his own palmed blade when Reyes pulled his head the side and leaned down, running his face from Duo's shoulder up into his hair, breathing deeply. The tickle of the air moving over the sensitive skin of his neck sent a small shudder through Duo, and he could feel Reyes smile into his skin. The little physical thrill pushed Shinigami down just a bit.

Reyes leaned back slowly, though with his hand still in Duo's hair, they could only put so much space between them. "Such a dangerous monster to come in such a..." he paused, as if searching for a word and ran his free hand down Duo's side to rest it at Duo's hip,"... disarming package."

You have no idea.

"Come home with me."

Just as the first time he'd said it, it was more a request than a demand, as if Reyes knew demands would get him nowhere with Duo. It startled a laugh from Duo, and Shinigami retreated further. "I'm surprised you still want me," he admitted. "Having found out about me, I would have thought I'd be too much of a risk."

Using his grip on Duo's hip to pull him to the edge of the counter, Reyes stepped as close as he could into the open V of Duo's legs. "There is nothing for me to fear from you. You are already mine."

Duo's pulse ticked up, adrenaline flooding him, anticipating, but his voice reflected nothing but calm. "Am I now?"

"You would not let me touch you like this if you were not." 

Damn him for noticing that anyway. He was right though—Duo had already made his decision. 

Reyes used the hand in Duo's hair to gently tug his head back this time. At the same time, he brought their hips together, and the last of Shinigami slipped away. This wasn't a fight anymore; it wasn't death. Sex was a thing of life, and it was one place Shinigami could not live. The return of the world along with the physical stimulation earned a small gasp from Duo. Reyes's pupils all but swallowed his eyes in response. 

"You are mine," he murmured as he closed the distance slowly. "My Gemelo. Forget Twain Randolph." He said the alias with disgust, as if it were offensive. "Forget Duo Maxwell. Just be my Gemelo." This time, it was Reyes's words that tickled Duo's lips. 

And he wanted that. The need was sharp and sudden and fierce. That aching void could be filled by the man before him. If only Duo let him. 

With a surge, Duo closed the distance between them. His knife clattered to the floor as his arms rose of their own accord to clutch Reyes to him. They kissed, deep and searching, hard and demanding, tapering to kisses so tender, Duo could feel tears prickle the back of his eyes. As Reyes moved to lave his throat, he had to know, "I'll be yours? Your only one?" It was breathy and needy, and if he hadn't been such a mess, he'd be embarrassed it came from him. 

"My only," Reyes confirmed between kisses and nips.

"And you'll be mine?" That question came from the void, but it needed to be asked.

A sharp bite just below and behind his ear startled a gasp from him that covered Reyes's murmured response. Solo tuyo. 

Only yours. 

Ice ran through Duo's veins. No. 

No, this shouldn't be reciprocal. Reyes should not have answered. Reyes was not the kind of man who would let someone lay such a claim on him. It made no sense. 

Duo tried to push Reyes off, get out of his grasp. The panic was too present, too tied to love and life, and Shinigami couldn't rise in that swamp of living. Without Shinigami, Reyes's superior size and his leverage put Duo at a disadvantage unless he was willing to seriously injure Reyes.

Reyes clutched him tightly to his chest as if he understood Duo's panic, and whispered for Duo's ears alone, "Solo se mio." 

Be only mine.

He could do that. The ice thawed, and the panic washed away. Reyes pressed his forehead to Duo's, and Duo could breathe again.

"Yours." The word whispered on a breath, and the void grabbed at it. 

When Reyes kissed him this time, it was tender and reverent. A hand slipped under the back of his shirt, and paused as it brushed across the first mass of scar tissue. Reyes pulled away and met Duo's eyes, his hand tracing the scars he couldn't see. 

"Let me see."

Duo winced and reached for the back of his shirt. "Probably should have warned you that the rest of the package isn't as pretty as the face." Before he could pull it off, Reyes put up a hand to still him and turned back to his guards. 

"Go wait in the car."

Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Duo figured he'd just have to deal with them. 

Rafael spoke up. "Señor, por favor, do not make us leave you alone with him."

Duo could see the storm clouds gather in Reyes's eyes and gently turned his face back to him. "Let me."

Nearly black eyes stared at him for a long moment before nodding curtly. Duo leaned around Reyes to see Rafael and Alejandro clearly.

"Look, I know you're worried about me killing him if you leave, but you being here makes no difference. If I wanted to kill Reyes, he'd be dead, and there'd be damn little you could do about it aside from following him to the grave."

The alarm on their faces might have been amusing in other circumstances. The terror for Reyes was clear though, so Duo didn't rub it in. 

"Seriously, There's a foot of space between us. I can kill him before you can pull your guns, and I can probably kill you both before you get a shot off. I have no intention of doing either." He reached up and cupped Reyes's face gently. Reyes took the hand, and turned his head to kiss Duo's palm. 

Why are you treating me like this? he wondered. Reyes's tenderness, his startling compassion, they weren't things of lust. For no reason Duo could think of, Reyes was drawn to him. And almost against his will, Duo found himself being drawn to Reyes in return. It had been so long since he'd been touched like that—with care, as though he were something precious. 

Is it Shinigami?

It couldn’t be. Reyes himself said he couldn’t sense it. Besides, Duo had met plenty of terrible killers in his time—killed a lot of them himself—and he'd never seen an echo of Shinigami in any of them.

Does it matter? This is what you needed, isn’t it?

He turned his attention back to Rafael and Alejandro. "Seriously. It's okay. I promise. He's safe with me."

They began to protest, but Reyes cut them off. "He's made his point. If he's going to kill me—" Duo felt Reyes's hips roll just a bit as he said it. "—you're not going to be able to stop him. Vas!"

They dragged their feet, clearly unhappy, but Duo could see Reyes had already dismissed them from his mind. As soon as they were out the door, Reyes turned back to him. "Show me."

Duo hesitated. If he was going to back out, it had to be now. Once he started down this road, there would be no going back. But if he backed out now—the mission would be ruined.

There was no backing down. It might be a lie, but Reyes promised—Solo tuyo.

Reaching up behind him, Duo shirt over his head, exposing the knife sheaths strapped to his forearms and upper arms. Reyes raised an eyebrow at them, but didn't comment, instead focusing on the patchwork of scars and tattoos decorating Duo's chest and shoulders. 

"Take them off," he commanded softly, and Duo complied, removing the knife sheathes and setting them on the kitchen counter. 

Reyes then proceeded to look and touch his fill. He ran his fingers lightly over every tattoo on his arms and chest, finding and tracing every scar. He virtually worshiped Duo with every touch. How long had it been since he'd been touched like that? 

He had thought that Heero would be the last person he would be with. But maybe... maybe if his lover treated him like this...

Duo reached up and pulled Reyes down to kiss him, and Reyes kissed him deep and hard and aggressive. Then, to his surprise, Reyes gentled the kiss, making it languid, almost tender. When he broke it, he backed away a bit, though his gaze was transfixed on Duo's face when he opened his eyes. Reyes reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. 

"What's this?" Duo asked, not really concerned. 

"For you."

Taking the envelope, Duo opened it and pulled out the paper. He recognized it almost immediately, then tracked to the date before meeting Reyes's eyes. "You got tested?" He could hear the surprise in his own voice. 

"Yes."

"For me?"

"I believe you said something about knowing a toy was clean."

Duo had no idea how to feel about that. He would never have expected Reyes to do this for him, to concede to him like this. 

Reyes tilted his chin back up. "I do not like there to be anything between me and my lovers. With your concerns, I was not sure you would take my word. I am a conscientious man—I don't risk my health."

A small chuckle bubbled out of Duo in spite of himself. "I should have expected nothing less. But I—"

"I have access to your records from the Arena. Unless you've done something very unfortunate in the last week, I know you are clean." He stroked Duo's neck as he spoke, just on the edge of tickling. "You have not done anything unfortunate, have you?"

"No," Duo confirmed. "I haven't done anything stupid."

"When you were with your partner... was there anything between you?"

"No."

"There will be nothing between us."

"That means monogamy," Duo warned. "Can you handle that?"

"I think with you, la monogamia will not be a burden."

Duo took a deep breath and set the envelope aside. "Okay, then,” he said. "As long as we both understand where we stand."

Reyes let go of Duo long enough to shrug out of his suit jacket and lay it on the counter. Duo began to unbutton Reyes's shirt.

"One other thing, Gemelo." Duo glanced up and asked the question with a raised eyebrow. "Just so there is no misunderstanding—I do not bottom."

Duo thought that deserved the eyeroll he gave Reyes. "Yeah, I guessed that."

With no warning, Reyes's hand closed around Duo's throat. The grip was just shy of bruising, and Duo could breathe around it, but he hadn’t expected it. "You will not be looking elsewhere."

Talking wasn't going to feel good or he would have pointed out that he had brought up monogamy. That expectation went both ways. "Got it."

The grip loosened so Reyes's hand was merely a heavy weight resting against his throat. "Good," he rumbled, and used the hand to tilt Duo's head back and kiss him. Duo finished unbuttoning Reyes's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. Reyes released him to remove the shirt, and they broke for a moment before Reyes pulled him in close again.

"The bed?" he demanded. 

Duo chuckled as he allowed himself to take in and enjoy the breadth and definition of Reyes's chest. He had a solid foot and change on Duo in height, and was nearly twice as broad across the shoulders. No, sleeping with a man as classically handsome as Reyes wasn't going to be a huge burden.

Squeezing between Reyes and the counter, Duo got down and toed off his shoes. He pushed his way around Reyes and took his wrist to lead him to the bed. 

"Wait," Reyes said, and stopped him. Duo was confused for a moment before he remembered his back piece. "What..." he breathed out as he caressed the shape of a wing up to his shoulder then back down to where the tips disappeared below his waistband. When Duo looked over his shoulder, he saw the frown on Reyes's face.

"Don't like?" he asked.

"It's beautiful," Reyes replied, still tracing the shapes with reverence. 

Duo turned far enough to pull out of his touch. "You're frowning," he said, reaching up and cupping Reyes's face. 

"So many scars," was the soft, almost confused reply. Then a resolution came over his features, and Reyes said, "Tell me who has done this."

Recognizing the possessiveness for what it was, Duo gave him a small smile and stroked Reyes's chin with his thumb. "They’re long beyond your reach."

"Did they suffer?"

Meeting his eyes, Duo said, "Not likely. That's not my way of killing. Death walks with me, not suffering. I only need their deaths, not their pain."

"I prefer my enemies suffer." 

The statement was at odds with the tender way he was touching Duo. "Then we're different there."

Reyes stepped in close, taking Duo's chin and lifting his head again. "I would make them suffer."

"I don't need you to." Duo was really going to have to get used to being manhandled like this.

Reyes frowned, as if he didn't quite understand. But he didn't need to. Before Duo turned to take Reyes to the bed, he remembered something important and murmured, "One moment," stepping around Reyes to his bag on the counter. He dug around it quickly and pulled out the lube he'd picked up on his way home. Since before Reyes had expressed interest in him, he had no intention of having sex with anyone, he hadn't had any. "We're going to need this," he explained. 

"Yes." Reyes's voice had gone deeper with arousal. "We are."

A twin bed. Gemelo explained quickly that he hadn't been planning on a lover and hadn't needed the larger bed. Jesus decided that Gemelo would not be staying in this ratty place long. 

He had stripped Gemelo entirely, and he was sitting on the end of the bed, Jesus's cock buried all the way in his throat—Dios, what a feeling—but he didn't want to come yet. He gently pulled Gemelo off his cock and motioned him back.

Jesus had spotted the mirror when they had come in, and pulled it off the wall, setting it across from the end of the bed. Then he shed his own pants and slid behind Gemelo, whose legs were still hanging off the bed. Jesus lifted one of Gemelo's thighs until he set his foot on the edge of the bed, then did the same with the other, leaving his crotch, including his asshole, exposed in the mirror. Jesus's cock jumped from the mere sight. 

He wasted no time, opening the lube and then burying one long finger all the way in that teasing hole. Gemelo's back arched somewhat with the suddenness, but he relaxed into it quickly. 

"Your arms," Jesus crooned in his ear, as he moved them so that they were stretched above Gemelo and loosely circled Jesus's neck. "Keep them here. I will be the one who controls your pleasure. Comprende?"

"Comprendo," he acknowledged. Just the fact that even aroused like this, Gemelo could still speak Spanish made Jesus's cock jump again. The language sounded so beautiful on Gemelo's tongue. 

Jesus added a second finger, gentler this time, and Gemelo, though tight, accepted it without so much as a grimace. 

"Are you sure you have taken a man before?" Jesus teased. Gemelo's head was tilted back, his eyes closed and throat bared. "You are so tight," he added, stretching his fingers as wide as they could go, and Gemelo's cock jumped. 

"Been over a year," he replied, voice breathy. Even the sound of his voice like this was a turn on. 

"His loss," Jesus proclaimed, and began to target Gemelo's prostate. Gemelo's breathing hitched, he began to rock his hips into the thrusts, and Jesus added a third finger. "Tell me, have you ever come just from this? From someone opening you, playing you," he murmured into Gemelo's ear as he continued to focus on his prostate. Gemelo made a high, needy sound that went straight to Jesus's cock. "Can you come from my fingers alone? If it were my cock, could you come on my cock alone?" he asked as he began to jab at Gemelo's prostate as hard as he could from the awkward position. Each time he did, Gemelo's arms tightened, his breathing hitched, and his cock jumped. In the mirror, he was a picture of debauchery.  Jesus rubbed circles over the prostate when he asked, "Well, Gemelo? Have you? Can you?" And he dug his fingers into the gland hard and held them. 

"Yes!" Gemelo shouted, and came, cock utterly untouched, on Jesus's fingers. Focusing on Gemelo’s pleasure to avoid coming from the mere sight of Gemelo unraveling—and holy fuck, Jesus had heard of men who could come from anal play alone, but he'd never been with one, and it was hot—he continued to stretch him as Gemelo rode out his orgasm. 

"It's like you were created just for me." He kissed and sucked and bit at Gemelo's neck, eager to leave marks he could see. "Did you know you could do that?" he asked, three fingers still buried in Gemelo.

Gemelo just breathed for a moment before answering. "Yeah," he gasped. When Jesus moved his fingers again and brushed Gemelo's prostate, a whole-body shudder racked his frame. "It's just... really intense," he explained around pants as Jesus slid a fourth finger into that pliant body, and Gemelo welcomed it with a roll of his hips. "I don't recommend doing that very often," he warned. "It can be..." he rolled his hips again, making Jesus bump his prostate again, and his spent cock twitched. "Overstimulating."

Jesus spread his fingers as much as he could, and it was Jesus's cock that nearly spasmed as he watched it in the mirror. Gemelo groaned into his chest. 

"I need—!"

"Shhh..." Jesus hushed him and removed his fingers, dragging his hand up over Gemelo's chest and collecting as much of his cum as he could before using it to slick himself up. He lifted Gemelo by his thighs, causing Gemelo's arms to tighten briefly as he raised him over the head of Jesus's very ready cock. It looked huge compared to Gemelo's hole, and he set Gemelo right on top of it. He shifted his grip further down Gemelo's thighs, toward his knees, and Gemelo’s own body weight pivoted down to swallow the head of Jesus's cock. Slowly, he lowered Gemelo until he was fully seated on Jesus's cock, and set his legs outside Jesus's own, so he was spread wide and Jesus could see where they were joined in the mirror. Just the act of being filled had helped Gemelo grow hard again. Jesus chuckled into Gemelo’s neck. The benefits of being young. "Mira, Gemelo," he said.

Those remarkable eyes opened to thin slits, and he shuddered. Jesus rubbed his hand over Gemelo's stomach, imagining he could feel his cock through Gemelo's abdominal muscles. 

He rocked his hips, apparently nailing Gemelo's already abused prostate, because he gasped and his whole body tensed. "Can you come again, Gemelo? Can you come from my cock alone this time?" He began to thrust harder, aiming to nail that spot every time, relishing every time Gemelo's breath hitched and told him he had succeeded again. "Can you?"

"Yes!" It was a quiet, desperate gasp, and Gemelo began to move with him, surprising strength in his thighs and core, despite the awkward position. 

Soon, even the reflection in the mirror wasn't enough to make up for the awkward position. Jesus pulled them both over on their sides, and slid up the bed, never unseating himself, then settled behind Gemelo, lifting a thigh high to give him the access and leverage to really pound. Helpless, pleading nonsense spilled from Gemelo's lips as Jesus grabbed his arms and kept him from finishing himself off. He wanted Gemelo to come on his cock. Judging by the way he was writhing and practically thrashing in his grasp, he was very, very close. 

"How close are you?" he rasped in Gemelo's ear, and his response was a wordless cry. Jesus was so, so close, but he wanted to make sure Gemelo got there first and started pounding his prostate with hard, fast thrusts. It only took a minute of the brutal pounding before Gemelo tensed in his arms and cried out. The strength in that body clamping down on him pushing Jesus over the edge right on his heels. 

Duo was flying. It had been a long time since Heero had done something like that to him, and that much prostate stimulation usually left him punch drunk, giddy, and sleepy. It might feel really good right now, but he had to hope Reyes didn't indulge in it often. He wasn't overly fond of the drugged feeling once his head was on straight again. 

It was really nice right then, though.

He didn't realize that he was giggling and that Jesus was still inside of him until Reyes’s hand braced itself on his chest as he leaned up on an elbow to look over at Duo's face. Duo turned and flashed him a sleepy grin.

"Are you alright?" Reyes asked.

"Hmm... very good," he assured. I've had absolutely no sex drive since Heero left, but maybe all I've needed is a really good fuck.

Reyes seemed appeased and settled back at his side, still inside him, an arm slung over his waist, the other he slid under Duo's head.

"This is good?" Reyes asked softly. Duo, on the edge of sliding into sleep made a questioning sound. Reyes shifted his hips in response. 

"Mmmhmm," he hummed drowsily, then a thought swam to the surface, and he said, "Your watchdogs are probably going crazy about now."

Reyes groaned into his neck. "You had to remind me." He stayed cuddled there for another minute or so before reluctantly dragging himself away from Duo. A shudder ran through Duo when he pulled out. "Get up. Pack a bag," he stated, as he began gathering his clothing. 

Duo opened his eyes to thin slits. "Why?"

"You're coming with me. Your bed is much too small anyway."

"I'm small," he pointed out, cuddling into the thin, mussed blankets.

"I'm not," Reyes responded tartly, tossing Duo's pants in his face. Well that was rude, he thought grumpily. Then Reyes leaned down and tilted Duo's head up to kiss him, deep and thorough. "I am not done with you," he said when they broke and he had Duo's attention. "I want to see all this glorious hair spread over my sheets." He slid a hand down to Duo's flank, and continued with, "I want to spread these legs until the stretch burns. I will fuck you while staring you in the eyes." He held Duo's gaze as he said it. The picture was so vivid, Duo shuddered in pleasure and his cock twitched in interest. "And when I'm done taking you on my bed, we will take a shower, where I will make you come on my cock again.” The smile he gave Duo now was all teeth and predator's promise, and it called to something primal in Duo. 

"Hmm... fun as that sounds, I'd like to sit sometime in the next week," Duo replied lazily. "I may bounce back fairly quickly, but that monster you have is going to take some getting used to." 

Reyes grinned at that. "Are you saying I'm well-endowed?"

Duo wasn't going to feed his ego by admitting he was probably larger than any man Duo had been with. Instead, he said, "You're, what, six-seven? You're huge. You just happen to be… proportionate."

It still made Reyes throw his head back and laugh with genuine pleasure. Duo smiled and something warm curled in Duo’s chest.

In some corner of his mind, he realized this was dangerous. As Reyes dragged him from the bed to get dressed, he couldn't quite be bothered to figure out why. 

Chapter Text

Fernando had known Jesus since they were in first grade. He’d been with Jesus through his personal tragedies, through selling on corners to rising through the ranks and eventually standing supreme atop his own cartel. No one knew Jesus better than Fernando did. It gave him a latitude with the demon king of the cartel that no one else had.

So when Jesus had the idiotic idea to pick up a fighter and not just fuck him, but bring him home? Not even to the apartment, no. Jesus brought the twink back to the brownstone, like he was some average Joe bringing a trick home. Only Fernando could stare at him and say, “Since when do you keep your brain in your dick? What the fuck are you thinking, bringing this little slut home? Is he even legal?”

Jesus chuckled at the last concern, but it was legitimate, damn it. Waltzing around with jailbait could bring attention Jesus did not need.

The jailbait in question had the nerve to look amused. “Don’t worry, I’m legal,” he said in Spanish that had a clipped, colonial accent.

“Children should be seen and not heard,” Fernando informed him coolly, dismissing him and rounding back on Jesus. “And since when do you fuck kids?”

He could tell he’d gone too far almost immediately, but damn it, Jesus was potentially putting the entire cartel at risk because of a piece of jailbait ass.

“A kid?” Jesus asked, low and rumbly, in that particular tone he got when he planned to hand out some pain. It wasn’t a tone that Fernando had often found himself the target of, and he didn’t like it now. “You think I would put any of us at risk over some child?” he demanded, the promise of violence in his voice like the flat of a blade pressed to a face.

“Reyes,” the jailbait said, stepping into Jesus’s space, putting himself between Jesus and Fernando, redirecting his attention.

Jesus cupped the kid’s face before slipping his hand down to clamp around the kid’s neck.

“Do not try to play me, Gemelo,” Jesus told him, leaning down to speak right into his face. Fernando could see the flex of the tendons in the back of Jesus’s hand, could tell how tightly he was gripping the kid’s neck. Fernando had seen Jesus kill before, but he did not want to see him kill this kid. Neither did he want to put himself in Jesus’s line of fire.

But the kid didn’t panic, didn’t flinch, showed no hint of fear, despite the fact that his chest was still and there was no way he was breathing round that grip. The corners of the kid’s lips curled, as if this were all a very funny joke, and then he moved, reminding Fernando that he wasn't just a kid, he was a fighter. One moment, Jesus was probably choking the life out of the kid, looming over him, and the next, the floor shook as Jesus hit it and the fighter had him tangled up in some weird way that anchored a leg behind Jesus’s head and twisted his shoulder in a way that looked extremely painful.

“If I were playing you,” the fighter said in a sugary sweet tone that was more menacing for the new gravel in it. “You wouldn’t know it.”  Fernando didn’t remember pulling his gun, but it was focused on the fighter. The fighter glanced at the gun, flicked his eyes up to meet Fernando’s, then relaxed, releasing Jesus’s arm and stepping back. “Put that away before I have to make you,” he said.

There were bloody scratches on either side of his neck where he’d literally torn Jesus’s hand from his throat. He wasn’t gasping or breathing particularly hard, as if he’d just held his breath for a moment rather than been choked. He still showed no fear, no concern.

Fernando lowered his gun and flipped the safety back on. Leave it to Jesus to find someone as psychotic as he was to fuck. It didn’t make Fernando any happier at the situation, but at least it made a twisted kind of sense why Jesus would become obsessed with this fighter, why he’d risk bringing him back.

The fighter offered his hand to Jesus. Jesus looked at the extended hand for a moment as he sat up slowly. When Jesus finally took it, he yanked the fighter down. He seemed to have expected it, because he fell with an odd grace, the fighter’s soft landing a distinct contrast to the bone-jarring crash of Jesus going down. Jesus’s hand locked around the fighter’s throat again, and he rolled to kneel between the fighter’s thighs, forcing the fighter’s head back in a way that looked painful. Jesus’s hand was so big, it covered most of the fighter’s throat, even with his neck as extended as it was. The bruises that would bloom if the fighter lived would be spectacular.

“You are mine,” Jesus told him, then bent to bite at his throat. He must have bit hard because it forced a barely-audible gasp from the kid.  

Fernando rolled his eyes, about to tell Jesus to take it to his fucking room when Jesus stilled.

“Ah ah,” the kid tsked, the sound forced through his throat.

Between the shadows and the darkness of the blade, it took a moment for Fernando to see what had made Jesus still—a black blade being held to his throat. Fernando’s gun was in his hand again, but Jesus just chuckled and leaned back. He didn’t let go of the fighter’s throat, and the fighter just followed him with the knife pressed to Jesus’s own neck.

He must have loosened his grip though because the fighter continued, “You can kill me, but I’ll take you with.”

“Jesus, move and I will shoot him, and this will be over,” Fernando told his friend. He’d never shot anyone like this before—killing people was others’ jobs—but for this kid with his eerie eyes and fearless grin? He would make an exception.

Rather than forcing the issue, Jesus sat up and released his grip, and the blade fell accordingly. Jesus rubbed at his neck, then examined his fingers. “I didn’t remember seeing you put the sheathes back on,” Jesus commented.

“Always assume I’m armed,” the fighter replied, still fearless, even though his pale skin was red and rent from Jesus, dark bruises already starting to bloom into life.

Jesus chuckled.

“Jesus,” Fernando said in his most controlled voice because if he started yelling, he wasn’t going to stop for a while. He tried really hard not to yell at Jesus when others were around. “May I speak with you?”

Standing, Jesus reached a hand down. The kid took it and let Jesus pull him to his feet, the black blade vanishing. “Fernando Garcia, this is Gemelo. Gemelo, my second-in-command, Fer,” he introduced. The fighter—Gemelo—gave Fernando a polite nod, eyes never leaving him. “Rafael. Alejandro—take Gemelo to my room.” He pulled Gemelo in by the hand still in his grip and lifted Gemelo’s chin. “I want you naked on my bed when I come up.”

Things Fernando never needed to hear. “Now, Jesus,” he said before Jesus forgot about him and started sucking face with the kid.

Gemelo’s eyes glanced over to Fernando again, acknowledgement, maybe a bare bit of respect in them, and gave a tiny incline of his head.

“Go,” Jesus said, giving Gemelo a smack on the bottom to propel him along.

They watched in silence as Jesus’s enforcers escorted him out and up toward Jesus’s room. Fernando put away his gun, then waited until he heard the door close before rounding on Jesus.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Jesus gave him a shit-eating grin Fernando hadn’t seen since they were teenagers and Jesus was still reckless. He was not happy to see it return under these circumstances. “Settling down,” he said somewhat smugly.

Fernando reminded himself that Jesus wouldn’t tolerate being punched—not even from him. Even if he did deserve it. “This is the fighter, right? The kid? The one you’ve been watching?” Fernando asked, just to be certain. “The one that Rafael recommended you put down?”

Rolling his eyes like he was a bratty teenager instead of a the grown-ass cartel don he actually was, Jesus said, “Yes, Fer. It’s the same one.”

“Then I ask again—what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Apparently deciding that he wasn’t leaving until he gave Fernando a real answer, Jesus pulled out a barstool and sat. “You have complained about my one-night stands. He is the solution.”

“That jailbait is your solution?” Fernando exclaimed, voice catching in his throat in his outrage.

“He is young, but he is legal,” Jesus said in that stubborn tone that said he thought Fernando was being unreasonable. “He killed in the Arena. You can add him to my enforcers.”

“Oh, sure, because that’s a great look. A hooker as an enforcer,” Fernando retorted, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

He was mildly horrified to see Jesus reach up and scratch at a papercut-fine wound on his neck. Gemelo’s blade must have been very, very sharp, and as a rule, Fernando didn’t like Jesus playing with dangerous things. He was the mastermind of the cartel, and Fernando was under no illusions that the cartel wouldn’t collapse without him. Right now, Jesus was playing with something very dangerous indeed.

“You want a mistress, fine,” Fernando said, biting off the words. “But get him an apartment you can visit him at. Don’t bring him back here.” He jabbed a finger down into the island. “Hell, put him up in the apartment, if you want, but the brownstone is supposed to be clean. It isn’t clean when you bring a killer in to fuck.”

“We are all killers here already,” Jesus pointed out, sounding impatient.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,” Jesus said, flapping a hand at Fernando dismissively. “I know you don’t like this decision, but Gemelo is mine, and he will stay with me. You complained about my lovers—”

“Fucktoys,” Fernando corrected under his breath.

Jesus continued as if he didn’t hear him, which was probably for the best, if Fernando were honest. “So I have taken a lover who will stay with me. As you have seen, he is a capable fighter and able to defend himself and me as well. You cannot have it both ways, Fer.”

Sure he could, if he could somehow convince Jesus to take a vow of chastity. He didn’t bother to voice the thought though. “When you get bored of him in a week, we’re going to have to kill him,” he said instead.

Jesus waved him off again. “It won’t come to that.”

Fernando snorted. Jesus gave him a hard look, but that comment deserved it. No one had ever held Jesus’s interest for more than four days. Fernando would believe that Gemelo would hold Jesus’s interest when he saw it, and not one moment before. He may have been able to entrance Jesus somehow before Jesus fucked him, but now that Jesus had Gemelo in bed, his days were numbered.

Rather than reminding Jesus of that, Fernando made a mental note to make sure to tell Jesus I told you so when they had to kill the kid. “As long as we’re clear that if you get bored, he goes.”

“Fine,” Jesus said, starting to sound irritated. “Are we done with this now?”

“No, since you asked. Bringing him here was bad enough. Don’t start sharing cartel business with him.”

Jesus gave him an affronted look. “You actually need to tell me that?” he demanded, standing. Jesus loomed over most men, and Fernando wasn’t an exception to that, but Jesus had been looming over him for over twenty years; Fernando was somewhat immune to the effect at this point.

“Since you actually brought him here, yes, I feel a reminder is necessary.”

Time seemed to slow as Jesus decided if he was going to get angry enough to make a point. Fernando held his breath because while he could push Jesus further than anyone else, there were limits even he didn’t dare push beyond, and he was right at their boundary. But he couldn’t back down either.

Straightening, Jesus stepped back, and Fernando slowly let out the breath he’d been holding so his shoulders didn’t sink with the relief.

“You are not just cartel, Fer, you are family.” Jesus’s hand landed heavily on Fernando’s shoulder. “But if you talk to me like that again, we are going to be having a different discussion, is that clear?”

Knowing when to hold his ground and when to yield with Jesus was one of the reasons Fernando had retained his position at Jesus’s side for so long. He dropped his eyes and bowed his head a bit. “Understood.”

Jesus gave his shoulder a squeeze, not one hard enough to hurt or leave a bruise, but the potential was there, and it got the point across. “Good. Now, I am going to go up and fuck my new toy until he screams. Unless you have a voyeuristic streak I have somehow missed, you are welcome to head home for the night.”

Another thing to add to the list of Things I Did Not Need to Know. He felt bad for Alejandro or Rafael, whichever got stuck on the night shift today. “See you tomorrow?” he asked.

Jesus hesitated for a moment before he said, “Clear my calendar tomorrow.” He gave Fernando a toothy, ruthless grin. “I have a new toy to break in.”

Fernando really did not need to know that. He nodded, Jesus released him, and Fernando headed toward the door as Jesus bolted for the stairs, a spring in his step that Fernando hadn’t seen in a long time.

It was a shame they were going to have to kill the kid when Jesus got bored.

Chapter Text

Jesus felt almost giddy as he bounded up the stairs. He found Rafael standing outside his bedroom door, something unusually uptight in his posture.

“Relax, Rafa,” Jesus said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s just Gemelo in there.”

Rafael frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he admitted, brow deeply furrowed.

“He didn’t kill me when we were at his apartment. He’s not going to kill me here.”

“I would rather you not put yourself in positions where we have to worry about it,” Rafael said, which was about as close to censure as Jesus had ever heard from him.

“He is mine,” Jesus said. “I am the one that controls him, Rafael.”

Rafael met his eyes and held them for a long moment before saying, “Are you sure that’s not just what he wants you to think?”

“I did not build this cartel three thousand miles outside of traditional operations by being careless. I would appreciate it if you would remember that and give my judgement at least the benefit of the doubt,” Jesus growled back. “No cartel has ever held sway here. But we are in New York City and in the heart of Kings territory. We are here because I am that good.” He let his words sink in for a moment before adding, “Trust me to handle one little fighter.”

 Surprisingly green eyes searched Jesus’s own before he inclined his head. “Of course I trust you, sir,” he said. “I just ask that you remember that when you put your life in that little fighter’s hands, you put all of our lives there as well.”

Sighing, good mood thoroughly deflated, Jesus squeezed Rafael’s shoulder a last time. “You might want to stay downstairs tonight. We will not be quiet.”

Rafael gave a bow. “Good night, sir.”

Jesus nodded at him a final time and opened the door. Alejandro turned to face him, eyes alert and ready for a fight. He relaxed when he recognized Jesus.

“Sir,” he said.

“You’re dismissed, Alejandro. I already told Rafael, but you may want to stay downstairs tonight.”

A flicker of disapproval flashed across Alejandro’s face, but he nodded.

“Good night then, sir,” Alejandro said, bowing before leaving.

Alone, Jesus was finally able to focus on Gemelo. He sat cross-legged on the end of Jesus’s king-size bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair still in a braid, one of his impossibly black blades flicking through his fingers like a shadow. Being able to see him in the clear light and more clear-headed, though, Jesus realized he was too thin, thin enough that his collar bones were sharp and Jesus could count his ribs. The hollows that ringed his eyes almost hid their unusual color. Clearly his Gemelo needed a keeper. Fortunately, Jesus intended to take better care of him than Gemelo apparently took of himself.

Then Jesus’s eyes were drawn to Gemelo’s neck. Welts from Jesus’s nails stood out on his throat, even as dark bruises were beginning to bloom. The pattern of the bruises was almost beautiful, an extension of Gemelo’s tattoos climbing up his neck, rather than damage. The visible evidence of Jesus’s dominion reignited Jesus’s desire, but he tamped it down for the moment.

“I thought I said I wanted you naked,” Jesus said, glaring, though he didn’t mean it. He just wanted to see what Gemelo would do.

The blade was palmed in such a smooth motion that Jesus almost wondered if it had vanished. Gemelo propped his elbow on his knee and settled his chin in the palm of his free hand, watching Jesus with keen but nonjudgmental eyes.

“I thought not being naked with your watch dog in the room was a better idea,” Gemelo said. His voice was rough, more gravelly than it had been before Jesus had gotten his hands on Gemelo. Jesus liked the smoke and stone quality, liked that he was the one to put it there.

He closed the distance between them, and Gemelo just watched him, not afraid or nervous, displaying not even the tiniest hint of fear. It was exhilarating and new. Even the fucks that only had him for a night and knew nothing of his true nature tended to have an edge of fear in them, some primal part of them recognizing the monster. It was usually tangled up with excitement, creating the rush of a rollercoaster. Jesus enjoyed that edge, enjoyed having complete ownership of his partners, even if only for as long as their encounter lasted.

Jesus didn’t lie and try to tell himself that he controlled Gemelo. At least, he didn’t control Gemelo yet.

He lifted Gemelo’s chin wanting a better look at the bruises and wounds splashed across his throat like paint. He looked forward to adding to them, to watching the way the colors overlapped and changed as they healed while new layers were added; a collar painted with Jesus’s hands. Jesus shifted his grip, wrapping his fingers around that seemingly fragile throat, yet Gemelo still watched him, a little curious, perhaps, but no shadow of fear.

Tightening his grip, Jesus met Gemelo’s eyes. He could feel the moment he cut off Gemelo’s ability to breathe, felt the strange stillness in Gemelo’s chest, but there was no fight, not wasted energy. Gemelo waited, unafraid, to see what Jesus would do next. Jesus was aware Gemelo still held the blade, but Gemelo didn’t move, didn’t flinch, just watched with impossible eyes that seemed to suck Jesus in.

Jesus released him, and this time, Gemelo gasped and coughed as he recovered his breath. Gemelo rubbed his throat for a moment before dropping his hand back into his lap as he straightened.

“You are really not afraid of me,” Jesus said, not entirely meaning to. “I could kill you.”

The rough bark of laughter startled Jesus. “You could,” he said, a humorless grin twisting his mouth. “So could getting into a car or walking down the street. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person, Reyes. Thought you knew that.”

“Jesus,” Jesus corrected, because as beautifully as Gemelo trilled the r in his name, it wasn’t the name he wanted to hear from Gemelo’s lips. He reached out again, as if he couldn’t resist touching Gemelo, ran light fingertips over the raised welts before tipping Gemelo’s chin up again. “I have been inside of you. I will be again. I think that has earned the use of my name.”

An eyebrow raised and amusement flashed across Gemelo’s face. “Okay, then. Jesus.” He dropped his voice and purred the name like a caress.

As if the sound of his name were an accelerant, Jesus’s desire flared back to life. He needed Gemelo, and needed him now. Jesus swooped down and claimed Gemelo’s mouth, one hand going to the back of Gemelo’s neck, refusing to let him retreat as Jesus plundered him. He crawled onto the bed, practically dragging Gemelo up with him until they were in the center of the bed. He fumbled at Gemelo’s underwear, wanting it off, and Gemelo obliged, raising his hips and sliding it down. Jesus released him, kneeling up only long enough to pull his renewed length out. He took one thigh in a bruising grip to lift Gemelo’s hips again before shoving a finger inside, making sure Gemelo was still at least a little wet from their previous joining. He didn’t know if it was the harshness of his actions or Gemelo’s own soreness, but Gemelo gasped, arching.

Satisfied, Jesus adjusted Gemelo, shifting one leg over Jesus’s shoulder. He held the leg, then guided himself to Gemelo’s entrance, pausing just outside to meet Gemelo’s eyes. Gemelo wasn’t fully hard, but he was on his way, and Jesus looked forward to making his new lover cum on his cock. Gemelo hitched his hips, as if trying to get Jesus inside of him. It made Jesus throb with need.

“When you scream,” he said, pulling back a little. “Scream my name.”

He speared Gemelo in one long, harsh thrust, not stopping till he was buried to the hilt. Gemelo thrashed and cried out, but it wasn’t a scream, and it wasn’t Jesus’s name. He pulled out, all the way, paused to stroke Gemelo, then thrust back in, just as hard, stroking Gemelo as he did it. That got a yell, which was closer, but still not what he wanted. He pulled out a third time, rubbed at Gemelo’s now-leaking slit, shifted Gemelo’s hips a bit, then thrust in again.

He must have hit the angle perfectly, because Gemelo’s body nearly convulsed around him and this time, Gemelo yelled “Jesus!”

That was better. His name cried out in need, Gemelo’s voice already hoarse from being choked, was like an aural aphrodisiac. Jesus needed more of it. He pulled out again, determined to wring his name from Gemelo until he had no voice left to scream with.

Duo went from asleep to awake, the way he almost always did. Exhausted though he’d been, he hadn’t slept deeply, likely wouldn’t sleep deeply for a long time to come. Something about being in bed with someone like Jesus Reyes wouldn’t allow it.

He pulled his blade from under the pillow as he sat up, unwilling to leave it for someone to cut their damn hand off with it. He set it on the nightstand before sitting up slowly, cataloguing every ache and complaint in his body. Most of the soreness was concentrated in his hips, thighs, and ass, though his throat was making a good argument too. It had been a while since Duo felt quite this shitty without being blown up, but the pain was mostly a nuisance. He knew the difference between the pain of overworked muscles compared to the pain of serious injury.

Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he paused. Jesus’s bed was so fucking high that Duo’s feet didn’t reach the ground, which meant he was going to have to either lower himself to the floor or jump. At least his arms hadn’t gotten a workout the night before so he lowered himself down. His legs felt like overcooked spaghetti and nearly folded when he put his weight on them. Duo kept his hands on the bed for a moment, making sure he wasn’t going to faceplant, before he straightened. A little more certain, he pushed off the edge of the bed, trying to stand like a real person. His knees, hips, and probably most the vertebrae in his back and neck cracked loudly in the quiet room. Duo winced as Jesus snapped awake, pulling out his own security weapon from under his pillow to point at Duo.

Duo stayed still until Jesus woke up and recognized him.

“Gemelo?” he asked, sounding a little confused.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Duo croaked, barely more than a whisper, his throat protesting speaking. He took Jesus’s awareness as permission to stretch and get the kinks out of his arms and shoulders. “Was just going to jump in the shower.”

Jesus blinked at him before putting the safety back on the gun and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his other hand.

“Don’t have to get up,” Duo told him.

Jesus tucked the gun back under the pillow and rubbed his hands over his face. “Go ahead and get started. I’ll be in shortly.”

Duo raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. He took his first step, feeling the way his body screamed at him, breathing through it, waiting a moment before he felt like he could take another step. The first couple steps were always the worst. A third halting step gave way to an easier fourth, and by the time he was in the bathroom, he’d managed to shove the pain into the “annoyance” box in his head.

There were a lot more mirrors in the bathroom than Duo expected. A whole wall of them, in fact, including a floor-to-ceiling one. Right, he thought. Narcissist. Literally. Duo ignored his reflection in favor of finding the water closet and relieving himself. He continued to ignore them as he padded back to the sink, washed his hands, found a spare toothbrush, and brushed his teeth, staring into the sink bowl as he did. He could well imagine what he looked like and didn’t especially want to see it, though he knew he should check his neck. Human hands and fingernails weren’t always that clean, and Duo knew Jesus drew blood last night.

Mouth rinsed, he checked his reflection, and even he was taken aback by the array of colors mottling his neck. Small wonder he sounded like a frog this morning. Duo had left less severe bruising on people he’d choked to death. Ignoring the bruises for the moment, he felt out the scratches. There was a little bit of crusted plasma on a few of them, but nothing felt hot or infected, so that was good at least. Not that Duo ever got infections, but there was a first time for everything.

He was tempted to just wash his throat, but he felt that particular grossness of having slept in sweat and other things, the one that never bothered him until the next morning when the endorphins had worn off. His hair probably needed to be washed too, so to the shower he went.

White towels hung on a towel warmer like a fancy hotel, and Duo flicked it on as he turned on the shower. While he waited for the water to heat up, he undid his braid, slipping the hair tie around his wrist, and finger combing the worst tangles out.

Stepping into the shower sent a jolt of pain through his lower body that nothing but time would soothe. He breathed through it for a moment before stepping under the spray, allowing himself to just soak in the warmth and heat for a few minutes. He would never take the abundance of water available on Earth for granted. Never.

Duo was a little surprised to get through most of the shower without Jesus joining him. He was working the last bit of conditioner into the ends of his hair when Jesus finally stepped in. Once he finished with his hair, all Duo had left to do was try to clean himself inside, which he had been putting off because he could tell it was going to suck.

Jesus lifted Duo’s chin, eyeing his handiwork on Duo’s neck before releasing him. “How do you feel this morning? You were limping.”

Duo snorted. “You fucked me out,” he said, voice still croaky enough to be nearly unrecognizable. “I’m sore, that’s all.”

Stepping into Duo’s space, Jesus ran his hands down Duo’s sides until he was cupping both of Duo’s ass cheeks. A finger pressed against Duo’s entrance, and Duo hissed, more than a little tender after last night. Jesus’s cock twitched against Duo’s stomach at the noise, and Jesus pressed again until his fingertip dipped in. Duo braced himself against Jesus’s chest, dropping his head, not daring to refuse the man.

“Very sore,” Jesus commented, though he didn’t withdraw his finger. “Have you been sore like this before?”

Memories strained against the bars in their mental cage. Duo slammed the door closed and said, “Yeah,” forcing himself to breathe through the burn and discomfort as Jesus moved his finger in and out as if testing.

“Have you now?” Jesus wondered, long finger pressing deeper. Duo pressed into Jesus’s chest, gritting his teeth, trying to get away from that finger, but he had nowhere to go.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his breathing even. “It’s not a good memory,” he admitted, making sure the door on that particular set of memories was tightly barred.

With surprising gentleness, Jesus removed his finger and turned Duo to face the wall of the shower. The glass was almost too cool against Duo’s skin, making him shiver until Jesus pressed his heat along Duo’s back. Jesus slid a foot between Duo’s, and nudged his feet to spread a little farther. He leaned down and inhaled the wet scent of Duo’s hair, his breath tickling Duo’s ear and making him shiver again.

“You used my products,” Jesus said, an observation, not a criticism.

“Yeah,” Duo said, then gasped as Jesus’s finger found its way back into him. He could feel Jesus getting harder behind him, knew what Jesus planned. He pressed his forehead to the glass, trying to make himself relax. Jesus knew it hurt, knew Duo wasn’t turned on, but he was still pushing. Jesus wanted this, and Duo could refuse him, but he wouldn’t risk it. Not yet.

The warmth of Jesus’s body stepped back for a moment, but Duo didn’t dare think he was done. The sound of a cap opening and a cock being slicked made Duo chuckle despite himself. He had looked through Jesus’s hygiene products, but he hadn’t noticed lube. Either a bottle was purposefully mislabeled or Jesus was using soap in a pinch.

“Keep lube in the shower?” Duo asked, needing to brace for the pain if it was soap.

Slick fingers rubbed against his hole before slipping inside. It ached but it didn’t sting like soap would, and Duo breathed a silent sigh of relief when Jesus pressed his chest to Duo’s back again.

“I like shower sex,” Jesus admitted with amusement in his voice. With one hand, he shifted Duo’s hair over his shoulder. Duo felt Jesus plant his feet wide, allowing him to fit more naturally against Duo’s smaller form instead of looming over him. Jesus’s fingers left him and reached around to stroke Duo’s dick. He was pretty much soft, the pain severe enough to override any pleasure he might have usually gotten from the limited foreplay. A little pain could heighten the pleasure when he was turned on, but pain itself wasn’t a stimulant. He felt Jesus line himself up and resisted the urge to wheel around and kill the man. Jesus pressed forward, teasing, but even that was more pain than not, and Duo did his best to stay relaxed and breathe through it. “You have been this sore before,” Jesus murmured in his ear.

“Yeah,” Duo said, his voice even more hoarse with tightness.

Another roll of hips, just slipping past Duo’s hole without penetrating while Jesus continued to stroke him, distracting him. “It’s not a good memory.”

“No,” Duo agreed, responding to Jesus’s hand even as his cock rubbed between Duo’s ass cheeks.

“Did you kill them?” he asked, repositioning his cock, this time pushing forward until the head of his cock slipped inside.

“Yes,” Duo gasped, back arching against his will, his body wanting to flee the penetration, clawing uselessly at the glass.

“Fuck,” Jesus gasped into his neck. “So fucking tight, Gemelo.” His free hand stroked Duo’s side as he paused, letting Duo adjust. “Relax.”

“Trying,” Duo said, clenching his teeth till his jaw ached.

Jesus pulled back a bit, just until the head pulled at Duo’s rim and forced a whine out of him. That whine made Jesus thrust forward again, deeper. Duo went up onto his toes, keening against his will. Jesus kept stroking Duo’s now limp cock, his other hand coming around to twist and tug at a nipple.

“I’m going to erase them,” Jesus said before mouthing at the tender skin at the join of Duo’s neck and shoulder. He pushed in a little deeper, releasing Duo’s skin to say, “The only person you will associate this pain with—” He paused to bite hard over Duo’s jugular, just shy of breaking the skin. The bite made Duo gasp, and when he relaxed again as Jesus kissed what was undoubtedly a new bruise, Jesus slid deeper. “—Is me.” A sharp, hard final thrust buried him to the hilt, and Duo’s cries echoed in the bathroom, much louder than he thought he’d been. “I’m going to make you cum like this.” He pulled back and thrust back in, getting a whimper out of Duo. It still hurt, still didn’t really feel good, but there was something about being filled like this that Duo inherently enjoyed. Jesus wasn’t those others. He was Jesus. Duo could have stopped him at any time; he had chosen not to.

Jesus’s hands and mouth began to wander as he fucked Duo with long, slow, deliberate thrusts, tweaking nipples, stroking his cock, biting at his neck and shoulders, turning Duo on until Duo was hard, rocking himself back, meeting Jesus thrust for thrust.

Time vanished as pain became pleasure, then pain heightened the pleasure. Jesus played Duo like he was an expert in the instrument that was Duo’s body.

Duo couldn’t say what tipped him over, what was the final push. One moment he was riding the sensations; the next he was cumming hard enough to nearly black out. Jesus’s final thrusts before he emptied himself into Duo were distant, barely registered things. If not for Jesus’s grip on him, Duo thought he would have fallen.

He groaned as Jesus pulled out, voice as good as gone between the previous night and today. Jesus carefully cleaned him before easing him to sit on the shower bench. A shower head was pulled down to rinse Duo again, before Jesus set to washing himself quickly.

Buffered by the endorphins of his own orgasm, Duo found himself watching as though he were removed from the situation and not in it. He was covered in bites and bruises, his ass would ache for days, and Jesus had clearly enjoyed his pain as much as his pleasure. Somehow, the same man that cut off his air supply like it was a game used a warm towel to dry Duo off, carefully wrapped his hair in another one, and carried him back to bed. They knew so little about Jesus Reyes, but what little they knew would never have had Duo guessing him capable of this odd compassion, this care. Such a strange dichotomy.

Jesus went to Duo’s duffel bag and riffled through it. Duo would protest, but there was nothing suspicious to find in there except a couple of far too expensive pieces of clothing that Duo could imply he stole. After a moment, Jesus stood, seemingly unsatisfied.

“Is this really all you have?” he asked.

Duo tried to say Excuse me for not having much, but the first word came out as a cracking, airy sound, reminding Duo that he’d well and truly lost his voice. He gave up and simply nodded instead. It was actually pretty much all he owned; no reason to pretend otherwise.

Jesus snorted and stepped into his own closet. His voice floated out, only slightly muffled. “I will have to rectify that.”

He came back out with a long-sleeve button-down that was definitely Jesus’s and would be enormous on Duo, then retrieved a pair of workout pants from Duo’s bag as well as clean underwear.

Not a girl, Duo mouthed at him, taking the clothes with a roll of his eyes.

Flashing a toothy grin, Jesus agreed, “As I am well aware.” He sat and toweled his own hair more aggressively than Duo would towel his own. “But I still want to see you in my clothes.”

Duo rolled his eyes again, but began to get dressed, feeling stupid when he stood and Jesus had to reach out to steady him. Jesus looked unbearably smug about it, so Duo let it go. It was what Duo needed, after all, for Jesus to believe Duo was his. It was only a matter of time before Jesus began to let Duo in at this rate.

All it cost was a sore ass, a lost voice, and a myriad of bruises that mostly looked worse than they felt. Duo thought it a fair price to pay.

Chapter Text

Most people didn’t get to meet Jesus face-to-face, but when someone somehow managed to make friends with Angel, Jesus’s nephew, they could sometimes get an in.

Duo was still debating on whether or not he should do something about that security hole. It had been how Duo had gotten into the fight club that ultimately lead him to getting to Jesus, and it was also clearly how this cop had gotten in. Ricardo Andrews—ostensibly. Rico for short. He probably should warn Jesus, should shut it down, but he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that Duo had used it. He decided to wait until Angel brought home someone more expendable than a cop.

To be fair, Rico was… pretty good. He had a young face, but he was too comfortable in his skin to be the early twentysomething he was playing. The body language was good, but the way he watched things, it looked lazy and laid back at a glance, but Duo knew that laziness, knew that lie.

Slick of him to get invited home with Angel though. Duo had to give credit where it was due. It had taken a month of being in Jesus’s bed before he brought Duo to his sister’s house for dinner for the first time.

“So Rico,” Jesus purred, slinging his arm over the back of Duo’s chair, stroking the side of Duo’s neck, dipping beneath the scarf he was wearing. Marianna insisted Duo cover Jesus’s marks at her house, even though Jesus had a distinct preference for displaying them. “Angel says you’re new to the city.”

“Yeah,” Rico said, doing a more than passable impression of someone who was nervous and out of their element. He shouldn’t know who Jesus was, but even if he didn’t, Jesus was plenty intimidating. First-rate stuff really. No wonder Angel had fallen for it. “I, uh, well, I was supposed to stay with my cousins, but they… had some bad luck.”

Duo would just bet they did.

“Angel and Mrs. Lopez have been really gracious giving me a place to stay, just until I can find a place. All the rent is so expensive,” he said, looking embarrassed. “But I swear to you, I will pay her back!”

Duo’s opinion of the plant went up. He really was very good, so very believably earnest. Smart too. It wasn’t an accident that no one had connected Marianna to Jesus—she had used her father’s last name, Morales, before she married into a Lopez. One of the most common names in Latin culture with two of the most common surnames—she was damn near invisible if you were looking. Duo had never asked Jesus why he hadn’t taken his father’s last name, though he was mildly curious. Jesus would either share that or he wouldn’t. It wasn’t really that important.

“Rico could use a better job,” Angel said, advocating for his new friend. Really, Duo would love to know how a kid that closely connected to someone like Jesus Reyes could possibly be this naïve or this poor of a judge of character. Jesus should have taught him to by hyper distrustful of outsiders, but Angel was a pretty good kid, though he was eighteen. He liked people and trusted them. Marianna watched with more wary eyes.

Jesus’s hand stopped its wandering and he craned Duo’s neck to look at him.

“What do you think, Gemelo?” he asked. “Should I offer the boy a job?” He leaned in, pulled the side of Duo’s scarf down, and licked up the side of Duo’s neck, his tongue scraping over welts and bruises alike until he caught one of Duo’s earrings in his teeth and tugged. Duo shivered and sighed, his body stirring, having been trained that this kind of roughness usually lead to other activities in the last three months.

“Jesus!” Marianna barked in that tone that only scandalized mothers ever mastered. Jesus backed off only a little bit, letting the scarf spring back into place, chuckling in that deep, rumbling way that Duo was not ashamed to admit was hot. “Really? At the table?” She turned her attention to Duo, shaking a kitchen towel at him. “And you! Stop making it so easy on him! Don’t think I don’t see those marks!”

Duo flashed her the grin that was designed to raise blood pressure. “But señora,” he complained, “what if I like it too?” he asked, all but batting his eyes at her.

Marianna huffed and began muttering rapid-fire Spanish under her breath, most of it unintelligible. His response earned him a claiming kiss from Jesus, who enjoyed pulling his sister’s chain as much as anyone.

“I don’t care what you do at home, but not at my dinner table!” she snapped. “What kind of example are you setting for the kids?” she waved her hand in the general direction of the table that had not only her two younger children, Alicia and Santiago, sat, but where Fernando’s two kids—Honor and Josefa—were seated. It had taken all of a couple days for Duo to realize that Fernando really was as good as family to Jesus, so he wasn’t surprised when Fer had been invited to family dinners.

“Come now,” Jesus said, cajoling. “Would you give me so much grief if Gemelo were a woman?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marianna said flatly.

“Do you believe this woman?” Jesus asked him, face animated. Dinner at Marianna’s had quickly become Duo’s favorite pastime. Only around his family did Jesus show this side of himself. It made being with him easier, made the darker times more bearable.

“Don’t argue with the cook,” Duo replied.

Jesus gave him an incredulous look before turning back to where Marianna was setting a pan de elote on the table. “You would side with my sister, over me?” he demanded, but humor danced in his dark eyes. The moments let Duo enjoy how attractive Jesus really was, let him forget for a little bit what Jesus was.

Duo shrugged. “She made the corncake.” He pointed to the red-sprinkled cake that Marianna had just set on the table.

Jesus turned mock angry eyes on Marianna. “Your cooking seduces another one, Mari,” he said.

Marianna glanced down her nose at him for a moment before declaring, “This one is smarter than the others. I suppose you can keep him.” She turned on her heel and disappeared back into the kitchen for another cake. One wasn’t enough for this crowd.

“Bring lovers to dinner night often?” Duo teased, pretending to pout.

Fer snorted from where he was at the end of the table as Marianna came back out. “You would be the first,” he said.

Huffing as she straightened, Marianna said, “I don’t need to meet the others to know they aren’t worth keeping.” She sat and primly scooted her own seat back in. She met Duo’s eyes again, then said, “You are acceptable.”

“Be still, my heart,” Duo replied, but he smiled.

“Don’t bother trying to charm me,” she said, but Duo saw the corner of her mouth quirk up.

“Yes, señora,” he said in a sugary sweet tone.

“Uncle, do you think you could find work for Rico?” Angel interjected.

Jesus had been slicing and serving the cake, and he paused in the middle of setting Duo’s piece in front of him, aiming a hard glare at his nephew for interrupting. Even though only a couple years separated them, Duo, by virtue of his position as Jesus’s lover, was effectively granted adult status at the table. Angel had just turned eighteen and was still more kid than adult in the family dynamics. Interrupting out of turn was not quite acceptable yet, and Angel wilted under Jesus’s glare.

Marianna took pity on her son, and said, “What do you think?”

The plate was set gently in front of Duo, though Duo watched as Jesus traded looks with Fernando, then glanced at Rico. The body language was right, nervous and fidgety, but the look in his eyes was almost hungry.

Grateful that the table wasn’t that wide, Duo kicked him in the shin, which was sufficiently distracting to make him act like the kid he was pretending to be again.

“Watch where your feet are, brat,” Duo told him, a little bit joking, but with enough of an edge to get Jesus’s attention and really make the guy sweat.

Jesus reset his arm on the back of Duo’s chair, slipping his hand under Duo’s braid to set his hand loosely around Duo’s neck, the claim obvious. “I suppose we can find something for him, can’t we, Fer?”

Fernando glanced down the table appraisingly. “We can find something,” he said in a less threatening tone.

“If he needs a place,” Duo began as if the idea had just occurred to him, “he could have my place?” He turned slightly so he was facing Jesus. “I mean, it’s not much, but the rent’s about as cheap as you can get, and I don’t really use it these days.”

A slow smile crept across Jesus’s lips. “Finally agreeing to move in with me?” he asked, shifting his hand so it was partially cupping Duo’s face.

Duo rolled his eyes, letting a smile pull at his lips. “I already live with you, this would just make it… official,” he said.

The heat in Jesus’s eyes was suddenly felt like a physical thing.

“Save it for at home, boys,” Marianna said before Jesus could do something like throw Duo on the table and traumatize the kids. The kids all giggled, and Duo had to smile too.  

Jesus groaned, but resettled his hand on the back of Duo’s neck, though not before he leaned in and murmured, “Tonight, Gemelo.”

Duo turned his attention back to his cake—he really was not letting that cake go to waste—and said, “Cake first.”

Obligingly, Jesus picked up his fork and speared a bite. “Cake first,” he agreed, eyes fixed on Duo’s when he took the bite.

As the Reyes members were getting ready to leave, Garcia got a text. He looked at it, said something low to Reyes that Reese didn’t catch, and Reyes frowned before turning to his lover.

“I have something to take care of. I’ll be home later,” he said.

Gemelo—that was all he’d been introduced as—raised an eyebrow. “If that’s the case, I can take Rico by my apartment, give him the keys and everything. He can just give the rent money to Marianna. She can get it to me,” he offered.

“We can drop them on the way,” Garcia said in response to Reyes’s look.

“Fine. Get your bag and make it fast,” he instructed Reese, who was suddenly very glad that he hadn’t really unpacked anything, so he was able to grab his well-worn duffel.

“Ready,” he said, trying to sound both eager and a little nervous. Garcia and Reyes seemed to buy it, but Gemelo watched him with too-intelligent eyes. He played the toy, but Reese didn’t think for a moment he was as stupid as he pretended to be. Reese didn’t think that Reyes would bother with someone who was just a pretty face, at least, not for more than a few nights.

They got in the backseat of a limo, though Reyes pulled Gemelo in tight to his side and continued to be handsy with him.

“For fuck’s sake, Jesus,” Garcia finally complained. “Don’t I have to see enough of this at your place? Can you please give it a break for twenty minutes?”

“If I were able to go home and fuck him properly,” he said in a low voice like a caress as a hand rose to wrap around Gemelo’s throat. Gemelo didn’t flinch. “Perhaps I could.”

“Don’t blame me. And you’ll be able to fuck him when you get home later.”

The whole thing was intensely uncomfortable, and Reese was relieved when the limo stopped.

“We’re here,” Gemelo said, eerily calm considering the way Reyes’s hand was wrapped around his neck.

Reyes groaned. “Tonight,” he hissed. “You had better be ready for me.”

Gemelo leaned up and gave Reyes a soft kiss. “I’m always ready for you,” he said as Reyes’s hand fell away. “Tonight,” he added like a promise.

Reese got out of the car as quickly as he could without looking like he was fleeing. Gemelo followed him out at a calmer pace, pulling his jacket hood up and shielding his face. It made him look younger, and not for the first time that evening, Reese wondered how old Gemelo was. Gemelo didn’t wait for the car to start moving again before he walked toward the run-down apartments. The front door looked like it should be locked, but Gemelo kicked the corner of the door, then reached up and grabbed the top of the opposing corner and pried the door open.

“The key’s up in my room, but that works in a pinch because the lock doesn’t catch right,” he explained, and something about his voice and his manner was suddenly very different than it had been at Mrs. Lopez’s.

He entered, not bothering to hold the door for Reese, forcing Reese to chase him. There was an elevator, but Gemelo bypassed it, going straight for the stairs. Reese glanced around, trying to see if there was any security down here without being overt, but there sure didn’t appear to be. “Don’t bother with the elevator. It technically works, but it gets stuck between floors most of the time,” he said over his shoulder.

Reese was relieved when Gemelo only lived on the third floor. When they reached a door that had half of a pizza menu sticking out from under it, Gemelo reached into his hood and pulled out some long, thin picks.

“Isn’t this your apartment?” Reese asked, not having to pretend he was nervous.

“It is, but I haven’t been back in over a week, and I don’t have my keys on me. I do have a spare inside,” Gemelo said as the lock clicked and gave under his sure hands. That was unnerving. That had been way too easy. The picks disappeared somewhere, and Gemelo pushed the door open into the room. Then he grabbed the back of Reese’s shirt and all but frog marched him inside. When the door shut and the locks were flipped, Gemelo lowered his hood and glared at him.

“Is there something—”

“You’re good, but for fuck’s sake, if you’re going to risk your life on your acting skills, don’t give it away with your fucking eyes,” Gemelo said—the first English words Reese had heard him speak. He had a bare trace of a colonial accent, of all things.

“I don’t know—” Reese began, getting honestly nervous. Gemelo seemed like a trophy, a piece of ass, but it wasn’t impossible he’d been sent in to kill Reese.  

Startling violet eyes fixed on him like lasers. “You were sent in with Preventer cooperation. They didn’t tell you who you were going to be working with?” Gemelo asked.  

Reese’s heart jumped into his throat and his jaw dropped. “You?” he blurted, then nearly kicked himself. He didn’t know this kid. All he knew about him was that he was clearly fucking Reyes.

“Dude, keep it down. These walls are fucking paper thin,” Gemelo snapped, brushing past him, heading toward the refrigerator.

Reese couldn’t resist. “You’re here often enough to know?” He barely noticed the water bottle flying at his face in time to catch it as Gemelo stood up and closed the fridge, leaning against it.

“I was here for two months before I caught Jesus’s attention. I’m well aware of how thin these walls are. And would you sleep here when you could be in the penthouse?”

Part of Reese wanted to keep denying it, but it was clear that Gemelo had him made. He had to hope that he actually was the Preventer he was told about, though he seemed awfully young. “There’s undercover, and then there’s undercover,” Reese said. “You don’t think sleeping with a cartel boss isn’t crossing the line? Preventers didn’t give us access to their UC’s files, just said they had a guy inside. Do they even know?”

“They know,” Gemelo said simply, taking a long drag on his own water bottle. He was so different than he had been at the dinner, where he’d been charming and flirty—the perfect, mindless piece of ass.

Something must have shown on his face, because Gemelo snapped, “What are you, my mother?” He sighed heavily, then rubbed his eyes. “Look, obviously we got off on the wrong foot here. Why don’t we start over? I’m Duo Maxwell, agent designation Darkside. My cover is Twain Randolph. I’ve been undercover with the Reyes cartel for…” he paused. “Madre de Muerte, what is today?” He rubbed his eyes again.

Some of Reese’s aggravation bled off at the obvious exhaustion in the younger man. “April 4th,” he supplied.

“Wow, almost six months then.” He moved over to a rickety stool and sank onto it.

“And you’ve been sleeping with the boss for four months?”

Gemelo actually looked a little offended. “Three,” he corrected. “I told you it took Jesus two months to even notice me. I didn’t just fall in bed with him when he crooked his finger.”

“But you are sleeping with him now.”

An indifferent shrug. “He is the boss, you know. Short of being completely straight, I don’t think anything would have persuaded him from chasing me. And I don’t think I could have convinced him I was completely straight, even if it was true. If I wanted to stay where I’m at, I was going to end up in bed with him at some point. You going to tell me who you are?”

“He called you Gemelo,” Reese said instead of answering.

“It’s just what he calls me. It’s stuck,” Gemelo replied with another sigh. “Now most of his people call me it. You may as well too. Less chance of slipping.”

Reese hesitated, then decided that if Gemelo was lying, he was already screwed regardless. “Reese Anderson, NYPD. My cover is Ricardo Andrews.” Gemelo didn’t look surprised, so he added, “You’ve been this close to the boss for three months?”

“Dog with a bone, aren’t ya? Yeah, I’ve been sleeping with him for three months. I don’t have a lot yet, if only ‘cause Fer is more cautious than Jesus is, and his hair stands on end every time Jesus wants to tell me something.”

“Why you?” Reese asked, curious. “You’ve gotta have all of what? Six months of experience?”

Gemelo gave him a long look, a look that would have made most people squirm. But Reese wasn’t most people and he wasn’t intimidated. The stillness in the other man was almost as unnerving as that look though. He hadn’t seen much of Gemelo in action yet, but he got the feeling that Gemelo was rarely still. Finally, Gemelo shook his head and stood up. “Whatever man. I’m here because I’m Une’s best agent. I’m assuming you’re here because some joint or interagency cooperation bullshit didn’t trust her and her inside guy.” Reese tried to hide a wince. That was exactly why he was there. “I’ll pass you what I can and you can stay here, but you and I are not going to be friends. Jesus is possessive as fuck.”

Reese blinked, surprised both by Duo’s cool dismissal and by his statement. “I’ve never heard of Reyes being possessive.”

“Yeah, well, before me, I don’t think he ever was.” Duo’s voice trailed off as he walked past a standing screen that divided the room, and over to a dresser.  Drawers screeched and banged as they were yanked open and closed. Reese stalked over past the screen just in time to see Duo’s back revealed as he pulled his shirt over his head. Under his long sleeves, he hadn’t realized that the man had some serious ink. A massive back piece, black devil’s wings twined with white angel’s wings, so you couldn’t quite tell which pair was shielding which. At some point, that centerpiece may have stood alone, but now there was a detailed knot-work cross between his shoulder blades, up his neck and into the dip where the wings sprouted from. Bloodied banners were woven through the knot-work, with what looked like half a dozen languages written on them. His shoulders, all the way down to his elbows had half-sleeves complete, one with a black dragon wound around a mishmash of various symbols and green fire, glowing green eyes staring out. The left arm had a purple phoenix and blue and purple flames. Again, it seemed that random other symbols, which probably only meant something to Gemelo, were twisted and hidden in it. When he turned, Reese was surprised to find a skull centered right above his pecs, with twisted and broken bone wings stretching over his collar, melding into the flames on his arms as if being consumed. What made Reese stare was the rainbow of bruises up and down Gemelo’s neck.

“That’s some serious ink for someone who does a lot of undercover work,” he remarked, throat dry, trying not to sound judgmental. “And it’s not exactly generic.”

“And no one ever sees it but Jesus,” Duo snapped, grabbing a black, long-sleeve button down and pulling it on. “And he’s unlikely to tell anyone about it because he’ll probably never know what I am.” He buttoned the shirt almost to the top, and rolled his sleeves to his forearms, but he was right, all of the ink was hidden. If you didn’t know he had the tattoos, you wouldn’t have suspected. “He likes the hidden aspect. It’s another possessive thing, so I wouldn’t mention it to anyone.” Even as he spoke, he moved around the room with certainty and purpose, pulling out a couple pieces of clothing, and a couple weapons, and packing them with the speed and familiarity of habit.

“Is it really okay to give me this place?

Gemelo shrugged. “You’re the new guy in town, you need a place to stay, and I don’t need it anymore. It’s not like I’m giving you prime real estate here,” he said, tucking his hoodie in the bag and zipping it up, before picking up the scarf from earlier and tucking it around his throat expertly hiding the bruises.

Blinking his surprise away as Gemelo grabbed his duffel, pushing past him out of the room, Reese said, “You’re playing with fire. You know what Reyes does to people he suspects.”

Gemelo stopped and turned, the handles of the duffel gripped in a hand over his shoulder. He canted a hip, striking an annoyed pose. Annoyed, but hot. He had stopped in a natural spotlight the setting sun threw through the one decent-sized window in the apartment, and between the simple change in clothing and the way the light struck him, Gemelo looked like a model. In that light, Reese saw that Duo wasn’t scrawny, he was lithe, compact muscle and perfectly proportioned, giving the illusion of being much taller than his scant 5’5”. Even as carelessly as he was standing, the cords could be seen in the forearm of the hand holding his bag, definition hinted at in the completely at ease arm. The sun brought out golden and red hues in what had at first appeared to be matte brown hair, and his purple eyes nearly glowed in their framing. Suddenly, it was no wonder why Maxwell had caught Reyes’ attention. The shock was that it took two months for him to get noticed.

“I think you have to worry about that more than I do,” Gemelo said.

Reese had been so struck by Maxwell’s unnerving attractiveness, it took him a moment to backtrack and remember what he’d said.

“You’re his lover. He’ll kill you if he suspects anything,” Reese argued.

“And he’ll kill you if you’re too solicitous of me. Hands off, Anderson.” A sly smile curled his lips, and Reese noticed that his smile was definitely lopsided, pulling strongly towards the right. It wasn’t unattractive, just something else that added character.

Reese squawked. “I’m not even gay!”

Maxwell chuckled, a deliberately deep and lusty laugh designed to make people sit up and pay attention. “Most people exist on a scale,” he said. “Jesus usually prefers big, scary men from what I hear.”

“You are neither big nor scary,” Reese couldn’t help but point out.

That laugh again, rolling through Reese as though it physically touched him. “I’m not big, but I’m scarier than most. Pretty wasn’t enough to keep me in his bed for three months. A night, sure. A week? Maybe. But three months?” He shook his head. “No, I need to be something to give his ego a boost to control for three months. So, while I may not look like much, I promise, I’m one of the scariest and most dangerous people in this club."

Reese couldn’t quite make himself believe it as Duo pitched him the keys and headed to the doorway. He paused before opening the door, giving Reese a long, seriously look. “Keep your damn head down. I can’t save your ass if he starts looking too closely at you.”

Then he was gone, leaving Reese in the small, crummy apartment, wondering what the fuck he had just gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

Duo should probably have been more worried about being blindfolded and escorted somewhere with Fernando, especially with only Alejandro in tow. He simply shrugged and decided to go along with it. Shinigami was quiet in his mind, so whatever Fer had in mind, it probably wasn’t killing Duo, and even if he tried, well, Duo wished him luck. Besides, they hadn't even restrained him.

He kept a mental map of where they were going out of habit, mentally marking turns, making educated guesses as to how far they’d driven. The sounds of the city were falling away, so wherever they were going, it was secluded. Not a great sign, but Shini stayed quiet, and Duo relaxed.

Fernando didn’t say anything as he hauled Duo out of the car by an elbow, and the silence of a rural area met Duo’s ears—so did the scents. It was easy to forget how close rural areas could be once you got out of New York City proper. They probably hadn’t even been driving for two hours.

Following the pull of Fernando’s grip on his elbow, Duo was led down some stairs, and Shini stirred. Death was close, but it wasn’t for Duo. A man’s scream of anguish, muffled though it was, met Duo’s ears, and the pieces began to come together.

Fernando rapped on a metal door in a rhythm that Duo committed to memory. It only took a minute for the door to open and for Duo to be escorted inside. Before the cries even registered, the copper penny tang of fresh blood hit Duo like a slap in the face. Shini hummed under his skin in response. Someone was about to die, and it probably wasn’t Duo.

Well, this could be about to get interesting.

Duo kept his eyes closed as the blindfold was removed, giving him a chance to open them slowly and adjust to the light. A man whimpered and whined, sobbing, voice shredded. The sound of a knife on a whetstone hummed rhythmic counterpoint to the man’s cries. When Duo opened his eyes fully, he saw Jesus, leaning against a metal table, sharpening a quite large machete, so casually that Duo almost didn’t notice the fact that he was liberally splattered in blood.

Fernando was still behind Duo, so that left the poor sobbing sod.

Or what was left of him, anyway.

Duo hadn’t really forgotten Jesus’s reputation for dismemberment, but he had begun to doubt that Jesus himself did the dismembering. He didn’t doubt it anymore.

The man—Duo didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean much—was hanging from a rather elaborate set of ropes and straps. One leg was missing at the knee, one was just missing its foot. One arm was missing to the elbow, the other just had all of the fingers removed. Tourniquets had been applied liberally to keep the man from bleeding out, but a branding iron was on the table too, and Duo could smell burned flesh in the air, so he suspected some of the wounds had just been cauterized.

Rafael was a silent statute in the far corner, which pretty much meant all of Jesus’s most trusted people were here. It was a little tempting to take them all out right now, but he didn’t have the information he needed, and whoever this man was, there was no fucking way of saving him at this point.

Turning his attention back to Jesus, Duo asked, “So what’d gimpy do?”

Jesus threw his head back and laughed, delighted. “I told you, Fer,” he said, calming. “He would not be phased.”

Duo didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to see Fernando’s reaction, instead crossing his arms.

Fernando snorted, going to the corner that was about as far from Jesus’s victim as he could get. “Am I supposed to be impressed?” he asked.

Jesus pushed himself off the table and walked over to Duo, lifting his chin with a bloody hand. This close, Duo could see that Jesus’s pupils all but swallowed the black of his eyes, and there was heat in them.

For the first time, Duo had to fight down his gorge. What Jesus was doing to this man was turning him on. Fuck. Duo was well aware of Jesus’s sadistic streak by now, but he didn’t realize it was this… extreme. The laughter and the giddiness were because Jesus was high on his own power, the satiation of his own sadism.

“Gimpy,” Jesus said, turning and sending a vicious grin at his victim before shifting his attention back to Duo, “has been talking to the wrong people. He thought he could hurt my cartel, my people. Thought maybe it would… get him off the hook with the authorities.”

Another undercover? Duo wondered, looking back at the sniveling remains of the man. No, he decided. Just a snitch.

“Please, please. Please, let me go. I beg you—” The pleas began, but Duo shut them out.

Jesus sighed, as if put upon, but a smile tugged at his lips, betraying his real feelings. “Come, Gemelo,” he said, tucking an arm around Duo’s waist to guide him to the man, who began to struggle and panic as they came closer. Shini gave a low thrum in the back of Duo’s mind, like a dog testing the air, then settled. As far as Shinigami was concerned, this man was already dead.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jesus. Please, God, please, I beg of you—”

“Shh,” Jesus shushed him as he raised the machete and placed the flat of the blade on the man’s face, cutting off his words and making him whimper. “What do you think we should do next, Gemelo? The hand or the leg?” he asked in a croon.

Duo’s creepy thresholds were pretty damn high, but Jesus just hit them. “If you want me to kill him, then tell me to kill him,” he said, pulling out of Jesus’s grip. “But I already told you, I don’t need my enemies’ pain, just their deaths.” He walked over to the table and jumped up on it. He understood he was supposed to stay and watch, but if he was not going to cut a man up for Jesus’s amusement.

On anyone else, Duo would call Jesus’s expression a pout. “One strike?” he asked, almost cajoling. “Just one piece?” He waved the machete as if he were trying to entice a pet to play.

“If I take that machete, I’m going to kill him,” Duo said.

Jesus’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he was definitely pouting now. Duo had to bite his lip to keep from grinning at the picture Jesus made because, if not for the circumstances, it would be a pretty funny picture.

After a moment, Jesus straightened and held out his hand to Duo. “Come,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion, so Duo sighed and hopped down, going to Jesus and putting his hand in Jesus’s bloody one. Jesus pulled him in front of him, putting the machete in Duo’s hand and his own on top of it, pressing his body against Duo’s back, his free hand resting low on Duo’s abdomen for a moment before walking them forward and holding what was left of the man’s hand.

“No! No no no no no!” the man begged as their hands raised the machete and removed the hand in one clean stroke. Between the sharpness of the blade and the strength behind Jesus’s swing, it barely even slowed on the bone, which Duo had to admit was impressive. The man screamed and a spray of blood forced Duo to close his eyes. Jesus chuckled, and Duo could feel the bulge of Jesus’s dick press into him from behind. Jesus tossed the hand into a large barrel. Alejandro moved forward quickly to apply a tourniquet as the man blubbered.

Hand free, Jesus leaned over to get a look at Duo’s face and his spare hand stroked some of the blood splashed there. Whatever he saw, he liked. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked.

Duo twisted his wrist to free it, and he took one big swing at the man. Jesus redirected the motion midswing, so instead of slashing the man’s throat, he disemboweled him. Not what he had been going for.

Blood and guts spilled at their feet, and the man wailed, but somehow, Duo hadn’t pierced any internal organs so at least it didn’t stink. Jesus turned Duo in his arms, capturing his chin and bending to kiss him hard. As he did so, he took the machete back from Duo, and Duo more felt than saw the swing that silenced the man. The unique heat of fresh blood splashed Duo’s skin from their proximity as Jesus claimed Duo’s mouth like it was his right.

“Jesus?” Fernando asked, sounding unsure.

Jesus broke their kiss, but his eyes were fixed on Duo’s face, following the patterns the blood spray had left as though it were art. “Get out,” he said, voice thick with need.

None of his men needed to be told twice.

I cannot throw up here. The thought repeated itself over and over as Reese tried to convince himself that throwing up would be the worst possible mistake at this juncture. He’d been listening to Reyes methodically torture this man for over an hour. He had certainly found a job to test Reese and Angel’s loyalty.

Reese hadn’t expected Gemelo to be brought down, hadn’t expected him to have to participate. Standing outside the door keeping guard was bad enough, he didn’t envy Gemelo the honor of being inside.

He kept trying to tell himself that a refusal to torture this man would have blown the Preventer agent’s cover, but Reese didn’t quite believe it. It would have lost him some points with Reyes, sure, but blow his cover? Well, there was no doubt that this little private session would earn him real trust with Reyes. But at the price of a man’s life.

It was also a sobering reminder of the stakes for both Reese and Gemelo. If this was what Reyes did to a suspected snitch, what would he do to them if they were discovered? He was glad he was only guarding the door and couldn’t actually see anything. Another cringe-inducing scream tested Reese’s stomach. Silence fell, as ominous as a forest going still. Every hair on Reese’s body stood on end, and he couldn’t help but glance at Angel. Angel looked decidedly green, trying to remain stoic, and failing as badly as Reese himself was.

The silence was broken by an abrupt and blood-curdling scream, which was then cut short with a meaty thud.

I cannot be sick, Reese reminded himself, trading ill looks with Angel, whose throat was convulsing as he tried to hold his own bile back. If Gemelo survived this, though, he’d be in—his own loyalty would never be in question with a performance like that. No one would believe a cop of any kind would participate in the torture and murder of a man just to protect his cover.

The door opened without warning and Fernando Garcia, Rafael, and Alejandro—whose last names Reese still hadn’t gotten—poured out, with Garcia pointedly closing the door behind them. They didn’t quite rush out, but something about the speed they exited with made Reese nervous.

A loud thud against the door made Reese and Angel both jump.

Reyes’ growled words were broken up by the door, but Reese definitely caught “fuck you” and “blood.” Apparently, Angel did as well, because he turned a slightly white-eyed glance towards him.

They aren’t really… Garcia began to mouth to Reese when a cry made it through the door. It grew quiet for several long minutes, soft sounds not penetrating the thick door. Despite that, the steady banging against the door and the rumble of Reyes’ voice dispelled any illusions as to what was going on. Reese envied Reyes’s other men and their ability to move far enough away from the door not to hear their boss fuck his lover through the door.

It didn’t last long before a sharp yell that was definitely more pain than pleasure from Gemelo made it through and was almost the end of Reese’s endurance. It was the end of Angel’s, who hurried over to a grate in the floor and tried to be sick as quietly as possible. Reese kept his focus on Angel, blocking out whatever could have been made out through the door. Whatever Reyes or Gemelo were saying, he doubted it was important at this point, and he didn’t want to join Angel over the grate.

Angel was just pulling himself together when the thud of a body slamming into another body sounded against the door, making both them and Reyes’s men startle. Right against the door, it wasn’t hard to hear the filthy, demeaning things Reyes said to Gemelo, the least of which was about tattooing Reyes’s name on his neck so everyone would know who he belonged to.

Reese held his breath for a moment before Gemelo’s reply, “Not today,” came in a surprisingly compliant tone. Reese breathed again, though the tightness in his chest didn’t go away. Gemelo hadn’t said “no,” just “not yet.” It could have just been to appease and delay Reyes, but some deeper instinct warned him against the simple explanation. He was beginning to seriously consider the possibility that Gemelo was in too deep, that he had succumbed to the world he was supposedly only undercover in. If that was true, Reese was in more danger than ever.

After a few minutes of silence, the door opened before Angel was fully back into position. Gemelo came through first, splattered in blood. His face and neck were streaked, as though someone with bloody hands had handled them, which was probably exactly what happened. Reese could see it in Gemelo’s hair as well.

Gemelo took in their positions and made a quick assessment. “Jesus, you should take Angel home,” he said, turning only his head a little as Reyes filled the door behind him. “You know Marianna will freak if he comes home looking like this.”

Gemelo’s voice held no judgment as Angel looked at the floor in abject shame, but Reyes’s black gaze was nowhere as forgiving. He narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak when Gemelo beat him to it.

“Jesus, he’s a kid. And this is his first one of these, right? He’ll toughen up—but not if he goes home to his mother looking like this. Take him back to your place and put him in the guest room for the night. Let him process. Not everyone has a stomach of steel first time out.”

Reyes’s large hand found a place on Gemelo’s neck, lifting his jaw and turning the smaller man fully towards him. “You will come home tonight.” It was not a question or a suggestion.

Reese would have expected someone like Gemelo to bristle at the blatant manhandling, especially in front of others, but either it was a particular kink of his, or his ego just wasn’t that fragile, because he was completely unfazed by the behavior. Reese’s stomach turned a little when he realized how the blood smears on Gemelo’s neck and face fit Reyes’s hand perfectly.

“Of course. But I’ll take care of that,” he waved in the general direction of the room, “first. Rico here can help me. He’s got enough mass on him. But I’ve got way too much blood on me to go straight home.” Reyes did not miss that Gemelo had called his place home, and a pleased light entered his eyes. “I’m assuming there’s somewhere around here I can get cleaned up at.”

Black, endless eyes locked on Reese, then moved behind him. “I’m leaving him in your care. Anything happens to him, I will be far less merciful with you than I was with the snitch.”

Gemelo snorted at that, but Reese heard Rafael say “Yes, sir,” and he hastily echoed it, bowing his head and accepting the honor and responsibility that was bestowed on him. Reyes nodded, satisfied, then took Gemelo’s face in both hands and lifted it for another deep and possessive kiss before letting him go.

“Angel!” he snapped, and his nephew jumped to attention as Reyes, Alejandro, and Garcia strode out of the basement. Angel threw a grateful look to Gemelo over his shoulder.

“Rafael, I’m assuming that there’s a farm up there somewhere we can dispose of the body in?” Gemelo said when they’d gone.

Reese turned and saw Rafael nod gravely.

“Can you go get it ready? Rico and I can, uh, finish loading the body into the barrel.”

Rafael gave them both a long, hard look, then nodded and went up the stairs.

They stood in silence for what must have been the better part of ten minutes before Gemelo moved, motioning Reese to stay where he was, and darted up the stairs. Nothing in the old cellar seemed to creak or make a sound as Gemelo moved around upstairs, and if he hadn’t been watching the stairway, Reese would not have heard him come back down.

“Okay, he’s long gone,” Gemelo said, only the barest trace of relief in his voice. As he passed under the naked bulb illuminating the hall, Reese noticed a livid bruise forming on the right side of his neck, which had been turned away from him before. He hissed in sympathy, reaching out to move the collar of Gemelo’s shirt and get a better look.

Gemelo had begun to move away from his reach before realizing where Reese was reaching. Then he made a face. “How bad is it?”

Surveying the damage turned Reese’s stomach again. The bite mark was bleeding from a dozen small wounds, and it would be perfect for taking a dental impression. The loose skin of the neck and lack of a bone where he had bitten had allowed Reyes to get a solid grip, resulting in the deep bruising inside and around the bite. “It’s bad,” he admitted, concerned by the blood streaks around it as well. “You probably need a full antibiotic and anti-retrovirus workup to make sure you don’t get anything. It looks like he got some of Jimenez’s blood in it.”

“Jimenez?” Gemelo asked, like he hadn’t known the snitch’s name. A hand caked in dried blood flakes reached up and felt around the edges of the wound, nearly giving Reese a fit. “I don’t need to worry about those,” he assured. Apparently seeing Reese’s expression, he added, “I have that weird gene that makes me immune.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“If I didn’t have it, trust me, I would have caught something by now.”

Deciding not to argue further, he turned his attention to the mostly closed door. “So,” he took a deep breath. “What are we going to do with Jimenez? Assuming you didn’t fake his death…”

Instead of answering, Gemelo cocked an eyebrow and pushed the door open with a shoulder. Jimenez was strung up by his arms and what was left of his legs, blood dripping from the straps. His intestines were spilled on the floor. His throat was slit so severely, it looked like his spine was the only thing keeping his head on. The smell wasn’t as bad as it could be. Although his guts had been spilled, none of the intestines had apparently been perforated. It was still an incredibly gruesome sight, but his stomach somehow handled the actual sight better than his imagination had. “So, exactly how do you plan to explain this to your boss?”

“I don’t,” Gemelo stated, walking past and bending to pick up a vicious-looking machete.

Annoyed, Reese asked, “Then how am I supposed to explain it to mine?”

Gemelo shrugged. “Don’t know. Really isn’t my problem,” he stated, simply swinging the machete to cut the straps down. Jimenez’s body collapsed in a dead weight mess, and the sound of it made Reese’s stomach churn again.

“You’re not really going to make this body disappear, are you?”

“Do we have a choice?” Gemelo asked.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you tortured and killed a man, and now you’re going to dispose of the body,” Reese replied coolly. “What the hell is wrong with you? Didn’t turning a man into that,” he gestured violently at the pile that used to be Adrian Jimenez, “bother you at all?”

While he had been talking, Gemelo had been moving around the room, inspecting it. “I didn’t torture or kill him. I don’t do torture,” he said.

“No? So you just stood there and watched will Reyes literally cut him to pieces?”

Squatting down next to the body, Gemelo began scooping intestines into his arms to carry it over to the barrel.

Oh God. Reese’s stomach lurched.

“Jesus wanted him dead. Nothing I could have done would have prevented that. You may want to hold your breath.”

Reese barely had time to wrap his head around the warning before one of Gemelo shifted the machete and severed the intestines from the body. The shit smell immediately filled in the room, and Reese gagged. Gemelo went back to the body, then without much hesitation—and far too much familiarity—sliced Jimenez’s remaining arm off at the elbow. That did it. Reese darted out of the room to lose his lunch in the same grate Angel had not that long ago. He wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed when he became aware of Gemelo leaning in the doorway.

“Are you done and can you help me, or should I finish this up myself?” Just the thought had Reese retching again. “That answers my question,” he commented, turning and walking back into the room.

Once his stomach was under control, Reese propped himself up against the wall, facing away from the doorway. He ignored the sounds of Gemelo cutting up the body, tried not to think about it. Time fuzzed, and he finally focused again when he realized he was being watched. Gemelo, an even bloodier mess than before, was leaning in the doorway again, watching him with fathomless purple eyes. “All the messy work is done. Think you can at least help me get the barrel up the stairs?”

“Did you have to cut him up?”

Gemelo raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he’d have fit if I didn’t?”

“You’re fucking insane.” Reese wasn’t certain where that had come from. He didn’t mean to say it, but he did think it.

“I know.”

“No, like a complete sociopath. People don’t just cut people up like it’s nothing, man! They don’t stand covered in blood like it’s normal! They certainly don’t fuck in a room with a corpse!” It rushed out without his permission, but Gemelo didn’t appear offended, or even embarrassed. If anything, he seemed resigned.

Gemelo sighed and said, “Keep your voice down unless you want Rafael to come back curious. Jimenez was just a corpse. It really isn’t much different than cutting up a ham or a beef. He doesn’t care. It isn’t hurting him. As for the sex…” He had the grace to wince about that. “It never occurred to me that Jesus might find me covered in blood a turn on. That was a kink I could seriously do without. But I really couldn’t tell him no without some serious repercussions.” He shrugged again, not exactly an apology, but acknowledging Reese’s own discomfort.

“You still cut that body up and are planning on making it disappear,” Reese accused.

No apology now. “Yes.”

“How do you justify that?”

Something in his eyes must have showed his distress, because Gemelo actually answered. “I don’t. But now he is dead, and he has to disappear.”

Reese stared. “And I know what you did. What are you going to do to me?”

Gemelo met his eyes squarely. “That depends on what you’re going to do. I’d really hate to explain that you got killed. And I’m more than capable of making someone else responsible for it. But you’re a good man and don’t deserve to end up that way. So the ball is in your court. What are you going to do?”

Reese thought he was going to be sick and apparently he looked it, because Gemelo—fucking five-foot-five Gemelo—went in and began to manhandle the barrel that held what had previously been Jimenez and moved toward the stairs. He stopped at the bottom, freezing when the door at the top opened and Rafael came down.

He made a face as he looked down into the barrel, then said to Reese, “Let’s get this upstairs.”

Gemelo watched him with curious eyes, silently asking him what he was going to do.

Reese stood and went to help them heave the barrel up the stairs. Unless they were willing to kill Rafael, really, what choice did they have?

Chapter Text

Duo sighed as he made his way to Jesus's room. It was nearing dawn and he was exhausted, physically and mentally. It took a lot of strength to cut up a body and then dispose of it, even if he had help. The cleanup was even worse and Duo was irritated that it had cost him his favorite boots, though he had to concede that having the torture chamber effectively be a kiln was a great way to destroy evidence. He barely had time to think about who Jimenez might have been and if he were as guilty as Jesus thought.

In addition, despite his apparent indifference, Duo had been extremely stressed about Anderson’s reaction to the kill. Things could get very hairy for him if Une realized how far he'd gone—and while Une might forgive him and consider it within the bounds of his cover, it was unlikely any other police force would.

Nodding to Alejandro standing guard, he opened the door to Jesus's room and stepped in. "Jes—" He was cut off abruptly as a grip like steel around his throat, yanking him off his feet. Then Shini was there, bright and burning rage, strength that wasn't human. He kicked a shin—hard—enough to make the man lower him enough to get his feet on the ground and flipped the shadow over his back. Once the arm was released, a blade was in his hands and he leaped onto his attacker, fixing the blade at the man's jugular. It took a moment for his mind to connect the person he was on with Jesus. When he did, Shinigami receded, and Duo sat back. Jesus started laughing in glee. "Want to explain what the fuck that was about?"

"Just wanted to make sure you were still sharp," Jesus replied. He reached up, and then they were grappling again, Jesus going for his neck and Duo trying to get out of his grip. They kicked and punched and grabbed, and Jesus ended up using his weight and size to pin Duo beneath him—giant hand wrapped around Duo's throat, not tightly, just holding. Unfortunately for him, Duo held his blade poised over Jesus's spine. It would only take a clench of a muscle to drive it in.

"You can't kill me before I kill you," Duo stated, detached. He knew, knew it was a bad sign that Jesus had a hand around his throat and could kill him as he pleased, and Duo didn't care. There was even a part of him that wanted Jesus to do it. To end him. Reaper, he was so tired.

He was only a little surprised when Jesus instead used his grip to tilt Duo's chin up and leaned down to take possession of his mouth. Duo let him dominate the kiss, waiting until Jesus's grip relaxed just a fraction to flip them over and shove the flat of his blade right under Jesus's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Now do you want to tell me what that was really about?"

Jesus laughed again, the deep belly laugh of someone deeply pleased. He reached up to move Duo's hand away from his throat, and Duo let him, waiting. He reached up to cup Duo's face again, but Duo raised his blade to block it, not willing to play Jesus's games right then. "My Gemelo," Jesus said. "No more. I promise." He moved the blade again and sat up, cupping Duo's face in his hand. "Your strength." His teeth flashed very white in the dim room and he rolled his hips, pushing his arousal against Duo's ass. "Knowing your strength, there is no greater turn on than to have you under me," he explained, rolling his hips again for emphasis.

Finally connecting the dots, Duo set the blade aside. It was his turn to tip Jesus's face up, and he ran his tongue across the thin stripe his blade had left across his lover's throat, stopping at his ear to whisper, "Let me make this perfectly clear to you, Jesus." He rolled his own hips back into Jesus's lap, teasing, feeling his own adrenaline bleed into arousal. "You can’t force me. You can’t make me do anything I don't want to do. I am with you, I submit to you, because I choose to," he whispered, hot and heavy against Jesus’s ear.

Jesus reached up to tangle his hand in the nape of Duo's braid, pulling him down for a searing kiss, turning them so that he was on top of Duo again, but slowly, allowing Duo to yield to him rather than trying to force him. In reward, when they broke off the kiss, Duo tilted his head back, fully exposing his throat. Jesus tugged at his hair to keep his head there and began an assault on his neck, sucking, licking, biting. The pain of the teeth and tongue against the already bruised throat wrung soft sounds from Duo.  All the while, Jesus pushed a knee up between Duo's legs and was rubbing it there, turning Duo on in spite of the pain. With his other hand, Jesus grabbed first one wrist, then the other and stretched them over Duo's head, pulling back to survey him. Duo could see the depth of Jesus's pleasure and lust in his eyes.

"Even now," he rumbled, his deep voice stroking Duo's arousal higher. "Even now, I hold you like this, and I believe that you could kill me before I could kill you. That you let me hold you like this..." He physically shuddered, but it was shudder of pleasure, and Duo could feel him swell further.

Despite still being a little sore from earlier, Duo rolled his own hips up, seeking more stimulation. "You can't fuck me like this. And I want you to fuck me." His voice was breathy, all of the racing emotions of the day catching up to him and sensing a viable outlet. He wasn’t a masochist, but Jesus’s strength and the illusion of being contained made his desire spike. With Jesus, he knew that he may die, but he wouldn't go down alone. It added a spice to their sex that he had never had with Heero. Heero had never been comfortable using his strength—his real strength—against Duo during sex.

Jesus stood, dragging Duo up with him. He released Duo long enough to literally tear the shirt from him, breaking the zipper on the hoodie and pulling his borrowed tanktop to pieces. As he did that, Duo quickly wriggled out of the borrowed jeans and shoes before fumbling Jesus's fly open. Jesus spun him around, pulling Duo's naked back tightly against his still-clothed front, then frog marched them to the bed, bending Duo at the waist, an arm sliding around his waist and clasping his throat. Duo could feel Jesus prod his entrance. He was still a little tender from their earlier coupling, but still slick too since Duo hadn't bothered to wash himself out internally. With a pleased groan, Jesus pulled himself back, then penetrated Duo without pausing.

Duo hissed, back bowing, and scratched at the bedding while Jesus used the grip on his throat to keep him from lunging away. He stayed still, letting Duo squirm as he adjusted. Duo let out a long breath and began to force himself to relax. He'd been more stressed and tight than he had thought, probably than either of them had thought, and he could have used some more traditional prep. Jesus stroked Duo's stomach, side, and chest with his free hand, nosing aside Duo's braid from his nape to suck, lick, and nip at his neck, his massive hand so large, only his nape was bare of Jesus's fingers. Finally, Duo felt the tension give, and let his head hang in Jesus's grip.

Jesus didn't ask if he was good now, taking Duo's body language at face value and beginning to move. The angle was exactly right to rub up against his prostate, which sent a full body shudder through him that Jesus loved. Proper prostate stimulation had a drug-like effect on Duo, and Jesus used it ruthlessly, having Duo begging in helpless gasps in less time than he'd like to admit. When he reached down to give himself the extra push he needed, Jesus grabbed his wrist, making it plain that Duo was going to come from his cock alone.

He whined, wanting to beg, knowing that it would do no good. Then Jesus pulled him upright, and he nearly screamed, fingers and nails scrambling for Jesus's arms and shoulders. Jesus had close to a foot on him in height, and when he fucked Duo like this, it forced him much deeper than any other position could. Jesus guided Duo's arms up and behind, to lock behind Jesus's own neck, a living necklace hung between his arms and pinned on his cock, his feet more than an inch off the floor.

When Jesus rolled his hips again and nailed Duo’s prostate, Duo's entire body weight compounded the thrust, and he convulsed so hard, he nearly lost his grip. Jesus did it again—how many times, Duo lost count. Then, almost without warning, his orgasm hit him, and he yelled as he tensed, clawing at both his own arms and Jesus, the intensity too much. Jesus turned and sat on the edge of the bed, still buried within Duo, but the different position moved him away from Duo's prostate as he finished himself off. Done, he pulled them both, Duo still on his half-hard cock, up to the middle of the bed and laid down. Jesus spooned him, stroking every inch of Duo he could seem to reach as Duo floated in a post-orgasmic haze. He pulled the blanket up over them before they cooled. As Duo came down, he realized that the bed had been turned down, waiting for them. He felt the fly of Jesus's jeans and began to move away.

"Sh..." Jesus hushed him, pulling him back.

"I'm not getting a fabric burn from your jeans on top of everything else," he warned, pulling away more insistently. "You want me to play cockwarmer, lose the clothing."

Chuckling, that deep, pleased chuckle that tickled Duo like a physical touch, Jesus acquiesced and stripped quickly. Once naked, he pulled Duo back to him, wasting no time in positioning his cock to reseat it within Duo. Since he had finally gone limp, it took some forcing—including another nudge to Duo's already oversensitized prostate, before he was settled. Jesus wasn't much of a grower, so even limp, he was well-endowed. Duo was definitely aware of him, though it wasn't painful. Jesus slid an arm under Duo's side and reached up to cradle Duo's neck, while the other hand rested just below Duo's navel.

Settled, Jesus let out a happy sigh. "The only thing that could make you more perfect would be if you could bear my children."

Duo would have yanked away if it weren't for the grip on his neck, uncomfortably aware that if he were a woman, Jesus's hand would be resting over his womb. Unable to move away without a fight he didn't have the energy for, instead he said, "You have a serious neck fetish."

In response, Jesus nuzzled his nape. "I still want to see my name tattooed on your neck."

"And what happens when you get bored of me in six months?"

Jesus bit him—hard—right under the ear, earning a yelp. "It will never happen. No one could compete with you. There will not be anyone else."

Well, that was news. He had wound his way into Jesus more deeply than he had thought.

Another thought occurred to him. "You told your guards you were going to jump me, didn't you?" With all the racket they had made, rolling around and fighting, his guards should have burst in some time ago. He got another bite on his neck, and hissed, "Knock it off. My neck is going to be black and blue for weeks, you vampire."

"If you would get my tattoo, I would not have to mark it so."

"Forgive me if I don't think that would stop you."

"Everyone needs to know you are taken."

"Everyone already knows."

"Even strangers on the street will know they cannot have you." He squeezed on Duo's neck, just a little, but it was enough to probably add another layer of bruising. Duo bruised easily in general—healed quickly too—so it didn't take much for them to show up to begin with. As Jesus had found, his neck was especially delicate, and he'd had nearly a perpetual necklace of bruises, hickeys, and bites since he'd first fallen into Jesus's bed. "My name, around your neck, Gemelo." He shuddered, and Duo felt him begin to harden within him. Fuck, Jesus was a horny bastard for being almost forty. He sighed into Duo's nape, a sound of arousal. "Seeing that," he let up his grip finally but his throat throbbed with the pain of a new bruise. "It would please me immensely."

Duo closed his eyes and sighed. "I'll think about it."

"You do that," he said, beginning to rolling his hips, getting fully hard. Duo sighed again, feeling his body stretch just a bit as Jesus got a little bigger, but more importantly, became unyielding within him. Something about being stretched by a lover definitely did it for him. Jesus rode him to another orgasm, helping him along with hands this time, though Duo was still not allowed to touch himself. He came on Duo's heels, emptying himself within Duo for the third time in one day. He wedged his hips as tightly to Duo's ass as possible when he was done, determined to stay within him even if he wasn't hard. Duo was too exhausted and felt too good to complain, falling into a deep, peaceful sleep as Jesus continued to cradle him.

Duo came awake slowly, a sign of the level of his exhaustion. He usually went from asleep to instantly awake. It was also an indicator of being around someone he trusted. No matter how exhausted, if he hadn't felt safe, he would have snapped awake.

It was probably not good that he felt safe with Jesus, especially after seeing him dismember a man. Duo knew he was heading down a rocky path because he could see himself in this life, at Jesus's side for real. It would be a short sidestep to put him on this path, to have made this his life. There was a part of him that wanted it—wanted to be answerable only to Jesus, wanted to be feared and respected. But multiple agencies already had their sights on Jesus and his people. If he flipped, if he became what Jesus already thought he was for real, could he avert it?

He knew he should not be having those thoughts.

He wanted to tell himself that there was a better life out there for him, a life on a positive path, even without Heero, but Duo wasn't sure he believed it. He wasn't sure that this life, with Jesus or someone like him, wasn't what he was made for. The violence, the kill was a part of him. Maybe a peaceful life would never be in his cards.

And maybe, if he were honest with himself to his core, he didn't want it to be.

He never wanted to be a victim again. He wanted always to be the one who fought back, who could stop the bad guys—keep them from making more victims. If he could do that permanently, all the better.

Jesus stroked his scalp, and the soothing motion was nearly enough to coax him back into sleep.

"You look like a wildcat clawed you." It was Fernando, and his tone bordered on angry. Duo jolted awake at that, because he hadn’t realized Fernando was in the room. When Jesus just laughed—that pleased chuckle—Fernando continued, "He's a wild animal, Jesus. Not a pet. It's only a matter of time before he turns on you."

Without warning, Jesus grabbed him by the throat and yanked him up. The blades were in his hands without conscious thought, and they were in their position of mutually assured destruction again. Fernando let out a frustrated yell, unable to go after Duo without risking Jesus.

"What say you, Gemelo? Are you a wild animal who will eventually turn on me?" Jesus's fingers dug in, constricting Duo's windpipe, and Shinigami rushed in like a wave. Duo grabbed at an extremely tender pressure point, and Jesus's hand released him. Then he was under Duo with knives crossed under his own throat. Fernando made another frustrated sound.

"I already told you: I'm with you because I choose to be." He’d pushed back Shini just enough to speak, but he could hear it echo in his voice. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. I wouldn't need to fuck you."

Jesus wasn't afraid—probably too much a sociopath to feel fear—but Duo could practically touch the terror and fury that Fernando all but vibrated with. Jesus just grinned up at him, waiting while Shinigami subsided more fully. Jesus had never reacted to Shini specifically, but he seemed… aware of it on some level. He sat up, pushing the knives aside despite Duo's solid weight on his stomach, and grabbed Duo's nape to pull him in for a vicious kiss, asserting his dominance. Duo let him, palming the blades.

When they broke, Duo had to catch his breath, and Jesus looked pleased again. "Go take a shower. As much as I like the smell of well-fucked on you, that's my privilege." With a final hard kiss, he let Duo go, and Duo climbed off him and out of bed, paying no mind to his nudity or the dried, flaky cum that decorated his backside and thighs.

Fernando made a sound of disgust as Duo went to the bathroom, and Duo knew another argument was coming. Where Jesus had felt he had made his point about Duo—and the safety of being with him—Fernando would take his willingness to use violence against Jesus as a red flag. Duo didn't want to listen to it. They weren't going to talk about anything business-related with him so close at hand, so he went straight to the shower to flip it on, then set the blades aside on the vanity.

While waiting for it to warm up, he examined himself in the mirror, checking his braid first to make sure he didn't need to wash his hair again after last night’s power washing. It was still damp from, but it looked like it had survived well enough. He grabbed a hair stick out of a cup he kept specifically for that reason and twisted the braid up, pinning it in place with the ease of long practice. Then he studied his neck.

He’d been strangled repeatedly, and it looked like it. Livid black marks—particularly dark where fingertips had pressed or bites had been taken—stood out in stark contrast to his pale skin. Spots of lighter blues and purples dotted at random, a few bites crusted with over from where they had broken the skin, dried blood flaking around others. The edges of some of the least severe ones were already turning yellow and green. "Fucking black Death on its black horse," Duo complained. Wearing anything to hide them would be out of the question. Jesus put them there to be seen—to show off that he controlled Duo and that Duo belonged to him. The fact that Duo allowed himself to be marked like this seriously stroked Jesus's ego.

He twisted his neck from side to side, stretching it and feeling for tenderness. Nothing cracked, nothing was out of whack or pulled. There was the dull throb of deep bruises, but it wasn't anything he would find particularly irritating or debilitating. The scab on the worst bite—right between his neck and his collarbone—broke open and oozed some clear fluid before being followed by bright blood. Duo hissed, annoyed, but glad the blood looked clean and normal, and the wound wasn't red or inflamed.

As steam billowed from the shower, he took a last glance over the rest of his body before grabbing the blades. His tattoos obscured any bruises on his upper arms, but his hips and thighs all had the round patterns of fingertip bruises, some with ghosts of fingers trailing, but nothing overly concerning. He sighed, slid one of the knives back into its home under his skin, and took the other with him into the shower. The heat and the pounding of the water would help his body circulate the dead blood pools faster.

The fucking tattoo might be worth it if it means I don't have to walk around looking like some choke-happy fuck.

Fernando glared fiercely at the bathroom door. "It's stupid and dangerous to fuck around with him, I don't care how good he is in the sack. One of these days, he's actually going to cut your throat."

Jesus sighed, a smitten sound that Fernando had never heard from him before, resting his chin on his clasped hands, elbows propped on his knees. It made him look like an oversized kid instead of the terrifying cartel lord he was. The problem was, Fernando wasn't sure that he was more dangerous than the man he was fucking. "There is no one else like him." Jesus's voice was fond and admiring. Fernando would not have believed he could talk like that a few months ago. "You should have seen him yesterday, Fer—"

“I don’t need the play-by-play,” Fernando interrupted, repressing a shudder.

Gemelo just didn't make sense to him. He wasn't the sociopath that Jesus was. Fernando wished he could be surprised that Gemelo covered in blood was a turn-on. He really wished he was surprised that Jesus would fuck someone with a corpse in the room, but he really wasn't. Gemelo hadn’t protested before conceding, but then had the presence of mind to tell Jesus not to be an asshole to his nephew. Despite being apparently unruffled by the sex, the killing, or the dead man, he didn't want Jesus to come down on Angel. He regularly attacked Jesus—at Jesus's provocation—but seemed unbothered by the violence of their sex. It had been impossible not to notice the bruises and bites decorating Gemelo. He showed no fear, even as Jesus had a death grip on his literal throat.

It was like the man had a death wish.

"At least tell me you're over this nonsense of him being a cop."

"No way he's a cop," Fernando conceded. Even if some crazy cop with a death wish would prostitute themselves for the job, the murder had been too damning. No agency would have condoned it.

The other thing that made him crazy was that when Gemelo had come onboard, he hadn't done anything to deliberately get himself noticed. He'd come to Jesus's notice by word of mouth at the Arena. The girly pretty-boy who could take down guys three times his size without batting an eye and flinch from Jesus in person.

Coming to a decision, he said, "I want to have a one-on-one with him. Just me and him. I need to talk to him without your big, scary ass hovering if I'm mean."

Jesus laughed. "I don't have to protect Gemelo. It's one of his many benefits."

"You still mark him up like crazy to tell people he's taken. I know he can handle himself. I don't plan on killing him. I just want to see if he's different when he's not around you. Once I talk to him, we can talk about maybe letting him into other parts of the business."

"How can I say no to that? Your people instincts have served me well over the years. You say you have to talk to him, take him out for a date, on my tab. Take him to Rapture. My table should be reserved. Just know that if you put a hand on him—" He began to straighten up, making himself larger.

"I'm not into men," he reminded, hands up defensively. "Pretty or no, I'm not interested."

Jesus settled back, curling back down. "I have to worry with him. He's so pretty, he'd turn a straight man's head."

"I don't think most men want someone that dangerous in their beds."

Again, Jesus laughed. "You should try it. It's exhilarating controlling someone so strong. It'll keep you young!"

"I'll take your word for it and pass." He heard the shower shut off and nodded to Jesus. "We'll talk business later. Let Gemelo know to meet me at Rapture at 7."

“He will be there."

Sitting with a raised view of the restaurant from his alcove, Fernando wasn't sure what he was expecting when Gemelo came in. The alcove was set off from the rest of the tables, specially reserved most nights, and isolated well enough that private discussions would remain private. Jesus owned Rapture, so there was little chance of it being bugged, but Fernando had checked anyway.

He saw Gemelo silhouetted in the doorway, saw him scan the floor, saw him find Fernando in instants. He didn't wait to be escorted, just wound his way through the floor—the tables set up to disrupt easy traffic—effortlessly. He bumped no one and moved like a shadow. Fernando could see heads turn only after Gemelo had long passed them, as if they had just felt the echo of something or he left a cold trail in his wake.

It was fucking creepy.

He was dressed in a black suit, the shirt a rich royal that made his purple eyes glow even at a distance. He had foregone a tie, the wings of his collar were unbuttoned, and enough of the top buttons undone to flash a bit of the tattoo across his collarbone. He neck was a mottled mess that made Fernando wince in sympathy. It was little wonder Gemelo didn't want anything close around his throat.

Gemelo came to a stop below the alcove and patiently waited for Fernando's acknowledgement, hands in pockets.

Fernando studied him for a moment, enjoying the tiny thrill having even this much power over Gemelo gave him. He could well imagine how much more of a high having him submit sexually could be. And he had to admit, even though he wasn't into men, Gemelo presented a very attractive picture. Fernando nodded him into the alcove, still assessing.

Jesus called Gemelo "pretty" often, but he really wasn't pretty. The hair framed his features in a way that made people think "feminine" and "pretty," but as Fernando studied only his face and not the framing, Gemelo wasn't pretty. He had high, sharp cheeks, a heart-shaped face, and eyes that seemed too big for it—all of which made him look younger than he was. But if it weren't for the hair softening his features, he would look exotic and austere, like a living sculpture. He was beautiful and striking, but he wasn't pretty. Pretty was plebeian. Nothing about Gemelo was plebeian. Despite himself, Fernando could certainly see why someone might go to great lengths to share a bed with him—men included.

"You wanted to see me?" Gemelo asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

Instead of answering, Fernando motioned to the menu that Gemelo had not touched. "Please, I prefer to conduct business in a civilized manner. We can talk once we've eaten."

Gemelo’s gaze lingered with a physical weight. Fernando couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have such focus in bed. It tickled a little arousal from him, just imagining it, which surprised him more than a little bit. Trying not to show his discomfort, he said, "I recommend the steak Diane. It's an old-fashioned dish, but it's done beautifully here. It's on Jesus, of course." It amused Jesus to serve old-time classic dishes at his restaurant instead of his cultural cuisine.

When Gemelo finally looked down at the menu, it was like Fernando could feel his eyes leave him. He only knew one other person whose eyes held such presence. The comparison to Jesus was not one he was entirely comfortable with.

Since he already knew the menu forward and back, Fernando only pretended to scan his own, watching Gemelo covertly. Purple eyes scanned the menu quickly, flicking up often to scan the room, a careful, assessing pass, missing nothing. Here, in the heart of Jesus's domain, he was without question at red alert.

"Twain," he said, using Gemelo’s rarely used name, but he didn’t get a response. "Gemelo,” he tried again, and those purple eyes snapped to attention on him. "Calm down. Rapture is Jesus's. You're in safe territory here."

Gemelo stared at him blankly for a moment, before blinking in apparent surprise. "Sorry. I didn't realize I was doing it." Even as he turned his attention with deliberation back to the menu, Fernando could see him watching the room from the corner of his eye.

Deciding that he was done pretending to read his menu, Fernando put it down. "I hadn't realized you had been a soldier," he commented neutrally.

Purple eyes slid back to him. "Not a traditional one," he replied, equally neutral.

"You must have been very young during the war."

Gemelo snorted and sat back, closing his own menu. "First, growing up a pretty kid on the streets of L2 was perfectly adequate to teach me to be very aware of what's around me. Second, you seem to think I'm a lot younger than I am. I was fifteen during the first Eve War." Fernando must have looked as surprised as he felt because Gemelo actually chuckled. "How old do you think I am?"

"I thought maybe twenty at a stretch—but I was hoping you were at least legal," he admitted.

"For the record, I'm twenty. Please tell me that your issue with me isn't that you thought Jesus was fucking a kid."

"It didn't help, certainly," Fernando conceded.

"If you had an issue with Jesus fucking a kid, your issue should have been with Jesus, not the—presumably—impressionable and mislead kid."

It was Fernando's turn to snort. "Even when I thought you might be underage, I never thought you were impressionable or mislead."

"Just psychotic."

Fernando made a so-so motion. "Less psychotic. More stupid. Psychotic came later. When he first took you to bed, I didn't think much of it. You weren't his normal type, but I thought you were pretty enough to be an exception. I thought you may be getting your rocks off by screwing such a dangerous man. It became clear quickly that nothing about the two of you was that simple. He treated you differently from the beginning. I admit, that made me uncomfortable." A waiter caught his eye before coming closer. Gemelo allowed the interruption while their orders were taken. He ordered the Steak Diane, as did Gemelo. He was a little surprised that Gemelo only asked for water.

"It's evening. You could have a drink," Fernando plied.

Gemelo shook his head. "No thanks. I don’t care for it. And if you tell me I just need to try it, I might have to do something drastic."

"It is an acquired taste."

"I've drank more than enough that if I haven't acquired it yet, I'm not going to. And I don't think you'll be surprised if I tell you that I don't like being drunk."

Fernando was not at all surprised that Gemelo disliked being out of control. Before sending the waiter away, he ordered a round of shots, earning a glare.

"I suppose you expect me to drink whatever you just ordered."

"Yes. It's the polite thing to do."

The waiter came back and placed a single shot glass in front of Fernando and four in front of Gemelo, complete with salt and a lime. Fernando thanked him and sent him swiftly away. Gemelo glared as Fernando salted his hand, took his shot, and downed it, licking the salt and biting the lime quickly, enjoying the burn. Gemelo didn't touch his.

"Are you just trying to get me drunk?"

"I figured it couldn't hurt to loosen you up some. Drink." It wasn't a request.

After being told that Gemelo didn't like to drink, Fernando hadn't been sure he was actually all that experienced with drinking. He was proven wrong as, with a final glare, Gemelo began pounding the shots back like a pro. He didn't cough on the high-end tequila, didn't howl at the burn, just finished off with the salt and the lime, and sat back, eyes flicking over the restaurant again.

"You did that well," he commented neutrally.

Gemelo's eyes slid back to him. "It still tastes like gasoline smells, but I've put worse things down my throat."

Fernando had been taking a drink of his water when Gemelo dropped that one on him, and almost choked on it. As he coughed to clear his throat, he caught the upward pull of Gemelo's grin. His timing on that comment hadn't been an accident. "Cute," he coughed out.

Unapologetic, Gemelo shrugged. "L2. Street rat. Just because I don't like something doesn't mean I can't down it."

It was Fernando's turn to glare. "How's that throat feeling?"

Instead of reaching up to soothe it as he would have expected, Gemelo simply arched an eyebrow. "Didn't know you cared."

"If you drop dead with your throat looking like that, it could cause us problems."

"It's sore. It'll heal." Gemelo reached for his own water and took a drink. Fernando didn't miss that he took smaller sips, as if large gulps would be uncomfortable. Their plates arrived before he could make another comment and they ate in silence. Gemelo did cut his meat up into child-size bites, but he still cleared his plate with alacrity, done well before Fernando was. But he wasn't uncomfortable waiting, apparently used to finishing his food early. He set his plate aside and turned most of his attention back to room. If the four shots on an empty stomach had any effect, it wasn't noticeable.

Fernando glanced down at Gemelo's plate before the waiter came to take it away. It had been nearly cleaned, virtually every scrape of mashed potatoes and sauce scoured from it. It lent credibility to Gemelo's claim of street rat. Taste wasn't important, but speed and quantity were. Maybe he savored food when he was more at ease, but it was possible he always ate like that. The surprise had been in how subtle he'd been in his speed. He hadn't looked ravenous, hadn't appeared to inhale his food, it had just quickly, efficiently been disposed of. Someone had taught him not to be a slob at some point.

"I'd ask if there's something on my face, but I know there's not," Gemelo interrupted his thoughts. Looking down at his own plate, which still had about a quarter of the food left on it, Fernando decided he was done and set it aside. Gemelo watched it with an odd look—disapproval?

“You have good manners for a self-proclaimed ‘street brat.’”

“Someone must have taken the time to teach me at some point,” Gemelo returned, then sighed. “Look, we’ve eaten, can we just get this over with? You can get whatever you want off your chest.”

Fernando appreciated the candor. “I don’t like you.”

Gemelo snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

A snort of his own escaped Fernando against his will before he forced himself to be serious again. “I don’t trust you,” he said.

“What’s not to trust?” Gemelo asked, curious.

“You are a stranger. You were a Preventer—”

“Who they took out of the field because I killed too much,” Gemelo pointed out. He eyed Fernando for a minute before he said, “You don’t think I’m going to kill Jesus, do you?”

“Are you telling me you won’t?”

“I have no intention of killing him.”

“Yet you hold knives to his throat.”

Gemelo pulled his collar down, as if the work of Jesus’s hands weren’t obvious above the cloth. “And I let him do this to me,” he said. He resettled the collar back into place. “If I were going to kill him for it, I would have done it by now.”

Fernando sighed. “I don’t understand you. I don’t understand what he sees in you, and I don’t understand what you see in him.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but Gemelo answered him anyway. “Maybe we’re just what our monsters need.” The purple eyes skipped away from Fernando to take another pass around the restaurant, before returning to him. “Why do you stay with him?” he asked.

“Because he’s my friend,” Fernando replied automatically. Gemelo raised his eyebrow like a parent waiting for the full details. “We have been best friends since we were children,” he repeated, because it was true.

“And that’s it?” Gemelo asked. “That’s the only reason you stay with him, help him in his… hobbies?”

Fernando wasn’t sure how Gemelo had turned the tables on him, but he didn’t appreciate him. “Have you ever had a friend you would do anything for?” he asked by way of replying.

Gemelo’s eyes clouded, and he looked away. “I get it,” he said.

“Do I need to protect Jesus from you?”

“No,” Gemelo said, soft and almost sad. “I don’t think you do.”

Fernando watched his eyes jump up to take the room in again, then asked, “Do I need to protect you from him?”

Gemelo’s gaze snapped back to Fernando so quickly, he thought it might hurt. Meeting Gemelo’s eyes felt like falling into a deep well, as if Gemelo could see inside his thoughts. Another long moment passed before Gemelo replied, “No. I don’t need your protection.”

Fernando nodded. “Good. Make sure it stays that way.” He coughed and cleared his throat, then asked the last question he had, the one that he rather wished he didn’t have to ask. “Why Jesus?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Gemelo shrugged. “I don’t know what you want.”

“Why Jesus? Why him? Why put up with all of that?” he asked, motioning toward Gemelo’s throat.

A hand raised, as if to stroke his neck, but stopped short of touching it. He shrugged again. “He wants me. Can’t that be reason enough?”

For the first time, Fernando felt pity for the young man who sat across from him. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the monster within him and Jesus were well-matched. Perhaps their broken parts just fit. Though Fernando loved Jesus as if they were blood, the violence he brought to his bed had always made Fernando uncomfortable. But if it satisfied some unspeakable need of Gemelo’s, perhaps they were a good match.

Fernando picked up his cup of water. “I suppose it can,” he said, then took a long drink. “I suppose it can.”

Chapter Text

Fernando seemed to back off since their conversation, so that was one less thing for Duo to worry about. Jesus was still being neurotically protective and possessive, which, at this point, Duo figured was probably going to be a permanent state-of-being as long as they were involved. Mildly irritating, but not enough to be worth starting a fight over.

It did mean that when he took a breather to go out and grab lunch from a few blocks over, he was required to bring Alejandro as a shadow. Since Duo wasn’t planning on doing anything that he needed to be alone for, that was technically fine, it just grated. Better Alejandro than Rafael, though. He made Rafael nervous, and having someone twitchy at his back always made Duo twitchy in response.

He was on his way back to the apartment, Alejandro at his side because he, at least, understood that Duo was going to deck him if he didn’t stop shadowing him, when he thought he caught a familiar profile.

“What’s wrong?” Alejandro asked when Duo stopped, jumping to attention, eyes scanning the typically crowded streets, looking for threats.

“It’s… nothing,” Duo said. The man was already gone, and Duo couldn’t chase him down with Alejandro with him. “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

Alejandro looked at him, curiosity in his eyes, but he didn’t ask. He was definitely of the “follow orders and leave the thinking to your betters” type of bodyguard, which had its advantages and disadvantages. While it made him preferable for things like this, Duo would take someone who would think for himself any day of the week.

“C’mon,” Duo said, trying to dismiss it from his mind. Even if he had seen who he thought, it wasn’t like he could go after him with Alejandro with him. He couldn’t contact him either, because he was in too deep to risk reaching out and making Jesus suspicious, or worse, jealous.

Alejandro stayed at red alert until they reached their building and were back behind its locked doors. Duo kept trying to tell himself it was his imagination, but he didn’t think so.

Why would Wufei be in New York?                              

The question still bothered Duo hours later as Jesus kissed his way down Duo's neck and shoulder. Even though he’d only caught sight of him a couple of blocks over, Duo was sure he it was Wufei. Something about the way he moved was just… it just had to be him. Except… What is Fei doing dirtside? And in the states? 

When Jesus bit down on an already painful bruise, Duo snapped out of his thoughts, pushing him away. "Jesus! Dammit. Stop that!" He reached up to feel the bite, wincing at the new tenderness of the wound. "Fucking hell, I'm not a chew toy." 

Unsurprisingly, Jesus was unapologetic as Duo got up, moving to the bathroom to check the damage in the mirror. "You were somewhere else. When you're with me, you should be with me." 

Duo checked the wound—Jesus had bitten hard enough to break the skin, again. The bruises were bad enough, a constant dull ache he’d grown used to over the past five months, but the bites bothered him. Blood oozed slowly from the new wound, and Duo hissed in irritation, flipping on the faucet. He ignored Jesus as he came up behind him, leaning over the sink and awkwardly angling his neck under the running water. "Human bite wounds are prone to infections. Open wounds on top of bruises are even more likely to get infected. Seriously, knock it the hell off," he lectured, watching as blood colored the water. He glanced up to send a dark look at Jesus in the mirror. 

"You haven't told me where you were."

"You haven't actually asked." Duo's anger left a biting edge on the words as he stood, washed his hands thoroughly, then took more soap to rub it on the wound gently. Even as he did so, Jesus's hands had begun wandering, and he took to kissing the other side of Duo's neck. On his way to truly angry, Duo shoved him back. "I'm serious. Fucking stop!"

In retrospect, he really should have expected Jesus's response to being denied. It was a sign of how out of it he was that he was surprised that Jesus grabbed his throat and used that grip to turn him around and bend him back over the sink. The edge of the counter dug painfully into his back, and the grip just tight enough that he was having to work to breath around it. 

"You do not tell me no."

Duo glared, neither impressed nor afraid. "Either fucking kill me or let me go," he gritted out painfully. "Because if I have to make you, I'm gonna break something."

Jesus tightened his grip fractionally, cutting off Duo's breath, as if considering it, before letting Duo go and stepping back. Duo bent forward and coughed, his throat now sore all around—even swallowing was going to fucking hurt now. Once he had his breath back, he turned back to the sink and bent over without a word, rinsing the soap from the wound and letting the clean water run over it for another minute in silence. Ignoring Jesus, he finished treating his wound, including running antiseptic over it, though if he were really honest, he probably didn't need it. He couldn't remember ever actually having an infection of any kind, but it would be a really stupid way to die. 

Treatment done, he turned and leaned against the sink ledge he'd just been bent over. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at Jesus, who frowned back.

"You don't tell me no," Jesus repeated, almost as if confused.

"I don't usually tell you no," Duo agreed. "That isn't the same as I can't tell you no. We've talked about this. I am with you because I chose to be. You can't force me. You can't make me. That means that I have the power to tell you no. Just because I don't do it often doesn't mean I can't."

"You're mine."

Duo sighed, reaching up to squeeze the bridge of his nose. "Because I chose to be. If you keep treating me like a rag doll or a chew toy, don't be surprised if I leave."

Instantly, he was being crowed against the sink again, Jesus looming, arms bracketing him. Duo had nowhere to go, so he glared up. "Back the fuck off."

"You are not leaving me."

"You get a grip on yourself, or I'm not staying. Now back. Up."

Jesus couldn't get to his throat with Duo's arm still in the way, so instead, he took Duo's chin in hand and tilted his head back so he could stare directly down at him. "You are mine until I decide," he stated firmly. "You can go when I get bored, or I will kill you."

"Just try it," Duo ground out, Shinigami filling him, pulsing within him, his muscles tensing, wanting to strike out. Shinigami's song sang sweetly, like a lullaby. Kill him, it seemed to whisper. He pushed it back just enough to say, "I bet I kill you first."

Duo watched closely as Jesus's pupils dilated further. Shinigami's song thrummed. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Jesus let go and stepped back. Duo pushed Shinigami down, and it took more effort than he expected. It wanted a kill and waited just below the surface. Not a great sign.

Running his hands over his face, Duo sighed, then pushed away from the counter, walking past Jesus as if he weren't there. He could feel Jesus follow behind him, but at a respectable distance for a change. He didn't usually have much sense of personal space, which didn't usually bother him. Right at that moment, though, he did not want to be touched. He wasn't sure what he would do if he was. 

"Where are you going?" Jesus asked as Duo went for the knife sheaths he had set aside while getting ready for bed. 

"Out." Hopefully somewhere he could meditate properly and quiet Shinigami. It had pushed forward with Jesus's challenge. A kill would settle it best, but Duo didn't have anyone in his immediate crosshairs, so meditation it was. 

As he finished setting the sheaths to rights, Duo realized he should leave the knives. Bringing them was almost like hoping he'd need them. It wasn't like he was truly unarmed regardless. He paused before reaching for his shirt, but he couldn't bring himself to take them off. He'd sooner walk out of the building without his pants than he would without the blades. 

Instead, he went to the closet to pull out a long-sleeved shirt and put it on. He could feel Jesus's eyes tracking him, but ignored him, instead digging a beautiful black cashmere scarf out from a corner. It was Jesus's, not Duo's, but Duo had noticed it when he had moved his things in. It was plenty cold enough out to warrant the scarf, and it was soft enough not to aggravate his neck. Even so, he wrapped it loosely.

Apparently seeing Duo covering up his marks was too much for Jesus, because he was back in Duo's space, reaching for the scarf. "Don't cover them—people need to know you're taken."

Without warning, irritation took a sharp turn into anger as Duo dodged him. "Since you don't seem to get it, let me explain this to you in very small words." Shini was like a storm under his skin, even the tips of his fingers tingled, but he needed to say this so he shoved it down. "I don't look like I'm taken, I look like I'm being beaten. I don't know how you interpret all the looks I get from showing off your marks." The sarcasm was thick on the word. "But most of what I get is fear, pity, or disgust. I don't want the extra attention tonight."

Jesus frowned, but to his credit, he hadn't tried to get in Duo's space again. "I thought you would be proud to show them off."

Duo fought down the urge to yell or hit something. Knowing that not all social conventions seemed to compute for Jesus wasn't always the same as running headfirst into one of those disconnects. Jesus was proud of having him, wanted to show him off, wanted to claim him. It was stupid, caveman brain thinking, but he thought Duo would be as proud to be "owned," as it were, as Jesus was to "own" him. 

He took a long, deep breath, and wished Jesus could feel the throb in his throat even that simple action garnered. "There are other, less destructive ways of showing I'm taken. I'm not proud of looking like a beaten wife."

Jesus would have the audacity to look offended by that. "I have never struck you!" Indignation was written large on his face.

Duo was in no mood to coddle his ego as he sat and pulled his boots back on. "No, you just strangle and bite and bruise me. Do you really not see..." He trailed off. From Jesus's face, it was clear that he didn't see the connection. He pinched the bridge of his nose again and counted to ten in three different languages before he spoke again. "I can't have this conversation right now. I'm going out." He raised a hand to stall the protest he knew was coming. "I will be back. But if I don't leave for a while, one of us is going to do something permanent and unfortunate."

When he looked up, Jesus's face was blank. To his irritation, Duo realized that he knew Jesus well enough to recognize the tension held in his neck and the way he held his shoulders back just a bit more than normal. He was not happy—though whether with himself, Duo, or the situation in general, he couldn't tell.

"Take Rafael with you, at least," he said after a moment.

Duo rolled his eyes. "I don't need a babysitter, least of all yours. Besides, he won't be able to keep up."

"Take him anyway. I don't want you out there alone."

Now Duo just wanted to bang his head against the wall. "You know that I'm pretty much the most dangerous thing out there, right?"

Jesus walked into his space with deliberation. He began to reach for Duo's face, but something in Duo's eyes must have warned him off, because he instead settled his hand on Duo's waist. Just being that close to Duo forced him to crane his neck up to look Jesus in the face anyway. Even as Jesus slipped a thumb under the edge of Duo's shirt to stroke his skin, the storm inside Duo raged. Normally, the almost-tender touch was soothing. Today, it seemed the spark to ignite the fire. 

"Let. Go." Each word spoken thrummed like a war drum in his veins. 

Jesus released him and stepped back, as if he had decided to let Duo go. "Take Rafael." It wasn't a request.

Eyes narrowed, Duo kept his sight locked on Jesus as he backed up to the balcony door, opened the door, and continued backward onto the balcony itself. With Shini roaring, barely contained by his skin, it was almost laughably easy to put his hand on the rail and leap onto it blindly, leaving him balanced crouching on the thin bar. Jesus suddenly looked torn between staring at him and wanting to reach for him.

When he smirked and pushed off, wildly launching himself, Jesus scrambled to reach for him. He was too fast and had jumped past Jesus’s reach anyway. Duo knew the building well, and despite the blind takeoff, flipped and spotted his landing on the fire escape of the building across the alley. With Shinigami riding so high, he didn't even need to roll to disperse the force of it, and Duo enjoyed a little thrill of pleasure, knowing the dramatic impact that leap had left. He stood on the railing he landed on, gave Jesus a cocky salute, then began to rapidly work his way down the fire escape. He thought he saw Jesus open his mouth to call for him, but Duo he couldn't hear anything. Too high, he realized. Sound always went first when Shini rode him hard, but color was already bleeding from the world as well. He said nothing as he dropped multiple floors, then tossed a blade ahead of him, making a foothold in the side of the building—a pathway above the streets.

He moved, near flew. He let Shini loose and would see where he ended up. 

Wufei would never tell Maxwell, but to Wufei's qi sense, Maxwell had always been a beacon. All of the pilots had unique qis that he could track in crowds of thousands. But Maxwell shined in a way that was fundamentally different from anyone Wufei had ever met in his life. It was so bright that even in a city of millions, Wufei could sense him. This handy ability meant that whenever Maxwell decided to run and hide, Wufei could find him. 

He was only in New York for a few days, but Sally had told him that he should go see Maxwell immediately. He had heard, of course, about the heated—and very public—fight Duo and Une had. Maxwell had not come back, leaving no forwarding address, no information on where he was going, no way to contact him. Wufei was relieved when he visited Sally in at a New York conference, she’d been adamant that he give up some of their precious time together to tell him to go hunting a Maxwell. 

Even with Maxwell's beacon being comparatively muted since Yuy’s accident, it didn't take Wufei long to locate him—though he was surprised to find himself standing across the street from a luxury apartment building. 

The doorman was attentive. Wufei was unlikely to talk his way in without something more elaborate than "I used to be a Preventer," and no right to demand entrance. He thought he had caught sight of Maxwell earlier, but he had no idea what apartment to even have the doorman call up to.

So he watched and felt. And worried. 

Maxwell's qi was erratic—which wasn't entirely unusual—but the intervals at which it was spiking and dimming were alarming. Wufei recognized the effect. 

Shinigami—as Maxwell called it.

He hadn't experienced it often. He and Maxwell just hadn't worked together much during the war, and then they only did a few odd missions together once they both ended up with the Preventers. It wasn't that they didn't work well together—they actually made a surprisingly good team—but it was nothing compared to the way that Yuy and Maxwell worked. Wufei had seen a lot of partners in a lot of contexts since then, and no one came near their pure synergy. They could—and did—clash on occasion, but after a couple missions during the war, they had clicked and never seemed to look back. They were less like they were individuals, and more like two parts of a whole.

In light of that, Wufei wasn’t surprised by Maxwell's out-of-control spin after losing Yuy. He didn't know why anyone had been. Their friends seemed to think that no matter the circumstances, Heero choosing to leave had somehow been less terrible than him dying. 

Wufei knew better. He had seen them together too much, seen in that way that he'd been told was impossible growing up. Yuy hadn’t just lost everything that tethered him to Maxwell, he'd lost everything, period. He'd been a blank slate. 

Maxwell had been a gaping wound.  He had something inside him that sought to fill it. Something that he called Shinigami, but Wufei had no name for. He just knew that when that thing surfaced, Maxwell dimmed. Most people who knew of Shinigami assumed it was some sort of split personality at worst, extreme compartmentalization at best. After all, there were few that ever saw it in person and lived to relate the experience. Wufei had seen it, had looked in Maxwell's eyes and seen something else look back.

He wished he asked Yuy about it. Surely there was no one more familiar with that thing that hid within Maxwell than Yuy had been. He wondered if Yuy thought it was just a part of Duo or had known it was something else.

He'd never find out now. 

Maxwell's beacon winked out. Wufei was so startled, he just stared at the apartment he’d traced Maxwell to, frozen between running toward it to find his friend and—

—There it was. He barely caught the shadow out of the corner of his eye—thankfully he'd been looking up. But he knew that movement. 

Able to breathe now that he realized Duo wasn't dead—at least he didn't think he was if he was running around—he took off in Maxwell's direction. 

He had to work to keep up. Maxwell had always been the fastest of them, and he was never faster than when Shinigami—whatever it was—manifested. 

Knives thudded into sides of buildings just ahead of enormous leaps to become hand or footholds before being pulled up behind him. It would have been impossible with any other metal, but gundanium cut through most things like a hot knife through butter. Stone and concrete may as well have been cake for the resistance they put up.

A cry up ahead drew his attention, and Wufei put on more speed, doing his best to keep Maxwell in his sights. They headed rapidly into parts of town that were bad to be in alone at night, and Shinigami almost certainly sought a kill. 

He turned the corner just in time to see Maxwell come down on a man attacking a woman like a living shadow. A solid kick felled the man, and Maxwell landed lightly a half-step away. The terrified woman took the opening to flee, not wasting a backward glance at Maxwell, her attacker, or even Wufei. 

The thug groaned and began to get to his feet. Before he could stand, Maxwell's hand flashed out, and the distinct crunch of a shoulder being dislocated, followed quickly by the man's scream spurred Wufei down the alley. 

"Let him go!" he demanded. He was almost surprised when Maxwell actually did. The thug groaned again as Wufei approached.

"What the fuck, man!" the man yelled as Wufei helped him to his feet. He felt around the shoulder, ignoring his yelps and curses. In the dark, it was hard to tell, but it seemed about as clean a dislocation as he was likely to get. Continuing to ignore the man’s complaints, Wufei manhandled him until he was able to relocate the shoulder. 

Over the man's curses, Wufei told him, "You'll want to go to a hospital to have that checked. And consider it a warning about assaulting innocent people."

Still sputtering curses, the thug didn't stick around, leaving Maxwell and Wufei alone in the alley. He caught a good look at Maxwell's face as a car's headlights lit it up. Whatever looked at him from behind those almost black eyes was not Maxwell. At least this close, he could just barely sense Maxwell. He hadn't been smothered completely. 

Maxwell said nothing. Even if Wufei hadn't seen what he had, he would have known he wasn't dealing with his friend. Maxwell would never have been silent so long. 

"It's not like you to inflict pain wantonly," Wufei stated, breaking the silence. 

Like a wave crashing into the shore, Maxwell's qi roared back into life. It was still dim compared to what it had been a year and a half ago, still battered and less in some indefinable way, but at least it was Maxwell he was dealing with again. "Fei?" Maxwell asked.

"Dislocating a dumb thug's shoulder?" Wufei asked. It was hard to tell in the darkness of the alley, but Maxwell's posture slumped a little. "I never knew you cause pain for pain's sake."

Maxwell sighed. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but now is not a great time." Wufei frowned—Maxwell sounded hoarse.

"And if I leave, will you kill the next thug you run across?" Maxwell crossed his arms and looked away. Answer enough. "Come. I'm not running around New York City alone at night for my health when I could be with my girlfriend. And she didn't tell me to come see you because she thought everything was good."

"You heard about Une?"

"I did."

"Not much else to tell."

"I disagree. Come." He turned toward the entrance of the alley and extended a hand in invitation. 

Maxwell was still for a moment before sighing again and following him, though he was uncharacteristically careful to keep out of arm's reach. He had been noticeably keeping people at arm's length since Yuy had left, but this was extreme by his standards. 

They weren't far from Central Park, so Wufei detoured them that way. While he wouldn't call their path well-lit, it was far better than the darkness of the alley, and Wufei took the opportunity to study Maxwell out of the corner of his eye. 

There was a tenseness in him that spoke of being on high alert, though Wufei could think of nothing to trigger it. It was hard to be sure through clothing suited for the cool evening weather, but he thought Maxwell was thinner too—though Wufei had no clue where it could have been lost from. Maxwell always been thin edging on scrawny.

They had been walking for what was surely more than fifteen minutes without Maxwell saying a word. Once, he wouldn't have believed it possible for Maxwell to go that long without opening his mouth. 

Since Maxwell wasn't going to volunteer anything, it fell to Wufei to start the conversation. "Sally said she thought you were seeing someone?" She'd been cagey as hell when speaking about it, which made Wufei wonder if it was something to do with an assignment. She was, after all, the only one who seemed to even know where Maxwell was. He wouldn't have thought that Une would send Maxwell on an assignment that required that sort of commitment, not in a time of peace. Then again, Sally wouldn't say anything specific about Une and Maxwell's fight, either. She insisted she hadn't been there and Une wasn't talking about it. Details on it were sparse, but what sources he had said that there had been a lot of angry-sounding voices through the door—Une and Maxwell were both too circumspect to be yelling at levels that would be easily overheard—and it had culminated with Maxwell walking out without his badge or his gun. He hadn't set foot back in the building since. Wufei may have thought the fight staged except for how worried Sally was and the fact Maxwell had gone dark on all of the remaining pilots.

Maxwell raised a sardonic eyebrow raised. "It’s been a year."

A year since Yuy told them he was done, that he had no interest in his old life. Wufei would bet that Maxwell knew the number of days, and silently cursed his girlfriend for being so closed mouthed. Something about whatever happened and whoever Maxwell was seeing had set her on edge. In other circumstances, Wufei might have thought that Maxwell seeing someone was a good sign. Given the way he was acting, it was not. 

"So?" he prompted, sitting on a bench under a light and turning to face Maxwell so he could watch him more closely. Maxwell narrowed his eyes, seeming to realize it. He huffed and plopped heavily on the other end of the bench, twisted to face Wufei.

"Sew buttons on your underwear. Why do you care?"

Wufei gave him his best disapproving look at the flippancy, and Maxwell had the grace to glance away. "I am your friend, and it's only been a year since you went through a terrible trauma. Because I'm you're a friend, I'm concerned about you jumping into something so soon."

"You mean Sally is concerned."

Wufei inclined his head in acknowledgement. "We both are."

Maxwell went silent again. Wufei never would have believed it would be more irritating that his usual verbosity. But it was worrying on another level—Maxwell owned up to his choices and decisions. If he was involved with someone, why was he reluctant to speak of it? Unless... maybe it really was an assignment and he couldn't speak freely? 

Wufei tried a different tact. "Tell me about him."

Maxwell barked out a laugh that turned into a harsh and hoarse cough. His hand went to the scarf at his throat but shied from actually touching it. Wufei moved forward, intending to pat Maxwell's back, only to have his hand sharply knocked away. 

When Maxwell sat back up, Wufei stared in concern. "Are you ill?" he asked, the question fundamentally wrong on a level he couldn't explain. Maxwell never got sick. Ever. By his own account, he's survived three plagues without so much as a sniffle. 

Maxwell shook his head. "Nothing to worry about." His hand inched toward his scarf again but didn't touch it. Getting tired of the Maxwell trademarked evasions, Wufei reached out and pulled the scarf aside. It was so loosely draped around Maxwell's neck that even the small hold he was able to grasp removed the scarf entirely. Maxwell grabbed it back quickly, but it was too late.

"Oh, Duo..."

Maxwell's neck was a mosaic of bruises and what looked like bites in various stages of healing—everything from the fresh red unmistakable handprint circling just under his chin to the thumb's imprint clear just under his ear. Darker blue and purple handprints were all but stacked up from the base of his neck, fading as they got lower as if someone had been deliberate in not overlapping where they grabbed. Darker circles dotted here and there, a few edges peeking out from under his shirt. Small wonder he was so hoarse. The force required to leave such distinctive bruises had certainly caused internal damage as well. Those weren’t the marks of a one-time fling—those were the signs of repeated, intentional abuse.

Maxwell rewrapped the scarf quickly, not looking at Wufei. "Looks worse than it is."

Part of Wufei wanted to yell, to be angry at Maxwell. Part of him ached to drive his sword through the man who had done this. Those feelings were distant compared to the sense of failure that welled within him. How had they all missed this? 

"The only way it would be worse was if it had put you in the hospital,” he said softly, not daring to condemn Maxwell for how he had decided to cope, no matter how horrifying he found it. Instead, he said, “You would kill anyone who had left that kind of damage on any of us. Why is it acceptable for you to bear it?" Maxwell didn't answer and didn't look at him. Wufei sighed. "How long are you going to let this bastard be your instrument of self-flagellation? Are you going to let him do this until he kills you?" he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

It finally earned a response, Maxwell whipping around to stare at him. "It's not—"

"What happened to Yuy is not your fault, Duo." 

Maxwell flinched as though he'd been punched, and turned his attention to his hands again. His raspy reply—more hoarse after his coughing fit—was so soft Wufei almost missed it. "Isn't it?"

Oh, my friend, Wufei thought, his chest tight with sympathy. "Was it not you who helped me to come to terms with my wife's death? With my colony's sacrifice? If those tragedies were not my fault, then certainly Yuy's is not yours." He wanted to touch Maxwell again, but something about his qi still wasn't right, and he didn't want to risk Maxwell physically rebuffing him when he was trying to get him to open up emotionally. "Why are you to blame when I am not?"

Maxwell was silent for a long moment when his qi blinked out like a snuffed candle. It was so abrupt and unexpected, Wufei gasped in surprise. Just as quickly, Maxwell's qi reemerged, like a candle that hadn't been fully doused rising again. Maxwell was watching him with intent eyes now. "That's why," he said simply. 

Wufei frowned at him. "I didn't realize—"

"That I know you're a Newtype?" He actually chuckled at the face Wufei made, and it loosened something in his chest to know that Maxwell could still laugh. 

"I don't like that term," Wufei admitted.

“Is ‘enhanced’ any better?”

"No,” Wufei said curtly. “And that isn't actually an answer—that disappearing act."

"Disappearing act?"

"I know that's what you call Shinigami, but when it is out, you disappear."

Maxwell blinked at him. "Huh. That's interesting."

"Is that not what happens?"

"It's more like it fills me." He opened his hands and looked down at them, his qi dimming, so Wufei assumed he was embracing whatever that thing was. After a moment, he brightened again, and Maxwell closed his hands. "And it doesn't share."

It was unnerving, how quickly and readily his qi spiked and dimmed. Wufei had encountered Shinigami before, but never had he seen it so close at hand in a situation where a threat wasn't immediate and dire. He didn't like it. 

Wufei took one of Maxwell's fists in his hands. It was like holding an ice cube, far colder than the weather alone would account for, but he held it, willing his own warmth into it, relieved when Maxwell didn’t snatch it back. He waited until Maxwell looked at him to speak. "Even if that were true—and I'm not convinced it is," he hurried to assure, "it would not be your fault." He raised one of his hands to pull gently down at the side of Maxwell’s scarf. The damage may actually be worse than he thought on a second inspection. He forced himself to swallow his fury; it wasn’t what he needed right then. "Please promise me you will stop this. You would never let anyone treat any of us this way. Do not hold yourself to a lesser standard."

"Not just demanding I stop seeing him?" There was curiosity there, and a hint of his old playfulness. 

"I know better than to make such demands. I wish you would, though. A man who would treat you this way is not worthy of you."

Maxwell sighed, then quirked a smile, though it was a shadow of his old ones. "Think Sally is willing to share you?" His qi brightened a bit more with the teasing, and Wufei returned the smile, reaching around and taking Maxwell's shoulder to gently pull him into a hug. After a moment, the tension went out of Maxwell's frame and he wrapped his arms around Wufei's waist, returning the embrace fiercely. 

"Even if you have left Preventers, you have not lost us. Please do not forget that," Wufei murmured into his hair, giving a last squeeze before letting him go.

"Thanks, Fei. I needed this." His qi reflected the sincerity of the statement. 

A man had been coming up on them for a bit, but Wufei was surprised when he stopped and cleared his throat. Maxwell rolled his eyes without turning around. 

"I know, I know. I'm coming," he said. He got up, but Wufei grabbed his wrist. 

"Is that him?" He didn't think so, too deferential, but there was a chance. 

"No, he just works for him."

"You don't have to go back. You know you always have a place with Sally, and with me."

The smile he got in return soothed his concern a bit. "I know that. And I appreciate the offer. But I'm not ready to walk away just yet. Trust me to know what I'm doing, okay?"

Reluctantly, Wufei released his wrist. "Trust you?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow. He could hear the amusement in his own voice. "Famous last words, Maxwell."

"I know, I know." He was still smiling as he began walking toward his silent sentry. 

"Maxwell!" He waited for Maxwell to turn and face him before, he said, "If you're still with him, I want to meet him next time. I have some words I'd like to share with him."

Maxwell's grin grew. "I'm sure you do." He turned away again, but Wufei was hesitant to let him out of sight.

"And, Maxwell?" Maxwell turned, but kept walking backward this time. "If he ever leaves another mark on you like that, I'm going to put him in the ground."

The manic grin softened. "Big boy, here. I can make sure he won't do it again."

"But will you?"

"Promise."

"Promise what?" Wufei knew better than to take "promise" at face value without any qualifiers.

Maxwell laughed, though it was restrained in deference to his throat. "I promise I won't let it happen again. Go home and see your girlfriend. And put a fucking ring on it!  Don't make my mistake and assume there's time. We, of all people, should know better."

As Maxwell turned away, qi burning brighter still, Wufei thought that sounded like a very good idea. 

Gemelo was humming. And smiling. It would be charming if it didn't contrast so strongly with every impression Rafael had ever had of him. 

"Who was that?" He didn't really have a right to demand anything of Gemelo, but he did not like how Gemelo had been cozied up with the man, and he didn't like how happy Gemelo seemed.

"Just a friend." Rafael's thought must have shown on his face, because Gemelo gave him a grin. "Really. Just a friend. I know this may come as a surprise to you, but I had a life before I met Jesus. That includes friends." He had walked ahead of Rafael and was walking backward, facing him.

"Be glad that Jesus didn't see that."

"Pft." Gemelo blew his bangs up and rolled his eyes. "As if Jesus would be caught dead chasing me in such a blatant way. Not him M.O. Though, it does remind me—how'd you find me anyway? No way you kept up."

Rafael frowned. Gemelo was much dimmer than usual, and it itched at him like a physical sensation. Those keen purple eyes were watching him, paying no mind to where he was walking, but effortlessly avoiding every potential pitfall in his path. His face brightened with understanding. 

"Ahh... you have it too. You can sense me?" He paused, considering, then a darker grin spread across his lips. "No. You're the opposite. It isn't me, you sense... it's Shinigami."

Rafael did not know what that meant, but he wasn’t going to confirm or deny anything. 

"No wonder I get under your skin so bad. Aren’t you in the wrong business for someone who can sense Death so clearly?" The manic grin faded a bit, and a sadness entered Gemelo's eyes. "Guess it doesn't matter. How angry was he when I left?" He turned on heel and began walking forward so Rafael only had his back to look at. 

"He... was confused, I think," Rafael admitted, thinking about it.

"Oh?" He glanced back over his shoulder. 

"Jesus likes puzzles. You are a puzzle."

Gemelo chuckled, until he was stopped in his tracks when the laughter became a cough. Rafael reached out to support him, but Gemelo waved him off, staying still until the coughing fit passed. When he straightened, he said, “I’m okay. Just… need Jesus to stop choking me all the damn time.”

Rafael backed off just enough to be out of Gemelo’s space without being really out of arm’s reach. “Will you really make him stop?”

“I promised I would, didn’t I?”

“You did, but I don’t know if you can keep it.”

A huge yawn caught Gemelo off guard, and he swayed with the force of it. Rafael took his elbow to keep him from falling over.

“Sorry,” he said through another yawn. “Just… really tired… all of a sudden.”

“Come,” Rafael said, using the grip on Gemelo’s elbow to steer him toward one of the main streets. “You’re in no shape to walk back to the apartment. Let’s catch a cab.”

Gemelo opened his mouth again, probably to protest, but all that came out was another jaw-cracking yawn. “Okay,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “You win.”

Rafael sighed with relief. “Come,” he said. “You can sleep when you get home.”

“M’kay,” Gemelo said, swaying again, forcing Rafael to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from falling. Gemelo leaned heavily against him, but despite being so close, Rafael could barely sense him.

“Let’s get you back to Jesus,” Rafael muttered, half dragging his boss’s suddenly exhausted lover with him, hoping it wasn’t so late that a cab wouldn’t stop for them.

Chapter Text

After returning home from meeting Wufei, Duo put forth an ultimatum to Jesus: if he wanted Duo to get his name tattooed on his neck, he had to let Duo’s neck heal entirely and stay unmarked for a week. That meant no hickeys, no bites, no bruises. It had taken more than six months, but Jesus had finally allowed Duo’s neck to heal long enough that he could get the tattoo. He’d come close a number of times, even close enough to schedule the appointment twice, before he slipped up and got overenthusiastic. Even with as quickly as Duo healed, Jesus’s self-control seemed absent when it came to Duo, especially in the heat of the moment.

Honestly, Duo had mostly hoped it would get Jesus to just stop marking him so badly. He hadn’t really expected Jesus to manage to stop.

But he’d made the deal, so he had to hold up his own end.

They arrived at one of the most well-known shops in the city hours before it opened. Duo wasn’t surprised by the special accommodation. The tattoo artist was probably asked by a friend of a friend for this favor, and he was sure that Jesus would pay well for it. Duo appreciated that if he was going to get ink on his neck, it was going to be from someone of serious reputation. Abby, his tattoo artist back in Brussels, was one of the best in all of Europe, and Duo took his artwork seriously. If he was going to put something on him permanently, he wanted the best.

Fortunately, Jesus had exacting standards himself, so Duo didn’t have to argue the point.

“Good morning,” the tattoo artist said as he let them in. “I was just finishing up the seat right now. Twain, right?” he asked Duo, holding out his hand. “I’m Edge, and I’ll be the one doing your tattoo today.”

“Call me Gemelo,” Duo said, taking his hand. He wasn’t used to hearing his alias anymore since literally no one had called him anything other than Gemelo since his first few months after joining. He didn’t think most of Jesus’s men even realized that he had another name. It was a surprise that the appointment was under it.

“Thank you for making the accommodation for us,” Jesus said, every trace of his Spanish accent vanishing as if upper class were the only accent he spoke with. It was a neat trick that always threw Duo a little bit for a loop.

Edge crossed his arms and smiled. He was bald, but he had an animated, open face. Nearly every bit of what would normally be skin was covered in layers of tattoos, save for his face. His ears weren’t stretched, but he probably had at least a dozen rings in each one, and a triangle of diamond surface piercings under one eye. “We make exceptions when they’re needed,” he said, easy and not at all afraid. If he had any idea who Jesus was, he didn’t show it.

“Still, it is appreciated,” Jesus said and gave his own gleaming smile as he helped Duo out of his jacket. It was April, so the weather was warming up, but it was still early enough in the season that a jacket was a necessity. He hung the jacket up on an available peg, then removed his own suit jacket to hang it beside Duo’s.

Duo didn’t often get to see Jesus work people like this. He was a shockingly good actor, able to hide the monster within behind apparent privilege. He’d have fit in at any of the hoity toity charity events Duo attended with Quatre or Relena over the years. When he wanted to be, Jesus could be soul of charm and class.

“Well, follow me,” Edge said, turning to lead them back to a booth. As he did, Jesus’s dark eyes slid to Duo, the heat and promise in them scorching. Duo’s body thrilled under that look, well trained to that heat by now. There weren’t many days with Jesus that didn’t include sex, and more often than not, penetrative sex. Not that he and Heero hadn’t had an active sex life, but their life had always been a little too chaotic for sex every day. Even when he was exhausted, Jesus liked to wind down with some sexual activity. A year of near daily sex left Duo with a level of banked desire and hyper-receptive to any overtures from Jesus.

He sighed, trying to shove it down. The neck was going to bleed a lot anyway, and he didn’t need his blood pressure up to add to it. As badly as Jesus wanted this tattoo, and as hard as Duo had made him work for it, he was already resigned to being stuck in bed for at least a few days.  No reason to accelerate the timeline.

Though he might kind of be looking forward to it.

Those thoughts were not helping lower his blood pressure so he turned his attention to the artwork on the wall.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Edge said, pointing to a bench-like table with all the moving parts. He grabbed some sketches from a desk and brought them over. “So I did up a couple examples. Let me know what you like—just the name, Jesus, right?” he asked, saying Jesus’s name like the American pronunciation.

“Jesus,” Duo corrected with the Spanish pronunciation, meeting Jesus’s eyes.

Edge hesitated, but just for a moment before putting the options in front of Duo. One was a fine and small, like the script that might be used for a necklace. It was easily legible and crisp, and Duo liked it immediately.

“This one,” Jesus says, pushing forward the larger, more ornate script. It 100% looked like a gang tattoo and would take up the entire side of his neck, the J stretching up to under his ear and the final s probably curling around to the front of his throat.

He sighed. “We talked about this,” Duo said, giving him a glare, though it’s halfhearted. They had talked about this, but he wasn’t surprised that Jesus would push the issue. “All of my tattoos can be hidden. I need this one to be hideable too.”

“There is no reason to hide it,” Jesus replied as though Duo were being unreasonable. “The point Is for everyone to see it.”

“And I will wear shirts that show it off, if that’s what you want. I just want the option to hide it if necessary, and there will be no hiding that,” Duo said, pointing at the giant example.

Jesus frowned. “That script is too plain, too simple.”

“I like that it’s legible. It fits with the rest of my tattoos—all of the script is legible.”

“You have more script?” Edge asked. “If you’d like, I can take a look and match it.”

Duo shook his head. “It’s blockier. It fits what’s on the other pieces, but for something standalone, I would just like nice, legible script.”

Jesus crossed his arms. “It will be boring.”

“It’s my body. I have to live with it.”

“Not to take sides here,” Edge said, and Duo had to applaud his willingness to step between this discussion. “But Gemelo’s pretty young. A big neck tattoo can still cause a lot of problems in the workplace. As a general rule, I don’t like putting neck tattoos on anyone this young if they don’t have any other visible tattoos.”

Obviously, if you worked for a cartel, that wasn’t a place that a neck tattoo would be a problem, but working for Preventers was different scenario.

“I get profiled enough as it is, I don’t need ‘gangster’ added to it,” Duo told Jesus.

Jesus narrowed his eyes.

“Look, I’d let you make it your signature if it were legible. I just want it to be clean and small enough that a normal collared shirt can hide it.” Which was why he had worn one today, so that he could check.

“Let me draw up some options, see if we can come up with something a little more ornate but still fit it where Gemelo wants it,” Edge said. Duo appreciated the professionalism.

Pulling out a new sheet of tracing paper, Edge drew a rectangle that was about the size needed to fit Jesus’s name and could still sit below the collar line, and went back to a light board to draw up some samples.

Jesus practically sulked. “I wanted this one.” He held it up to Duo’s neck.

“Hell and no,” Duo said firmly. “I’m getting your name on me, and that’s already tempting fate enough. I don’t want it to cover the whole side of my neck in some crazy font that you can’t even read and that I can’t hide if the need arises.”

“You’re not superstitious about this,” Jesus said, disbelief in his normal voice since Edge was far enough away that he probably couldn’t hear.

“Any tattoo artist will tell you it’s bad luck to get a lover’s name tattooed on you,” Duo said. “What you do is dangerous enough. I don’t want to jinx anything.”

Jesus looked at him for a long moment. “You’re not worried about us breaking up? I thought that was the usual concern with these tattoos.”

“Not my concern here. My concern is something happening to you,” Duo admitted. To be fair, a plain print tattoo was also more likely to be able to be removed if it came down to that, but he… liked Jesus. He honestly didn’t want to see harm come to the man, no matter what kind of monster he was.

“All right,” Edge said, coming back with several options. One was a fine script that was stylized but barely legible. One was a little bigger than the box, but only the top and bottom of the J stuck out. It was also more stylized, with curlicues and embellishments. The final one was only slightly more ornate than the original one Duo had wanted, a little bit more calligraphic, but still clean, easily legible.

“That one,” Duo said, pointing to the last.

Edge, to his credit, didn’t ask Jesus’s opinion, just got back up and said, “Okay, let me get this on transfer paper real quick and check placement.”

“I wanted the big one,” Jesus said.

“I know you did,” Duo replied cheekily. “My body. My tattoo. My vote.”

“My name. My money.”

Duo gave him a flat look. “I’d be happy to pay for it if you paid me anything or let me have a job,” he pointed out. Jesus sulked again, but he didn’t argue further.

Edge came back with the cutout piece, moved Duo’s collar aside to place it as a test, making sure the collar would cover it sufficiently. “That looks pretty good,” he said. “Let’s get you over to the mirror so I can get you shaved and you can confirm the placement yourself,” he said, pulling the stencil back.

Duo got up and followed him back, folding collar down while Edge quickly cleaned and shaved the side of his neck—not that Duo’s facial hair, what little he had, went that far down his neck. His neck prepped, Edge placed the stencil on Duo’s skin with care, making sure it was straight, then moving the collar back into place so Duo could check that it would be hidden appropriately.

While he did, Edge said softly, “Do you need help?”

Duo didn’t quite freeze, but he was caught off guard. “Sorry?” he asked, curious.

“You don’t have to get this. If you need to get away from your boyfriend, I can help.”

Meeting his sincere eyes in the mirror, Duo had to chuckle. “I’m fine,” he said. “Really. But thank you.”

Edge frowned, making a show of being unhappy with the placement, so he had to remove it, and start placing it again. “We don’t usually do partner’s names in this shop,” he said, keeping his voice far too low to travel back to Jesus. “But the friend who asked suggested it’d be a bad idea to refuse.”

“It would,” Duo agreed, standing still as Edge replaced the stencil pretty much exactly where it had been the first time.

“You’re way too young to be involved with someone old enough to be your dad,” Edge said. It wasn’t disapproving exactly, more concerned. It was kind of sweet, honestly. “We have ways to get you help.”

“I’m glad,” Duo told him honestly. “But I don’t need it.” He leaned forward, tilting his neck every which way to see the way the tattoo might warp with his skin and if it would be obvious or not. It looked perfect. He straightened and met Edge’s eyes. “Really. I made the deal with him. I know what I’m doing. And as for the age difference…” he trailed, then shrugged. “That’s my call, not yours.”

Edge gave him a long look, then leaned in and checked the placement again before flipping the collar of Duo’s shirt under. “Okay,” he said, sounding resigned.

Duo unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, rather than warp the collar. He saw the surprise on Edge’s face when it left him in just a black tanktop, showing off his sleeves and the tattoo across his collar. “Really,” he repeated. “I know what I’m doing.”

Edge sighed but nodded, the concern disappearing behind a professional smile. “All right then, let’s go get this done,” he said, loud enough to carry and voice full of easy cheer. Quite a mask this one could don.

He led the way back to the table, had Duo arrange himself in a specific way before he sat and pulled over a light. “This won’t take long,” he assured.

Jesus had stood up and moved to be in Duo’s sight as the machine buzzed to life. He tried to keep as relaxed as possible, breathing even and slow while Edge worked. Mostly he watched Jesus and tried not to think about the fact that he was putting a cartel lord’s name on his neck.

He definitely didn’t think about how he didn’t mind.

The session was short as promised because the tattoo was relatively simple, and Edge was a pro. He wiped Duo’s neck to clear the excess blood and ink from it, then held out his hand to Duo.

“Let me help you sit up. You sat like a rock, but—”

“I know, I know,” Duo said, waving him off as he sat up with care. “Not my first flip-and-burn.” His head did spin a little as he worked himself upright. No Shini to neutralize the pain meant the normal pain responses kicked in normally, which didn’t happen to Duo a lot. Not that the tattoo itself was that painful. Uncomfortable at best, really—Duo’s pain tolerances were sky high—but laying down and staying still while those normal response kicked in did mean he had a bit of a rush when he sat up. By the time Edge handed him the large hand mirror, his head was clear though.

As Duo turned to get a look at the backwards-reading reflection, Edge reached over and gently dabbed away a couple more spots of blood. “You sat like an absolute rock,” he repeated.  “If you ever need more work, just let me know,” he said, meeting Duo’s eyes in the mirror. Duo appreciated the gesture, he did, but he didn’t plan on needing additional work.

“Thanks,” he said, shifting his eyes back to the tattoo. It was small enough that it would be hidden by a collar, like he wanted, but there was no mistaking the name on his throat. Duo wasn’t used to seeing a tattoo there, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about it now that it was real.

Jesus leaned down, putting his hands on Duo’s shoulders, tucking his nose into Duo’s hair and inhaling deeply. Even without the full length of his body pressing behind Duo, Duo knew Jesus was hard.

Duo handed the mirror back to Edge. “Looks great,” he said. It did—the lines smooth without any blowouts, not a wobble to be found. It looked like someone had laser printed it onto his neck, it was so perfect. And if it meant that he wouldn’t be wearing any new bruises or bites on his neck, Duo thought it was worth the price.

“Excuse me,” Edge said, managing to shift Jesus away so he could clean the tattoo, then wrap it up.

“How long will it need to stay covered?” Jesus asked, sounding profoundly unhappy as his name vanished under the bandage. Duo was amused that Edge used a cover that wasn’t translucent.

“I recommend a full twenty-four hours. After that, I assume you know the drill—”

“Clean it gently,” Duo interrupted. “Antibacterial soap. Once it stops oozing and scabbing, lotion and lots of it.”

A bit of a grin crept across Edge’s lips “Exactly. Your other work looks like it healed beautifully, so I don’t need to tell you not to scratch. But here’s an extra bottle of lotion.” He handed it over. It wasn’t the brand Duo tended to favor, but he’d never really been a brand snob.

“How long will it take to fully heal?” Jesus asked again.

“Six weeks,” Edge said. “Though this one’s small enough it could heal faster.”

Duo reached back to grip Jesus’s hand and squeeze it, meeting his eyes. “I heal fast,” he said, honestly a little surprised that Jesus wasn’t more familiar with the details of how tattoos healed. He might not have any himself, but most of his people did.

Then again, Jesus didn’t exactly pay a lot of attention to most of his people. Maybe it wasn’t that surprising. His rule was generous in spreading his wealth, but he ruled with an iron fist. He didn’t know or care about individuals. That was what he had Fer for after all.

Jesus reached out and shook Edge’s hand, and Duo saw a significant roll exchange hands, a larger one than Duo would have expected for the size of the tattoo. “Thank you,” he said seriously, his hand returning to Duo’s waist.

“Anytime,” Edge said, though he tried to catch Duo’s eyes as Jesus went to get their jackets.

Duo pulled his shirt back on, not bothering to button it up under the current circumstances, and went where Jesus held his jacket so he could ease into it. “Thanks,” Duo told Edge, giving him a smile to hopefully reassure the man.

The car was waiting for them right in front of the shop, so they were only exposed for a minute as they got in the back. Duo wasn’t surprised that Jesus reached out to drag him in close as soon as he closed the door behind him. The kiss was heated and controlling, Jesus’s hand resting on the nape of Duo’s neck loosely.

“My name is on you,” Jesus murmured against his lips when he broke the kiss.

“It is,” Duo agreed.

Jesus’s other hand dropped to squeeze Duo’s ass. Primed as he was for Jesus’s touch, and Duo leaned into him.

“I need these pants off you,” Jesus hissed, then took Duo’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting hard enough to leave it throbbing. Duo’s boots didn’t come off easily, so he had to pull away to untie them quickly and try to wrangle out of them. The town car wasn’t a big limo, so the space was pretty tight, especially since Jesus was really fucking tall, but Duo managed to strip out of everything but his tanktop by the time Jesus had pulled himself out and had stroked himself to full mast, complete with lube. “Come here,” he said, a command.

Slinging a leg over Jesus’s lap, he settled himself in place, looping his arms loosely around Jesus’s neck, leaning up to kiss him again. Jesus was a very good kisser, and something about the confidence in those big hands was soothing, even when they were grabbing too hard. Jesus was never truly out of control. That controlled strength was definitely a draw.

One of Jesus’s hands landed on Duo’s waist, the other slid back around to his ass, dipping into his crack. Duo didn’t know why he bothered, though he appreciated the almost considerate touch. Duo had always stretched pretty readily, but the consistent sex mean that he didn’t need much, if any, prep if he was even a little bit turned on. Jesus’s hands encouraged him up, and he went easily enough. A minute of maneuvering to get Jesus’s cock in place, and then he was sliding down it, sighing as it opened him up, filled him. If nothing else, at least the sex with Jesus was almost always really good.

Jesus began to thrust quick and hard, which meant he wasn’t going to last long. Duo wasn’t surprised. He just hung on for the ride, letting himself sink into the pleasure. Jesus’s hand on his cock did catch him off guard, since Jesus had a particular kink for making him cum just from being fucked, but cumming from being taken usually required more than a quickie. It did mean that he wasn’t super used to his cock getting a lot of stimulation anymore, so the extra attention rushed him toward the edge much more quickly than Duo was used to. In fact, Jesus’s clever hand job in concert with the cock in his ass tipped Duo over an orgasm in an almost embarrassingly short time—at least, it would have been, if Jesus hadn’t been a couple strokes behind him.

He slumped against Jesus’s chest, oddly comfortable and content as Jesus pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and used it to clean Duo’s cum. He’d used his hand to catch most of it and to prevent it from getting all over his suit. Duo, of course, would probably have cum leaking into his underwear when they got home, but he was sort of used to that by now.

Between the rush of the tattoo and the rush from sex, Duo was content to drop off where he was.

“It never bothers you,” Jesus said, thoughtfully.

“Hmm?” Duo asked, mildly annoyed that his attempt at a nap was being interrupted.

“No matter how I ask for sex, no matter where I want it, it never bothers you.”

That was true, though Duo wondered why Jesus was just realizing this now. It had been true from the beginning.

“It’s just sex,” he said, a little drowsy still. “Why should it bother me?”

“I’ve had many men be bothered by what I want,” Jesus said.

Duo could see that. He also knew from Fernando that, before Duo, Jesus had a distinct preference for more macho guys. Guys who probably wouldn’t be as happy to strip down in the back of a car and ride cock while the car was moving, regardless of the divider between them and the driver. Or, at least, might need a little convincing. Of course, most men would probably have balked at being fucked with a corpse in the room too, and most probably would have had a problem with putting on a performance for Jesus’s subordinates.

Okay, so maybe Duo was more blasé about sex than most, even for guys. “Does it bother you?” Duo asked.

Jesus chuckled, making his still seated, though no longer hard, cock twitch inside of Duo, which elicited and full-body shudder from overstimulation. “No,” he said, firmly. “I like it quite a lot. I was just curious.”

“I gave up being ashamed of sex and enjoying it when I started turning tricks,” Duo admitted. “Having to turn tricks that young can really fuck you up. Being ashamed of it made it like, ten times worse. Made you hate your johns. Made you hate yourself. Saw enough kids turning, hating themselves. Didn’t wanna be that, so decided not to be ashamed.”

The hand that had been idly massaging Duo’s back paused, and Duo could practically hear Jesus’s frown when he asked, “How young were you? When you started?”

“Seven? Eight? Not totally sure. Twelve when I stopped, I think.” He was a little surprised the admission came so easily. He wasn’t ashamed, but it still wasn’t something he liked to tell people, if only because other people tended to freak out about it. He tilted his head up to look at Jesus to see how he was reacting. “Does that bother you? I mentioned I turned before, but…”

“I didn’t realize how young you were,” Jesus said, his hand continuing where it had left off. His other hand came up and stroked Duo’s hair, which Duo was probably always going to be a sucker for, so he rested his head against Jesus’s collar again. “It was that simple? Just… deciding not to be ashamed?”

“Worked for me,” he said. “Don’t think it worked for everyone though. I was trying to feed a buncha littles, littler than me, anyway. Made decent money doing it, kept them from having to. Decent enough, anyway.” For a while, anyway. It wasn’t enough at the end. Not enough to buy the vaccines and the medications he needed when the plague swept through. Not enough to save them, leaving Duo as the last man standing for the third time.

“What happened when you were twelve?” Jesus asked, still stroking, his touch warm and reassuring. When had that happened? When had Duo gotten this comfortable with him? He shouldn’t be. This was dangerous. And he shouldn’t tell Jesus.

He did anyway, explaining the plague and that he stowed away to get off the colony, eventually ending up dirtside, though he was very vague about the years between stowing away and ending up on Earth.

When he finished his explanation, Jesus said, “You’re mine,” voice oddly rough as he gathered Duo close. “You will never have to do that for me.”

Kind of already am, Duo thought, slightly bemused. It was different though, different with Jesus. It might have started out as just a job, but Duo couldn’t live in a man’s pocket like this for a year and see only the monster, not unless the monster was all there was to see.

It wasn’t. Not that it surprised Duo. He’d learned long ago that few people were all one thing. Maybe it was something he could teach Jesus.

Chapter Text

While Duo knew about this place from Jimenez, he wasn’t really supposed to admit knowing about it, much less invite himself to it. Then again, Jesus had mentioned where he’d be, even if he hadn’t exactly mentioned that it was his own personal torture chamber. Of course, he’d also said it with the air of “not that it’s of any interest to you, pet.”

It definitely qualified as a place of interest to Duo. No matter how clever Jesus thought he was, one day that room was going to destroy him. At least the part of him that was still supposed to be a Preventer was sure of it.

The part of him that was a street kid and thought laws were rules that didn’t apply to people who were rich enough or smart enough to get around them cheerfully reminded Duo that the torture chamber was a literal kiln and DNA evidence didn’t like temperatures hot enough to boil blood. That meant the torture kiln probably wouldn’t be Jesus’s downfall. If there was a tiny voice in the back of his head cheering Jesus’s creativity with the kiln, Duo carefully ignored it.

Finding Anderson and Angel doing guard-duty start raising Duo’s red flags. As far as Duo knew, they were among a select group that knew Jesus’s face. Even so, Duo wouldn’t have wanted anyone that green around serious crime if it could be avoided, and this place was nothing but a serious crime scene.

He’d have to worry about it later. He raised a hand to knock on the door when Anderson put a hand on his raised fist. “They’re busy,” he said.

Duo carefully did not roll his eyes. “I know,” he said instead, giving a significant look at Anderson’s hand on his fist until Anderson released it. Jesus did not like anyone else handling Duo, even in such a benign way, and Anderson really had to stop with the subtle liberties because Duo was getting tired of having to redirect Jesus’s attention when Anderson was around.

“Gemelo,” Angel spoke up. He looked a little green around the gills, and when Duo heard a crack followed by a scream that turned to a twisted laugh, Angel turned greener. He swallowed conspicuously before saying, “You really don’t want to interrupt them.”

"Larson right?" Duo asked, and hid a wince as he heard another crack, followed by another laugh. It didn't sound like anyone Duo knew, so he assumed it was Larson. Since Angel was looking distinctly ill, Duo turned to Anderson. "If there was reception in this place, I would have just sent Jesus a text. Since there's not, here I am. If you don't want me to go in, can you at least ask him to come out and see me?"

Duo had heard Larson's name being tossed around before Jesus had decided to come see to him personally. Since he had decided to treat Duo like a swooning maiden who couldn't handle the big bad wolf when he did it, Duo had gotten curious. The new solicitous streak in Jesus since he’d gotten the tattoo three months ago was, in some ways, almost worse than the old, overly aggressive behavior. Not that Jesus didn’t still leave his fair share of hickeys and bruises, but at least they weren’t around his neck.

Larson’s name had been mentioned in passing in the last few months, irritation moving to anger and borderline hate in short order. Naturally, that led to Duo doing a bit of hacking and general searching to find out everything he could about James Larson. Unfortunately, without the sort of software he usually put on his personal machines to prevent being traced or backtracked, he'd had to be a lot less invasive than he had really wanted, and the name was so damn generic it made it doubly difficult. He'd still found enough though, especially since high school records weren't nearly as secured as the more official channels, to be sure he found the right guy.

From what he'd gathered, Larson was a grade-A psycho. They could probably start cutting off limbs and wouldn't get anything out of him. Not that he could tell Jesus that since there was no reception.

Anderson exchanged looks with Angel. Another crack and scream and laugh carried through the thick door.

"Really?” he asked, exasperated. “Just go get him. Before he runs out of limbs to break, preferably?"

Exchanging a final look with Angel—who really looked like he was going to lose the last several meals he had—Anderson knocked on the door and entered when called. A minute later, he came back out, Jesus on his heels. Anderson was doing much better with his poker face with Jesus than he did with Duo, which was odd. But Duo could see from the lines around his mouth and how rigidly straight he was holding himself that it was bad. He also caught a trace of the sweet smoke from Jesus’s preferred brand of clove cigarettes. Since Jesus didn’t, as a general rule, stress smoke, that meant that this was going about as well as Duo thought it was.

"Gemelo, you should not be here," Jesus put a hand on his neck, displaying his inability to be within arm's length without touching him. Duo had long accepted it at this point.

"You can bitch at me later. I did some reading up on Larson." At Jesus's look, he added, "Try to remember what I used to do."

"I was wondering exactly what you did do for Preventers that this would be something you're familiar with."

Duo rolled his eyes. "Preventers don't torture, but they do participate in a lot of interrogations. And a lot of research. He's a single psycho who isn't a broader terrorist, so he's not on Preventer radar, but I was still able to dig up enough on him that I think I can be of some help."

Jesus's eyes narrowed, even as he continued caressing Duo's neck. He'd obviously noticed that Duo hadn't explained what exactly he had done as a Preventer, Duo had honestly covered such a wide range of expertise that he'd mostly been considered a "Specialist." As Sally had once quipped—if it required someone with special expertise, it probably fell under him and Heero. Between the two of them, there weren't a lot of mission-appropriate areas that they didn't have expertise in.

Another yell, followed by a laugh. Duo could feel the tension ratchet up where Jesus was touching him.

Duo sighed. "Look, listening to Chuckles in there, you're not getting anywhere—and I don't think you will. Does it really hurt to have me take a crack at him?"

Jesus had started to turn toward the door but looked back to Duo, studying him, massaging his nape now in a way that made Duo work not to turn into a puddle at his feet. As rough as Jesus could be, Duo was definitely developing an association between Jesus’s hand on his neck and sex. He should really do something about that. Later. He was getting distracted.

Reaching up, he gently pulled Jesus's hand away from his neck, resettling it on his waist so it wasn't a rejection, allowing himself to be pulled in closer and lifted his own hand to settle on Jesus's shoulder. "You know I'm not squeamish."

"I don't like the idea of you being in there with him. You're too close to his type."

Duo hadn't known that but, "That actually works to my advantage." He could see Jesus wasn't quite buying it and sighed again, using his fingertips to massage the juncture where Jesus's neck and shoulder met. "Seriously, Jesus, what is he going to be able to do to me? I'm not asking to be left alone with him. Your way isn't getting you anywhere. Let me try."

"Is that why you came down here?"

"Once I looked into him, I was pretty sure the, uh, old-fashioned methods weren't going to work. And seeing as he's literally laughing at you, I'm going to say I figured right."

A sigh like a rumble growled from deep in Jesus's chest, but he said. "Fine. I will let you do this—but only if I stay."

"I wasn't going to kick anyone out," Duo assured. Jesus leaned down to touch his forehead to Duo's for a long moment, then backed away with obvious reluctance. Duo couldn't help but be touched by how openly affectionate Jesus was. After over a year, he should be used to it, but it had taken a long time to get Heero—

—He was not going down that rabbit hole right now.

Jesus turned to open the door, but Duo put his hand on it to still him. "One more thing. You said I'm close to his type. What's his type?"

Climbing eyebrows betrayed a little surprise. "You don't know?"

"I was rather limited in what I could dig into. Even if the police have his name and a profile, your connections aren't secure enough for me to try hacking them outright. And it was damn hard to tell if I had the right James Larson."

Mulling over the information Duo had given him, Jesus finally said, "Petite. Pretty." He paused, then added, "Long hair," as he pulled Duo's braid over his shoulder and ran a hand down it.

"Of course he does," Duo muttered under his breath. He grabbed the end of the braid, and tugged off the hairband, sliding it on his wrist as he quickly pulled his hair loose.

"What are you doing?" Did Jesus actually sound alarmed?

"He likes petite, pretty, and long hair, right? I'm playing to his type."

"But—"

The hair unbound, Duo reached up to his scalp and shook it out, increasing the volume that had been held in check by the braid. He then gathered it quickly in a haphazard mess on top of his head before releasing it to fall down around him organically. Duo was very well aware of the effect it left and knew from Anderson’s quick, quiet gasp, he'd achieved it. Jesus grabbed his waist again and pulled him in close, tipping his head back.

"You would let someone else see you like this?" His voice was rough, his pupils blown from just the simple actions.

"I need you to let me do this my way. This is part of that." He reached up and locked his fingers behind Jesus's neck. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing. I promise, he will not lay a hand on me." Jesus did not seem to be budging, so he changed tracts. "How badly do you need the information he has?”

Grudgingly, Jesus replied, "It's important."

"Okay. Your methods aren't working, and at the rate you're going, you're going to kill him before you get the answers you need." Jesus still wasn't looking convinced, so Duo stretched up as much as he could and lips just a breath from Jesus's, he said, "Let me do this for you."

Without warning, Jesus scooped him up and banged his back against the door to hold him in place before taking possession of his mouth. Duo let him get his fill, even though he usually didn’t let Jesus kiss him when he’d been smoking. When Jesus pulled back, he rested his forehead next to Duo's neck.

"If you bite me, I'm going to be seriously annoyed," Duo warned. He could practically hear Jesus's teeth grate before he pulled away, forcing Duo to quickly find his footing or land on his ass. Duo’s neck had stayed clear of anything but a few hickeys since getting Jesus’s name tattooed on it, which was a relief. He didn’t want Jesus backsliding now.

"Do it your way." He yanked the door open—making Duo dodge to avoid getting hit with it—and entered, leaving it open for Duo.

Inside, Rafael, Alejandro, and Albert Encarnación, Jesus's primary wetworks guy, all turned to him as he followed Jesus in. So did the man hanging from the ceiling.

Encarnación frowned at him. They hadn't formally met or been introduced, but he was one of the few suspected of being a King, and he’d been in Une’s original files. In a cartel with more than its fair share of stupidly dangerous people, Encarnación was one of the most dangerous. A wetworks guy who enjoyed the work.

Of course, Duo couldn't pay him any special attention. There was no reason for him to have any particular knowledge of who Encarnación was. It was the first time he'd actually seen him in person. Nice to have it confirmed that he was a King though.

Then again, the man had enough blood on him to excuse a little extra attention.

"Jesus, who is this?" Encarnación demanded in Spanish.

Duo repressed a snort and began to circle the most prominent feature in the room—the bloody man hanging by his wrists. Jesus tended toward old-world ethnicity preferences. Few in the Kings were not of Latin descent, and even among them, Spanish fluency was all but a requirement, so that he thought Duo wouldn’t speak Spanish was a little insulting. "Jesus calls me Gemelo," he replied in Spanish with only a hint of the clipped accent that was common on L2. He’d always been a decent mimic, and he’d spent the better part of the last year speaking Spanish almost exclusively, so he had definitely been picking up Jesus’s native accent.

Encarnación scoffed, then turned his attention to Jesus, who had taken up a watchful position against the wall. "You're not seriously letting your pet in here to gawk."

"He doesn't appear to be gawking to me," Jesus replied, the picture of indifference.

"He's—"

Jesus cut him off. "You're not getting results. There is no harm in letting Gemelo try."

From the way Encarnación glared at Duo, he clearly thought otherwise.

Well, since he'd begun like this, best to continue it. "Take him down and put him in the chair." Belatedly, he added, "Please."

The protests came from virtually everyone, but Duo straightened and glared. "His legs are broken. I don't know where you think he's going, but it isn't anywhere that isn't in crawling distance. Judging by his knees, he won't even be doing that. Take him down and sit him at the table."

Larson chuckled, a sickly pleased sound. His eyes had not left Duo since he'd entered, trying to track him even as he'd circled the man.

"Do as he says," Jesus ordered, though there as a tightness in his shoulders that told Duo he wasn't happy about it.

The table looked like stainless steel, and it hadn’t been there the last time Duo visited. There were also a pair of solid stainless steel chairs that were ubiquitous in interrogation rooms in Duo's experience. A very bleachable room indeed.

Rafael and Alejandro were not gentle while they took Larson down. Duo took the chair on the far side of the table, flipping it around to straddle it. He figured putting the table between him and Larson may keep Jesus's blood pressure from going through the roof.

"Hello, James," Duo greeted as Larson was settled.

"Hola, Gemelo," Larson tried to grin around a bruised jaw and several missing teeth. It seemed to be sincere, and had his face not been a beaten mess, it may have been disarming. "I can call you Gemelo, can't I? Or is only Reyes allowed to do so?" He spoke Spanish with more fluency than Duo would have expected, but an awful American accent.

Great, he's one of those, Duo groaned internally. A charming, socially adept psycho. Well, Duo's first instinct had been correct; torture would never get this man to talk. That wasn't what motivated him. He needed to be curious, to have his ego stroked, then challenged. Pain would never get him to talk, but his pride almost certainly would.

Duo would have to tread carefully though. Larson already knew that he wanted him to talk, would be on guard against it. In other words, this was going to both suck and make Jesus really unhappy.

"Call me whatever you like."

"Shall I call you whore?"

In his corner, Jesus straightened. "Not particularly original." Duo shrugged, then switched back to English. "But whatever floats your boat."

"What, whore? Is your Spanish not good enough to deal with me?"

Nope, Duo thought, running a hand through his hair, pulling a large amount over his shoulder as he did so, tilting his head to follow the weight of it. Just not interested in listening to your shitty accent. "Is your English too poor to deal with me?" he asked, very aware of the way Larson had followed his hand and was now focusing on the bared column of his throat.

Larson chuckled, which resulted in a wet-sounding cough. "Reyes doesn't keep you around just because you're pretty, I see." His English was American dirtsider, but there was a deliberation to his speech that had to be affectation.

"How sweet, you think I'm pretty."

"You don't fool me, pretty whore." There was an odd emphasis on pretty that Duo filed away. "You know exactly how pretty you are."

"Why do you think I'm a whore? Because I'm with Jesus?"

Larson laughed again. "No. He does not pay for his companionship. No, I say whore because you are a pretty, pretty boy from L2 if my ear hears true. I'm sure you were a pretty, pretty child in a place where pretty, pretty children have only one use." He was becoming more fixated on Duo. "You are not offended," he observed.

Duo shrugged again. "I don't get offended by the truth, though it's been a long time. As you said, there's not a lot of options for a pretty kid on L2." It didn't really cost him anything to concede the information. Jesus already knew, after all, and this guy was a dead man walking.

Throwing his head back, Larson crowed. He returned his gaze to Duo quickly, as if he thought Duo would disappear if he wasn't watching.

"Have you hunted in L2?" Duo asked. He heard Encarnación make an irritated hiss, but Jesus quieted him. Duo ignored them both. Broken and battered as he was, Larson wasn’t someone Duo could afford to underestimate.

"I went there to hunt once. It's so famed for its pretty children, I thought maybe I could find some pretty girls for my collection. Alas, the pretty girls were well-protected, or they were not pretty enough for me. Those who run L2 are not kind to those that are not kind to their merchandise. At least, not unless you're willing to pay for the privilege."

That was an understatement. Human traffickers had all but ruled L2 when Duo had been a kid. Managing to stay independent had been a challenge, but he'd been smart enough to know he was screwed if he ever ended up with a pimp. It was what had finally driven him to stowing away to get off-colony after the third plague—traffickers had gotten tired of him being competition. They wanted him under their control.

Duo continued running his hands through his hair as if he were unaware of what he was doing. "No, they aren't kind at all," Duo agreed. "Tell me about the girls you hunt."

This is where things get tricky, he thought. And I need to keep Shinigami down.

"Such pretty, pretty girls." Larson grinned, and his voice was affectionate. His gaze went distant for a moment before snapping back to Duo. "Though there were some who were not as pretty as you." He paused, thoughtful, then added, "But I don't hunt boys." He said the word with disgust. "Such a pity one so pretty is a boy." A calculating gleam came into his eye, so Duo let him speak. "I do have a friend though..."

"A friend?" Duo tilted his head in the opposite direction curiously, exposing the side of his throat and the tattoo, making his hair tumble over his other shoulder. He watched the desire spike in Larson's eyes.

"Yes," Larson rasped, eyes glued to Duo. "A friend who turns boys into girls. You'd make such a pretty, pretty girl."

Well, that was not what Duo had expected. Curious, he crossed his arms on top of the back of the chair and laid his head on them, spilling some of his hair onto the table. It was out of reach for anything less than a lunge, but he kept close eye on the twitching, broken fingers that seemed to want to reach toward him.

"You think I'd make a pretty girl?" he asked.

"Oh, yes." Larson's pupils nearly swallowed his irises.

"And what do you do to pretty girls?"

Duo let the descriptions wash over him, concentrating more on keeping Shinigami suppressed than listening. In his experience, some types of crazy were sensitive to Shini, and he didn't want to risk throwing this guy off his game.

"Am I boring you, pretty whore?" Larson had interrupted himself mid-cadence, surprising Duo a little.

He paused to gather himself. "You need your girls to fear you, don't you?" he asked.

Larson gave a pleased little shudder that made Duo's stomach twist in revulsion, though he kept the reaction off his face. "Oh, yes. So much sweeter when they're afraid. Of course, when they start out brave and become afraid... that is the sweetest of all."

"You think I would start out brave?" Duo guessed.

“I think you would start out very brave." Larson sounded eager, and Jesus pushed off the wall behind him.

Duo shot him a quick glance. He ran his fingers through his hair as he thought. When he sensed Larson's impatience, he shoved the mass behind a shoulder, including the ends that had been spread on the table. Larson twitched as if itching to chase it. "I don't think I'm your type," he said finally.

"Besides you being a boy," Larson again spat the word like it had offended him, "I think you are precisely my type. You'd be so fun to break."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Not yet," Larson said in a singsong voice.

Duo scoffed, challenging his ego. "Not ever."

"Oh, but maybe once my friend has changed you into a pretty, pretty girl and you have your stomach swollen with a pretty, pretty baby..."

Shock froze Duo. Larson was talking about implants—illegal implants because almost no one ever survived getting them. Rage at the implications swept through him, and it took everything within Duo to shove Shinigami down. He wanted to let it roar forward, engulf him, tear the monster apart with his bare hands to make sure nothing remained.

He managed to keep Shinigami down, but he must have blanched because Larson's cackle-turned-cough was positively gleeful.

Jesus was coming forward, so Duo jumped to his feet, "No!" he snapped, more to Jesus than to Larson. I want to kill him, but I'm getting so close. Let Larson think he had blanched from fear instead of rage. "No," he said, in control and to Larson. "I'm not scared of you." He was trembling from the effort of keeping Shini down, but he wasn't afraid.

Soon, he promised. Soon.

Larson sat back up, eyes sparkling despite the blooming bruises around them. "Oh, you are." He shuddered, but it looked like it was a thrill. "Maybe I could make an exception for you," he sounded thoughtful. "I'm not sure I could wait for the whole process for my friend to make you into a pretty, pretty girl. He tells me it takes months..." Larson licked his lips as if savoring something sweet. "I think you might be worth asking for instead. Your fear..." He shuddered again.

"You're really not scary. And you're hardly original." Duo's voice was so flat, he almost surprised himself. It definitely got Larson's attention. "That's the best you can come up with?"

Bottom lip stuck out in a literal pout, Larson gave an exaggerated frown. "You don't think being filled with my child is original?"

"I've been told my whole life that I'm pretty enough to be a girl. I don't know why so many men lack the balls to admit they're attracted to another man." He moved out from behind the chair and put a hand on the table, leaning over it. "Why their egos are so fragile they feel they need to emasculate me in order for them to be men." It did no harm that he was indirectly complimenting Jesus for never shying away from the fact he was male.

Larson moved to jump to his feet, apparently having forgotten his broken legs, and fell back into the chair with a cry. Duo shot a cold look over a distracted Larson's shoulder to tell the men in the corner to stand the fuck down.

"I think," Larson gasped, "that your problem is that you desire to be a woman. That's why you let men fuck you, why you lay on your back for them." He was getting angry and going on the attack. Duo had insulted him. "Why you open your legs like my pretty, pretty girls. I think some part of you hopes that a man will put a child in your womb. Why else would you look like a girl?"

It was degrading, but unfortunately, Duo had heard worse. It wasn't nearly enough to hit his buttons. "You were just talking about making an exception for me."

"An exception! When the Death Riders take over all Kings territory, starting with your trade locations, they will reward me handsomely! I will have you! But not before I have my friend remove all your disgusting manly bits and give you the cunt you should have been born with!" He was yelling by the time he was done, spitting his anger. He gasped and the yelling kicked off a series of very ominous-sounding coughs.

Duo looked over Larson's shoulder and met Jesus's eyes. "That what you needed to know?" he asked, then felt more than saw Larson still.

"That will work," Jesus replied, and there was a noticeable thread of anger in his voice. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest as if it were the only way he could avoid reaching out to wring Larson's neck.

Duo turned his attention back to Larson. "Death Riders, huh?" he pondered the irony aloud, as he released Shinigami. The darkness roared inside him, sound vanished, color washed to black and gray between blinks. He felt the smile stretch his face as the laugh started in his gut.

The Laughing God of Death stood before Larson. He took pleasure in watching Larson recognize him, recoil from him, and fear him for a heartbeat before he jerked backward and slid to the floor. The red of Larson's blood stood out in the gray world.

"Death Riders, huh?"

Rafael had not liked Gemelo since the first time he'd sensed that... thing—he didn't really have a better word for it—in him. Something that actively fed on life. It was the antithesis of life. Except it seemed to exist in Gemelo. He's sensed it time and again—first in the arena, then sporadically over the last year as Gemelo and Jesus went at each other. The strongest it had ever been was the time he'd been forced to follow Gemelo over what seemed half the city, only to find him with that "friend" of his.

This was nothing like that.

Against his will, Rafael pushed himself back into the wall, inching as far from Gemelo as he could possibly get in the small room. Alejandro and Jesus seemed unaffected, but, to his surprise, Encarnación flinched as if he'd been slapped. Rafael's skin crawled, that horrible feeling they called "someone walking over your grave," only this wasn't a momentary shudder. It persisted, and Rafael's chest felt tighter by the moment as whatever had been Gemelo seemed to expand. It was the first time it had ever seemed to reach past the limits of Gemelo's body, and Rafael could feel panic clawing at the back of his throat.

How could anything that loved life stand before that?

Even before the blade thudded into the wall to his right, Rafael knew that Larson was dead. And with his death, that thing seemed to grow, to strengthen, to push even farther outside Gemelo. He caught a glimpse of those odd purple eyes, and what looked back from behind them was nothing human.

Rafael vaguely heard Encarnación's protest before Jesus was striding across the room—how could he move a single step toward that?—taking Gemelo in his arms, and kissing him like he'd suffocate if he didn't.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to freeze, then the thing was gone, and it was just the kid in Jesus's arms. Jesus broke the kiss and began down Gemelo's neck. Rafael concentrated on breathing again, ignoring his boss, until Gemelo's yelp brought his attention back.

"Black fucking Death!" Gemelo shoved Jesus back—and really, from that position he should not be strong enough or have enough leverage to get Jesus that far from him—then felt at the bend between his neck and shoulder. "Seriously?" When he pulled his hand back, it was clean, but the look he shot at Jesus was pure exasperation.

Undeterred, Jesus moved right back into Gemelo's space, crowding him back against the table to the point he had to sit on it or be squished against it. He leaned back as Jesus bracketed him in with his arms, leaning into his space. Rafael stood frozen, trying to control the weakness in his limbs, trying to be ready for an attack. He hated when Jesus treated Gemelo like this. Jesus was never concerned, always seemed sure that Gemelo wouldn't hurt him. "Do you know what it cost me to stand there while he talked to you like that?" One hand rose to cup the back of Gemelo's head.

"And, as promised, he didn't touch me."

Rafael could see Jesus's fist tighten in Gemelo's hair, but he relaxed a moment later, and Gemelo didn't complain. "You," he began, voice rough with contained rage, "are mine. No one gets to speak to you like that."

Gemelo was quiet for a moment, and Rafael heard Encarnación mutter "What the fuck?" to Alejandro, only to be silenced by a cold look. Rafael and Alejandro may not like it, but they were used to Jesus's obsession with Gemelo. Encarnación hadn't seen it before, so Rafael could understand why he was so confused. Jesus was practically a different person around Gemelo—all rationality apparently going out the window where he was concerned. Gemelo sighed and his expression softened. Somehow, it made him look older, as if he pitied Jesus. "I didn't lie for your benefit, Jesus," he said softly. "I really have heard worse."

Fury darkened Jesus's face. "Never again. If someone speaks to you like that again, tell me. I will teach them better." There was an eagerness to do harm in his voice that was more like the Jesus Rafael knew.

"I don't need anyone to defend my honor for me. I'm quite capable of doing that myself." He lifted his right hand to motion toward Larson, and Rafael was surprised to see blood on it. Had he stabbed Larson? Rafael thought the knife had been thrown, but Gemelo must have been close to catch some splatter.

Jesus's sharp intake of breath told him he'd misunderstood. "What happened?" He took the bloodied hand, solicitous, pushing back a black sleeve to reveal an ever-present knife sheath and a cut on Gemelo's wrist, below the sheath. It looked to be about half an inch wide, completely straight from what Rafael could see. It looked large on the thin wrist. Gemelo stared at the wound blankly for a moment, before looking annoyed.

"It's not a big deal," he assured, trying to take his hand from Jesus. "It just needs to be wrapped."

"Did you cut yourself? I have never seen you cut yourself before."

"It's not a big deal," Gemelo repeated, pulling at his arm again, but he didn't really have anywhere to go.

Jesus used a thumb to wipe the blood away from the wound, and it welled again slowly, already clotting. "You have other scars here."

"Leave it alone, Jesus." Gemelo's voice held a warning now, but he stopped trying to pull away.

"Albert, please retrieve the blade for me." It was not a request.

"Be careful with that blade," Gemelo warned, eyes locked with Jesus. "It's a lot sharper than anything you've used before."

For the first time, Rafael turned his attention to the blade embedded in the concrete wall. It was thin, stiletto-like. A short hilt stuck out of the wall, black enough to look more like an absence of light than a color. Encarnación heeded Gemelo's warning and was careful to only pull on the grip. It slid with ease from the wall, and Encarnación tested its balance before walking it over to Jesus and setting it carefully in Jesus's waiting palm.  

"I've wondered about your blades for some time," Jesus began, lifting his hand for a feel of its weight.

"You don't want to go down this rabbit hole."

"I think it's time I do. You are mine. You have no need of secrets from me."

Gemelo's expression said otherwise.

Finally looking away from Gemelo, Jesus eyed the black blade. In the light, it seemed blacker than any Rafael had seen before, almost like it absorbed light. A chill ran through him. It seemed an appropriate weapon for Gemelo to wield.

"I've seen you walk through metal detectors and even x-rays without thinking twice about the knives I know you always have. There's only one metal I know of that's even rumored to be that undetectable."

Gemelo glared now. Still holding Gemelo's hand in his, Jesus brought the blade to the wound, and Rafael could see they were roughly the same width, which didn't make sense if Gemelo had just nicked himself.

Encarnación blurted out, "Gundanium?" in a greedy, excited voice. "I've never heard of anyone making anything as frivolous as blades from it, but how... exquisite..."

"Where did you get all these blades, I wonder."

Rafael expected that nothingness to rise up again, but as angry as Gemelo looked, he stayed himself.

"Just get to your point."

"A colonist who fought with the Rebellion during the Eve Wars. Your scars indicate torture at some point. I don't think OZ would have bothered interrogating and torturing a random rebel brat." Jesus's tone was thoughtful, careful. "We have some... contacts in the Preventers, you know. It's no wonder you had a falling out with Une, with the number of bodies you were piling up. What I couldn't figure out before now was why she just let you continue to do it." He considered Gemelo. "Can she even hold you? I mean, she's can't humanely disarm you, can she?"

Rafael wasn't sure Gemelo was going to answer, but he was half-waiting for Jesus to spontaneously combust when the tension seemed to go out of Gemelo. "Send them out. I'll tell you."

"Rafael and Alejandro stay."

"Fine. But your pet torturer waits outside."

Rafael could feel Encarnación bristle at Gemelo's casual dismissal, but Jesus nodded. "Fair. Albert, go wait outside."

Encarnación opened his mouth to protest, but Jesus shot him a glare that was not to be argued with. He went, though not without stomping his feet and slamming the door behind him.

Without being told, Rafael dashed to the door to verify it had closed securely, then nodded at Jesus, who turned his attention back to Gemelo.

"Can she hold you?"

"No, and she knows it. She could barely hold me during the war when she had all of OZ's considerable resources and manpower and didn't have to play nice."

"So you were a Gundam pilot?"

"Am a Gundam pilot."

Rafael felt like he'd been sucker-punched, even though it was obvious where the discussion had been leading. The small, delicate, pretty man—barely more than a boy—that used to regularly let Jesus blacken his throat was a Gundam pilot? He did the mental math.

Gemelo was one of the most dangerous and feared people in the entire earthsphere when he'd been fucking teenager. How much more dangerous was he as he moved into adulthood?

Jesus gave a pleased chuckle, and the hand still cupping the back of Gemelo's hand moved, probably massaging. "I wasn't sure I could get you to admit it."

"How long have you suspected?" Now that he had confirmed it, he seemed curious.

"Hmm... Not until after I got a good look at the scars. You were always upfront with being a colonist and a vet. But those scars..."

Gemelo's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Not what I thought would have given me away."

"Which pilot?"

"02—OZ gave us the numerals, but they were handy, so we used them. We didn't know about each other before landing dirtside, so it took us some time to get organized and begin working together. Before then, there wasn't really a need for code designations."

"And this?" Jesus held the blade up to him.

Gemelo took it with the carelessness of someone well-used to handling it. "Gundam scraps, originally. It was my idea to make them into blades. G—the engineer that built my Gundam—about had a fit when I first suggested it. He didn't think such small quantities of gundanium could be reprocessed." He shrugged. "I proved otherwise."

"And is that what I think it is?" Jesus pointed to the wound.

"Depends on what you think it is."

He visibly hesitated, as if he didn't want to be the one to say it. "The blade came from under your skin?"

In answer, Gemelo used the edge of his shirt to give the blade a cursory clean. Then he gave Rafael a new nightmare as he slid it down through the wound. Once the hilt passed under his skin, he used the palm of his other hand to push it the rest of the way down, and it disappeared into his forearm. A single bead of blood welled, but otherwise, it appeared to have stopped bleeding.

Alejandro and he both crossed themselves automatically, almost at the same time.

Jesus hissed, grabbing Gemelo's arm and his opposite hand, revealing a small cut in the center of the palm where he'd pushed the blade down. "Was that safe?"

Gemelo laughed. Not the terrifying laugh of before, but not a nice sound either. "What part of it? For anyone else, they'd be shredding their muscles to nothing. Mine are trained to it, I guess you could say. Same way muscles tear and rebuild in fighters."

"You just put a knife with Larson's blood on it in your arm," Jesus pointed out as if he were being dense.

"Oh, you're worried about contamination? I'll be fine. Super immune system. Trust me, if I haven't had it already, I'm not getting it."

To his credit, Jesus still looked skeptical. "A Gundam pilot thing?"

"A me thing. You've seen my clean bill of health from the arena. Get a sample form Chuckles McCrazy there and have it run if you want to be sure."

"Chuckles McCrazy?" Jesus seemed to be repressing a smile.

"Which reminds me, what the hell was your guy thinking trying to torture him? The first time he laughed after a broken bone, he should have known that'd be useless."

Jesus raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you killed him?"

"Oh, like you weren't going to?"

"I think Albert would have preferred to do it."

"Albert would have kept torturing him because he enjoys it. I know the type. You had what you needed from him. Time just to put him down."

"Put him down. You make him sound like an animal."

Gemelo shook his head. "Animals don't cause pain because they enjoy it. That's a uniquely human trait. He was evil. No good could come from him continuing on. Best to put him down if you don't need him anymore."

Jesus chuckled, moving his hand so he cupped Gemelo's cheek. "You didn't strike me as the type to believe in 'evil.'" He had not stopped touching Gemelo since he'd first cornered him on the table.

"I walk with Death, Jesus. I may not be good, but I know evil when I see it."

"Do you now?” Jesus asked, pausing before adding, “And what am I, then?"

Silence stretched before Gemelo answered. "You're human. Few of us are all one thing."

And I don't know if you count at all, Rafael thought, frowning at the overt tenderness Jesus touched him with and the way Gemelo leaned into it.

Maybe even a monster could find comfort in another monster.

Chapter Text

Duo was balancing the books for Fernando—something Fer both hated and really appreciated. He hated it because he hated Duo getting this kind of in-depth knowledge of the operations. He really appreciated it because Fernando hated doing the math himself but Jesus didn’t trust anyone else to do it.

Anyone but Duo apparently. For being undercover, Jesus’s overt trust in him was a fucking gift horse, but it pulled uncomfortably in the back of Duo’s mind, itching like a splinter that he couldn’t get out but also couldn’t ignore. That Duo could be so easily identified wasn’t the only reason that he had rarely done undercover ops, and certainly none of extended length.

More concerning than Jesus’s trust in him and his growing understanding of the details and scale of Jesus’s operation, was his own affection for Jesus. Duo… liked Jesus. Liked him far more than Duo should. He had managed to get himself about as deeply embedded as he could have possibly hoped for, and where he expected a monster, he found… something more.

Not that Jesus wasn’t still terrible, but Duo was also sure that most rational people would consider him a monster if they really understood what he was, how he felt about death and dealing it. How, before he killed Larson, he hadn’t killed anyone in the better part of a year, and since the first time he’d ever taken a life, he’d never gone that long without killing someone. It nagged at him, an itch he couldn’t scratch, except he could, he just shouldn’t.

Killing Larson almost two months ago had scratched that itch, at least. It probably wasn’t the best sign that Duo instinctively knew how many days it had been.

Duo looked back down at the books, making mental notes on places where operations could be improved, where something could go wrong in a way that maybe allowed for a small bust. Having learned he was a Gundam pilot, Jesus began trusting Duo with more intimate operational details since Duo had a lot of experience with smuggling, even though it wasn’t specific to smuggling drugs.  

The door to the office opened, and Duo said, “Whoever 9-6-4 is, they’re skimming more than twenty percent.”

“Make a note for Fer,” Jesus said, and Duo’s head snapped up—he’d insisted that the desk be moved away from the window and faced the door. He hadn’t been expecting Jesus, not because Jesus didn’t trust him, but because he did. He didn’t typically interrupt Duo if he was working on something.

“What’s up?” Duo asked, putting his pen down.

Jesus said nothing as he closed the door and went to the large, overstuffed chair that sat opposite Duo at the desk. “Come,” he commanded once he sat.

Duo raised an eyebrow at that, but he stood and rounded the desk, leaning against it in front of Jesus. He wasn’t surprised when Jesus grabbed his belt loops and pulled him forward until he was forced to straddle Jesus’s lap. The chair was large enough for Duo so squeeze his knees in on either side of Jesus’s legs. It meant that for an average person, it swallowed and trapped them, making them feel small and powerless. Jesus certainly enjoyed his subtle power games.

With Duo, he enjoyed the more overt ones too, hands cupping Duo’s ass to settle him. Duo reached up to settle his arms on Jesus’s shoulders while he made himself comfortable. Jesus wasn’t looking at him like he wanted to fuck him, for a change, the handsiness almost reflex by now. He did look unusually pensive.

“What’s going on?” Duo asked again, letting concern leak into his voice as he used one thumb to smooth the furrow between Jesus’s brows.

“Do you remember what Larson said?” he asked.

Confused, Duo let his hand drop to his lap and said, “I remember everything he said to me. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Do you remember what he said about a doctor?”

Mentally filing back to that conversation, Duo recalled. “The one who turns pretty boys into pretty girls? That one?”

Jesus nodded.

Duo dropped his other arm from Jesus’s shoulder, leaning away from him a little bit. “I was pretty sure you didn’t want a girl, and if you do, you’re very much out of luck.”

“No!” Jesus said sharply, pulling Duo closer. “I do not want a girl. A woman does nothing for me,” he assured, leaning forward to run his tongue across where his name was inked into Duo’s skin, as though he could somehow taste it. It had become a favorite move since the tattoo had healed.

“Uh-uh,” Duo said, pushing him back. “You don’t get to start a conversation like that and then distract me with sex. What about the doctor?”

Jesus sat back, but he sighed. “I found the doctor.”

Duo waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “And?” he prodded. “Are you looking to get into illegal trans surgeries?” It was one of the reasons the surgeries and the techniques had been developed. Duo only knew what he did about it because Quatre had looked into it when one of his sisters had transitioned. The tech to grow extra organs from a person’s own tissue had existed for a while, and had even successfully engineered organs not native to the person—like a uterus for example. Even though the organs could be successfully engineered, to his knowledge the survival rate on the implantation surgeries themselves was abysmal, never mind the success rates for utilizing the engineered organs. It didn’t stop people from trying, which was why the underground market still existed, for people desperate enough to ignore the statistics. But it was crazy illegal.

“He has succeeded. He says his survival rates are over 80%.”

That was… not enough for Duo have to been willing to risk it if he’d wanted it, but he would bet it was high enough for a lot of desperate people to take the risk. Not just transgender individuals, but men in homosexual relationships who wanted biological children with their partners and women who were barren sought the surgery. Test tube babies, like the Winners had used so extensively, were almost unheard of dirtside, and prohibitively expensive due to artificial womb requirements. The artificial wounds and monitoring exceptionally expensive, no matter what Winner Senior’s extensive use of them made people think. It made its dismal survival rate all the more tragic.

Since Duo was an orphan and acutely aware of how many unwanted children there were in the world, it honestly kind of infuriated him. He didn’t understand why people would be willing to risk their lives just to have a kid who had their genetics. Society put so much pressure on blood as the ultimate bond, but he’d seen too many families be willing to tear each other to shreds over trivialities to believe it. He could kind of get his head around transwomen wanting the surgery to feel fully in the right body, but he still mostly felt like it was selfish to go to such lengths and expense when there were so many unwanted children, just to say that one shared your genes.

“So… illegal-lady-parts-r-us?” Duo asked, rather than venting. “That’s not a kind of illegal I have a lot of experience with…” He trailed off when he realized how Jesus was looking at him, and his stomach sank. “No,” he said.

“Now don’t—”

Pushing off the arms of the chair, Duo worked to get himself out of Jesus’s hands, though he was proving to be quite the octopus. “I’m sorry, did I say ‘no’? I meant hell no. No fucking way.”

“Just hear me out—”

“What the hell are you even thinking?” Duo finally managed to get a pressure point in Jesus’s wrist and was able to put some distance between them, though he didn’t go any further than the desk.

Jesus met his eyes squarely. “I was thinking that I’m over forty, and I’m not going to live forever, and I want to have a child with you.”

It wasn’t the first time Jesus had expressed something along those lines, at least about having a child with him, so Duo didn’t really have a right to be as blindsided by this as he was. It did not change how much the idea pissed him off. And the look in Jesus’s eyes… he didn’t know that Jesus could look like that, could bear that much soul. It was a vulnerable look, a deeply held desire.

“No,” Duo said firmly, though part of him hated to strike at Jesus when he had been willing to be this vulnerable. 

“At least consider it,” Jesus said, standing, crowding Duo against the desk, which earned him exactly no points under the circumstances. “A child that is both of us—a boy with my chin and your eyes, a little girl—”

Duo shook his head vehemently, not wanting those images in his mind, not understanding why he could see them so clearly. “I said ‘no’ and I fucking mean it. How the fuck could you go behind my back—”

“I didn’t want to say anything if I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure of what?” Duo demanded. “That’s an 80% survival rate you’re talking about, Jesus. That’s a shitty survival rate for an elective surgery, and it doesn’t say a damn thing about conception or chances of carrying to term! You want a kid, let’s talk about adoption! What about surrogacy? Fuck, you have enough money to do the test-tube thing! There are options that aren’t fucking putting me through surgery that one-in-five don’t survive.”

Jesus pushed him up against the desk, a hand landing on Duo’s hip, while his other took Duo’s chin in a grip firm enough to bruise.

“Eighty percent is the carry-to-term percentage,” he said, getting angry himself at Duo’s reaction.

“Bull. Shit,” Duo said, cold and certain.

“I have seen examples.”

“Motherfucker—”

“It is possible,” Jesus insisted.

“Not with me, it’s not,” Duo grabbed the pressure points in Jesus’s arm, and wrangled him back into the chair, going around the desk and putting its bulk between them.

Rubbing his arm, Jesus frowned at him from where he sat. “At least consider it.”

“No,” Duo said simply, finally.

“I just—”

“Yeah, that’s the problem here,” Duo snapped. “You just. You want. You decided. You didn’t talk to me about this.”

“I’ve mentioned it.”

“Yeah, but I thought you meant it like a kink.”

“And I’m talking to you now,” Jesus said, being unusually reasonable, which kind of only pissed Duo off more. He was not the unreasonable one here.

“And I said no.”

“Why not?”

Duo stared. “I’m sorry, was I not already clear?”

“You said the survival rate—”

Snorting, Duo interrupted, “As if I trust any slimy doctor doing this on the side—”

“He would not dare lie to me,” Jesus said, voice rumbling in his chest like it did when he got angry. “Not to me. Not about this.”

Duo flopped into the desk chair and crossed his arms. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Can you at least give me a reason? A reason you wouldn’t want to see a child in this world that is both of us?”

Managing to bite back the impulse to quip that’s a terrifying thought, Duo said, “I don’t have to give you a reason. I said no. That should be enough.”

Jesus sighed. “Is the idea of having a child with me that terrible?”

Duo dragged his hands down his face and stared up at the ceiling. “That honestly has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it? Can you tell me that you would hesitate if it were your old lover asking?”

That made Duo sit up. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your lover. The one who was your partner.”

Rage simmered behind Duo’s chest. “First, don’t fucking talk about him. Where the fuck is this even coming from?”

Shifting his elbows to the arms of the chair, Jesus threaded his fingers, meeting Duo’s eyes without flinching. “Would you?”

“No,” he snapped. “If for no other reason than he would never ask, asshole.” He rarely called Jesus names, but he thought it was deserved this time.

“Then why? I don’t understand.”

Duo was not going scream. “You don’t understand? Fine, you want to understand? You want to have a kid with me so bad, you get the surgery.”

Jesus’s face twisted in revulsion.

“Just because I like riding dick doesn’t mean I have some secret desire to be a woman, Jesus. Even if the surgery were 100% safe, I wouldn’t want to do it. I have no desire to be pregnant.”

“It would only be for nine months,” Jesus said, but the protest was relatively feeble.

“Then you do it.”

“I’m too old.”

“You mean you’re too fucking macho to do it,” Duo corrected, even though Jesus’s age was probably a fair rebuttal. Fair-ish. It was still mostly an excuse.

“I want a child that is of us both,” Jesus said, moving his elbows to his knees and leaning forward in earnestness. “Just one, at least. If we want more, we can adopt, if you want. There’s no need for a surrogate that will carry a child that is only half of us.”

“You’re talking like we’re married or something.”

“We can do that too, if that’s what you want.”

Duo rubbed his eyes in frustration. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

He closed his eyes and counted to five. Then ten. When he felt like he could talk without yelling, he said, “Just… go. I’ve got shit to do.”

Jesus let out a long breath. “All right,” he said, standing. “I would like to employ him, either way. It seems a good opportunity to branch out.”

“Sterile locations needed for the surgeries, equipment to generate the organs and keep them fresh until the surgeries, follow-up appointments, disposal of failures, all of the surgical supplies.” Duo ticked them off on his fingers. “This is an expensive business to get into,” he warned.

“I think it will be worth the investment,” Jesus said, and there was no compromise in his voice. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. Duo watched him warily as he pulled out two… pictures? Jesus tucked the envelope back into his pocket, then paused and said, “I won’t bother you about it for now. Just… think about it, and let me know, if you change your mind.” He set the pictures on the desk, one of a little girl, one of a little boy, maybe two or three. They both had Jesus’s dark hair, Duo’s purple eyes, the dimple on Jesus’s chin, Duo’s nose.

“Get the fuck out,” he snarled, shoving the pictures away from him.

Jesus inclined his head and, for once, did as Duo asked without a battle. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that did nothing but make Duo get up and pitch the glass-based lamp at it, needing the destruction, needing to hear the glass shatter. He threw himself back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

Behind his eyes, the images of those children were as clear as if he were still looking at them. Duo’s heart clenched, and for the first time, he could understand the pull toward blood, toward wanting be able to see so much of yourself in a child. Being able to see not just yourself, but the person you loved combined perfectly into another being.

No wonder people risked so much for it, for that feeling. It made him wonder anew and the horrors people could inflict on their children.

“Fuck,” Duo said, laying his head back against the chair and staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t want that. He could not want any part of it. He could not want Jesus enough to want this with him, right? He couldn’t really be considering this.

No, he decided. Even if he lost his fucking mind and thought it was a good idea, he couldn’t undergo that surgery. He’d have to be awake for it. There had to be easier ways to kill himself if he still wanted that.

He blinked at the ceiling, startled at the realization that he didn’t want that anymore. He hadn’t actively hoped Jesus would kill him since… he thought back. It must have been about the time he saw Wufei. So six months? More? More like nine. That was the first time he could remember being concerned about his own well-being.

When had that happened? And how had he missed it?

Before Jesus brought him up, Duo hadn’t thought about Heero in… weeks at least. Maybe months? Probably not that long, but the idea that a single day could pass him by without thinking about Heero would have been unthinkable when Duo took this op.

He supposed that if you lived long enough, you could learn to live with anything.

Duo marked the page he was on in the leger and went to the hidden panel in the wall to open the safe. His concentration was entirely shot. There was no chance of him getting anything else done. Let Fer pick up the slack.

The books cleaned up and safe closed up, the need to get out still hummed under Duo’s skin, but for once, violence wasn’t what he sought. He left, ignoring the broken lamp and the pictures on the floor, deciding a long run was exactly what he needed.

The sound of glass shattering made Fernando wince. He wasn’t surprised to see Jesus slink down the stairs a minute later, looking dejected. Before Gemelo, Fernando had never seen him look that way.

“I told you—” Fernando couldn’t resist.

“I know, I know,” Jesus cut him off. “I didn’t think he’d react that badly.”

Fernando honestly couldn’t imagine how Jesus thought Gemelo would react any other way. He’d been telling Jesus ever since he first asked Fernando to find the doctor that Gemelo was never going to go for it. This wasn’t like the abuse Jesus used to rain down on his neck. Jesus was talking about surgery. About Gemelo being pregnant and vulnerable for the better part of a year. Fernando couldn’t imagine it.

Jesus threw himself onto a stool at the island and sighed, acting more like a dramatic teenager than the forty-year-old he was.

“So, are we…?”

“We’ll retain the doctor’s services, for now,” Jesus said firmly.

It was an effort to keep the skepticism off his face, but if Jesus thought Gemelo could be talked around, Fernando wasn’t going to try to disabuse him of it. That way lay madness. “All right. I’ll start making a list of things we’ll need to secure and provide in order to offer his services.”

Jesus nodded.

When Gemelo rounded the corner, Fernando jumped. He would never understand how Gemelo moved around so quietly. Fernando should have heard him coming down the stairs. His own children clomped down the stairs like a heard of child-sized elephants, but no, not Gemelo.

“Where are you going?” Jesus asked.

“For a run. Before I decide that removing your dick is the superior option,” Gemelo retorted without missing a beat.

Even Jesus winced, and considering how often his dick was in Gemelo’s hands, Fernando didn’t blame him.

“Take—”

“No.”

Jesus frowned. “Take—”

Gemelo walked to the door and slid into his running shoes. “No,” he said again.

Jesus huffed. “It’s for your protection.”

“Bullshit. It’s for your ego. Not today.” Jesus opened his mouth to protest again, but Gemelo straightened and cut him off. “Do you want me to come back?” He met Jesus’s eyes fearlessly, never one to be afraid of Jesus, not even at his worst. Even Fernando couldn’t say the same.

 “Of course,” Jesus replied.

“Then give me some space. I’m not responsible for my actions if you send someone to tail me,” he added, slipping out the door and shutting it firmly behind him.

On cue, Jesus turned to Alejandro, who looked like a deer in headlights.

“I wouldn’t,” Fernando said.

Jesus glared at him. “It’s for his protection.”

“It’s for your ego,” Fernando repeated Gemelo’s assessment. “Just this once, let him go. It’s like every time he’s out of your sight, you’re afraid he’s going to vanish.”

The only reason he withstood that glare was because it was more sulky than threatening. Really, who was the twenty-year-old in that relationship? Fernando wouldn’t have guessed Jesus looking at him now.

“Anything out there that might be dangerous to him would be more dangerous to Alejandro,” Fernando continued reasonably. “Just give him space, for once.”

That Jesus didn’t cross his arms and slouch was probably only because he knew exactly how stupid it would make him look. “He’s mine,” he said like it was a defense.

“As indicated by your name on his neck. Just do ask he asks, give him some slack. If you back him into a corner, one day he’s going to go through you to get out.” And Fernando did not want to be the one who had to pick up the pieces if that happened. For better or worse, even he was starting to doubt it would. This was as angry as he’d seen Gemelo with Jesus in ages. Gemelo had been softening toward Jesus, slowly but noticeably. It made Fernando feel a little bit better about how much about the business Jesus was willing to share with him.

“Fine,” Jesus said, and this time he did cross his arms, though he managed not to slouch. “Though I don’t think he finished the books.”

It was Fernando’s turn to sigh. “Come on then, let’s go see what’s left,” he said.

He didn’t slouch, but Jesus did huff as he stood to follow Fernando back up to the office. “You can just tell me—”

“Or we could just go over it together,” Fernando said in his most logical tone.

“Sometimes I wonder if you remember who is the boss here,” Jesus complained, though not seriously.

Fernando snorted at that. “You’re the stick. We all know that me—and Gemelo now—are what keep this operation running smoothly. You’d be a wreck without us.”

That got a small chuff from Jesus. “I suppose so,” he admitted. “Let’s go see what Gemelo found. He said something about someone skimming.”

“There’s always skimming,” Fernando said dismissively.

“More than twenty percent?”

That was a different story. “Let’s just have at that, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Duo heard Jesus get out of bed and simply ignored him. He could hear him go downstairs and start moving around in the kitchen. He was more than content to continue ignoring him until a burning smell floated up to him and the smoke alarm went off. 

He was out of bed and dashing down the stairs in instants, only to blink down at what appeared to be Jesus standing over a smoking pan on the stove, and Angel—tonight's “guard”—looking at a loss on how to deal with his boss and uncle. Rolling his eyes, Duo quickly finished patting down the stairs, leaped up on the island to turn off the fire alarm, before jumping back down and smoothly taking the pan off the heat and opening the window over the sink. 

"Give me the phone," he warned just as it began to ring. Angel handed it to him like it was on fire, and Duo assured emergency services it was a false alarm. That done, he went around the floor, opening every window he could, and flipping on the fan. 

As the air cleared, Duo went back to the sink and the blackened pan. Whatever had been in it was unrecognizable. He turned to Jesus. "What exactly were you trying to do? Apart from burn down the building."

Jesus was rumpled, which Duo wasn't used to seeing outside of bed. But then, his internal clock told him it was after one in the morning. He was struck by how attractive the man was, something he didn't usually pay much attention to. His hair was long on top, usually worn slicked back, but with enough volume and length to make running fingers through it a tactile pleasure. Right now, it was falling in his face in disarray, softening his usually austere features, making him look younger.  

"I had a taste for something sweet," Jesus admitted grudgingly. He then straightened to his full height and met Duo's eyes as if challenging him. He’d been defensive since Duo had ruthlessly shot down the idea of the surgery. Duo’s temper still flared up when he thought about it, so things had been tense for the past several weeks because of it.

Duo glanced back into the pan and could see how that may have started as sugar. "The cookies in the pantry wouldn't have worked?" he asked, seeing Angel fretting as silently as possible out of the corner of his eye. The promotion to overnight guard was relatively new, and he was obviously intimidated by his uncle. Duo had pointed out that Jesus's best people served him better when they were well-rested and could be up and about with him. Even those closest to Jesus and most protective of him (read: Fer) grudgingly admitted that having a guard when Duo was with him at night was superfluous at best. It meant that Angel was mostly for show and had not expected to try and manage Jesus. It didn’t help that there was a very select pool of members who were even allowed to know what Jesus looked like.

It showed.

Making a mental note to talk to Fernando about putting cannon fodder on guard duty, Duo pointed to the island. "Go. Sit. I'll make you something." 

Jesus looked skeptical. "You can cook?"

"Better than you obviously can, yes."

"I've never seen you cook."

"You have noticed that you have a cook for when you eat here, right? Speaking of which—you get to explain to Luana what happened to her favorite pan." He bent down to pull out a couple of other pans, noticing the bananas and bread next to the stove. "Were you going for bananas Fosters or french toast or something?"

"Yes?"

Duo straightened and put the pans on the stove. He turned to look Jesus, who was moving around to sit at the other side of the island. "Have you ever made bananas Foster?"

"Have you?"

"Yes, actually. Even bananas Foster french toast." He could still see the skepticism in Jesus's face. "It's cooking, Jesus, not rocket science. Angel, sit."

He could feel the weight of Jesus's eyes as he moved around the kitchen with familiarity, collecting the required ingredients, deciding to skip the rum this late at night. Jesus had only had the barest idea of what was needed out—what the hell had he been thinking?

"How did you learn to cook?" The question came laced with suspicion. Duo sighed internally. After more than a year and a half, he would have thought they were beyond this, but Jesus had been a little bitchier and more distant since Duo refused to be a surgical experiment.

"During the war, if you must know," he admitted, glancing over his shoulder as he whisked the butter and brown sugar together for the caramel base. 

"You were Rebellion."

Duo laughed. "Which means I stayed in some unconventional places. There were some Rebellion supporters who were rather wealthy. I found a lot more comfort with their staff than them, so I spent some time in fine-dining-worthy kitchens." That was even mostly true—though he'd actually found his way to the kitchens to give Trowa and Quatre some space to figure each other out. He dumped the caramel base into a pan, turned on the vent, and moved on to the egg mixture. "In my experience, most chefs are more than happy to teach, given the opportunity."

"I'm sure you were an apt pupil." There was a dryness in Jesus's voice that made Duo pause and turn to face him. Unable to decipher his expression, he turned back to what he was doing. 

"I'm a better baker than a cook, but I can handle myself in the kitchen."

"Better baker?" Now he sounded intrigued. 

It surprised a chuckle from Duo. "Yes. Baking is a science," he said. "I'm good with science."

"There is not much in my experience that you are not good with."

Duo shrugged. "I suck at history. I can't draw unless it's a technical diagram, forget any other traditional art mediums. I know almost nothing about fine literature." He paused. "Outside of Austen."

"Those are knowledge gaps," Jesus pointed out, "At least the history and literature are. They don't indicate a lack of proficiency." It wasn't quite an accusation, more like thinking aloud.

Duo set the first piece of toast on the griddle. "I'm not much of a reader, so I'm not sure when I'd fill those gaps."

"I've seen you with a book." Duo thought that Angel surprised both him and Jesus by speaking because when he turned, it was to see Angel shrinking under Jesus's stare. 

"Uh, yeah, but I read fluff."

"Fluff?" Angel couldn't help but ask since Duo hadn't shut him down. 

Jesus snorted. "He means trashy romance novels." His thoughts about that were clear in his voice.

Angel stared, and the abject shock made Duo laugh in spite of himself. "I live in the real world. It's nice to read about people whose greatest problems are their inability to communicate. And," he pointed the spatula at Jesus. "I'll have you know, I'm actually quite picky about my fluff." He mixed the caramel sauce, making sure it didn't crystalize or burn since this was when he'd usually add the rum.

This time, Jesus actually rolled his eyes. "The fluffier the better."

Keeping an eye on the sauce, Duo tossed a couple pieces of french toast on a plate, slicing bananas over it, then adding the sauce before sliding the plate in front of Jesus. "There's a reason for that. Anything that includes a fight, a war, a battle, or science is almost invariably wrong. And they make me crazy. So I go for comedy of errors things."

"Which explains why you've actually read Austen," Jesus commented dryly.

"Someone recommended her to me when she realized what I read, so yes."

"I just thought..." Angel trailed off.

Duo smiled at him as he slid a plate to him before making his own.

"Thought I'd like all the doom and gloom and gore?"

Angel shrugged. 

"It does seem to fit you better," Jesus said, but with something almost apologetic in his voice. 

Duo made a plate for himself, set it to the side, and began to clean up. "I may be good at that, but I don't take any particular enjoyment in it."

"Sit down, Gemelo. You cooked. You should not have to clean."

"Unlike some, I'd prefer to stay on Luana's good side. I'm not leaving her kitchen a mess."

Jesus watched Gemelo's back as he turned to finish cleaning up. He had, Jesus realized, been cleaning as he went, so aside from putting the leftovers away and washing the pans and griddle, he didn't actually have a lot to do. 

He looked down at his empty plate—he'd been hungrier than he thought, and the meal had hit his craving exactly right. He stood to take his plate to the sink. 

"Did you want more?" Gemelo asked.

"It was perfect. Thank you," he assured, moving Gemelo gently, but firmly to the side. "Go eat. I can get this."

"You don't—"

"Mamá taught her children how to do the dishes, Gemelo. I have this." He reached to run a hand down Gemelo's sleep-mussed braid. Jesus had never met anyone he had felt so compelled to touch. Had not ever had a lover who welcomed it. He never saw fear in those strange eyes. Never indecision or reluctance. Gemelo easily turned his face into Jesus's palm when he cupped it. He leaned down and placed a kiss on Gemelo's forehead before capturing his lips gently, sweetly. When they parted and Gemelo opened his eyes, a small smile curled at his lips. Jesus felt his own smile answer. "Go." He reached out to snag Gemelo's plate and place it in his hands. Gemelo rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling as he went around the island to seat himself and eat. 

Jesus watched him for a moment before catching Angel midyawn. "Angel," he said. 

His nephew snapped to attention. "Yes?"

"Go to bed."

He looked very uncertain, brows furrowing, eyes darting side to side, but he did say, "But..."

"No buts," Jesus replied promptly. "You're exhausted, and the idea that Gemelo is not enough is laughable. Go take the spare room and sleep." 

Angel actually bit his lip with indecision. 

"Go, Angel," Gemelo spoke up. "If something can get through me, they deserve to get Jesus. You won't make much difference."

Angel’s large shoulders rose and fell. "Thank you, for the food," he told Gemelo. 

Gemelo shrugged, the oversized shirt—Jesus's—he was wearing slipping off a shoulder to reveal the start of his phoenix sleeve and displaying Jesus’s name on his neck. "De nada." Seeing that shoulder was distracting, and Jesus realized that Gemelo had been adjusting the shirt frequently as he cooked to avoid it. 

After Angel disappeared around the corner, Gemelo laughed softly and shook his head. "Muerte mía, he's still so green."

Muerte mía—my death. He'd heard Gemelo say it before, seemingly falling as easily from his lips as Dios mío Jesus's own. He'd never asked about. "I think it's a good indicator of how much Fer actually believes I still need a guard at night. He may never like you, but he's learned to trust you."

"The kid makes me feel old," Gemelo admitted.

Given his life experience, that made sense, so Jesus turned to finish the dishes. He about jumped out of his skin a few minutes later as Gemelo appeared at his elbow with his empty plate and Angel’s. He had been reaching for a gun he wasn't wearing, and Gemelo had the gall to laugh at him.

"Didn't mean to startle you."

That shoulder was still bared as if teasing him, the colors bright against the white shirt. 

"I can finish up," he volunteered, bumping Jesus with his hip. 

"Go back to bed. I'm almost done anyway."

"I'm awake now. I probably won't go back to sleep tonight." 

Jesus knew that. It was why he had tried not to wake Gemelo when he got up. He slept so lightly, Jesus had thought it unlikely that he'd been as stealthy as he'd desired, but he had tried. And once awakened, Gemelo did not return easily to sleep. 

Ignoring him, Gemelo at least took the plates and forks to load in the dishwasher, then began to move around the apartment, closing the windows and turning off the fan. Jesus set the griddle on a drying towel and closed the window over the sink as Gemelo sat himself back at the island. 

"I can hear you thinking," Jesus prodded, leaning against the sink as he dried his hands.

Gemelo shook his head. "It's stupid."

Now he had to know. "Try me."

He was quiet for a moment before saying, reluctantly, "You mentioned your mom. I know she's still around, but you never talk about her."

Jesus sighed. "She is a strong woman, and she has strong opinions. She has told me that as long as this is my path, not to consider myself her son. We don't speak, so there's not much to say about her. Marianna speaks to her still, sometimes. She hasn't cut herself off from her grandchildren. Well, I think she has from Angel, all things considered, but she keeps in touch with Marianna because of her children. Since I have no children, she does not have to make such compromises with me."

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for. It was my decision. This is the life I have chosen.” His eyes got sharp. “What made you chose this? You were a Preventer, a Gundam pilot. Surely you had more avenues open to you than this?”

The question surprised Duo, but maybe it shouldn’t have. For all the reveals he’d done recently, Jesus had been undemanding and accepting of them, not challenging Duo, even though it would be smart to do so.

He sighed, considering the question seriously. “I guess… it’s comfortable,” he said, choosing his words with care. “A few years’ stroll on the right side of the law… I don’t think it erases a lifetime of being outside of it. Having to play by the rules instead of making my own, maybe that’s just not meant for someone raised on the wrong side of the ring?”

“How old were you?” Jesus asked. “The first time you killed someone?”

Duo couldn’t help it, he stared. He was almost certain he’d never been asked that outright before.

“I was sixteen,” Jesus offered. “He was harassing Marianna,” he added with a shrug, as if killing someone over that simply couldn’t be helped.

“How did you get away with that?” Duo had to wonder.

“It was a car accident,” he said, and a dark satisfaction filled his eyes. “Such a shame.”

Shini stirred in response to that satisfaction; Duo knew that feeling. Knew how it felt to take someone off the board and ensure they would never harm or threaten anyone ever again. Almost all of his childhood kills had been motivated by that drive.

“Seven. I think,” he answered. His hand hadn’t healed by the time he was rounded up for the church.

Jesus’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Seven?”

A sense memory of the man’s weight, the scent of his sweat, the trash Duo’s nose had been whispered forward. He shoved them down with the memories of rage, of the first time Shinigami found him, the first time he experienced that rush of power, the grim delight he’d taken in making that man fear him.

He met Jesus’s eyes and saw a little shudder of pleasure go through Jesus when Duo said, “Yes.”

Jesus reached across the island to cup Duo’s cheek, and the respect and desire and acceptance in his eyes moved Duo more than he expected.

He put his own hand over Jesus’s, and he realized that he was in trouble. 

Before... before seeing that bare emotion in Jesus, he could see himself on this path for real.

Now... Now, he wanted to be at Jesus's side, no matter what. He wanted to hold and be held by, to allow someone else to be the strong one again. He wanted to protect and keep Jesus, as much as Jesus wanted to protect and keep him. 

He was in over his head. He knew it. He kissed Jesus's palm and was surprised when Jesus gently pulled on Duo's hands, sliding the long sleeves up to bare his wrists. It occurred to Duo that in all the time he'd been sleeping with Jesus, Jesus had never studied him quite like this, in the bright light, his wrists bare of the sheathes that he often slept with. 

He had never slit his own wrists. He knew it's a lousy way to kill yourself. But his wrists were scarred from manacles and ropes rubbing raw, mostly from being a prisoner during the war. They were paler patches on his already pale skin, and they were big enough that they don't look like traditional scars, were almost invisible if not observed in good light.

I let someone shove knives under my skin, and they're still there. Those scars are where they went in, and where they come out again when I need them. 

Jesus's touch was reverent as he traced the edges of the scars. Scars that he never noticed in the heat of the moment. He moved down to Duo's palms and gently pressed them open. 

The centers of both palms were a mass of scar tissue—tissue that had to be painfully stretched out and flexed while those wounds healed to ensure his range of motion was not damaged. He couldn’t explain those scars. 

I have gundamium plates in my palms so strong, I can catch bullets. The scars are where I've had to have skin regrown from testing them.

Jesus didn’t ask, instead pressing a reverent kiss to each damaged and callused palm, before turning his hands over. 

Small scars litter them, from bumps, bangs, bruises, scrapes, cuts. He wore fingerless gloves often to hide the living battlefields that are his hands. But among them, centered in the back of his right hand, was a noticeably straight vertical scar. It was the most faded scar on his hands, but the unnaturalness of its shape drew attention to it. 

When I was seven, someone drove a broken piece of glass through my hand to keep me in place. He'd become the first man I ever killed. There used to be a matching scar on my palm. 

Jesus didn’t ask about a single one—as if merely touching them told him all he needed to know—just rained worship down on Duo's hands.

It was too much. Duo launched himself out of his seat, straight over the island, into Jesus's arms, claiming his mouth. Jesus eased the kiss back, gentled it, made it as worshipful as the kisses to Duo's hands were, and Duo could barely reconcile the needy sound he made as his own. 

Somehow, they stumbled their way back up to their room where Jesus continued to work and laved seemingly every scar on Duo's body—and sweet Reaper, there were so many—with the same care and reverence. 

By the time Jesus finally, finally, sank into him, Duo felt like every bit of his skin has been wired to his prostate. Every brush, touch, kiss, caress seemed to set off fireworks behind his eyes. He bucked and whined, needing more, more pace, more force. The intensity and the intimacy were too much. But Jesus wouldn’t let him rush, controlled the pace as if he wasn’t also gasping for breath, as if sweat weren’t dripping from his body as it trembled under his iron will. 

Caught too long on that too-intense edge, Duo's orgasm blindsided him. 

Awareness was slow to come back. He was curled up tightly against Jesus's side, could hear the strong, steady, lulling drum of Jesus's heart. A stripe of sunlight from between the curtains warmed his back.

Sun? 

Duo jolted upright and turned to stare at the window.

I... don't remember anything after coming. The thought scared him. He had never lost time like this for any reason other than extreme exhaustion, a hit to the head, or drugs. But he cooked the meal last night, and he knew it wasn't drugged. He had been a little sleep deprived, but he usually was. Looking at the clock on the wall, it was nearing noon. What the hell are we both still doing in bed?

The thought was followed quickly by another. I slept for over ten hours.

When was the last time he had done that? 

Jesus's arm moved around his waist and gently tugged for him to lie back down. 

"I called Fernando and gave us both the day off." Jesus's voice is rough with sleep. "I was starting to worry about you." He moved his hand from Duo's waist to begin to card through the ends of his hair pooled on the bed between them. 

Duo rubbed the sleep from his eyes, reluctant to lie back down for no reason he could name. He turned to look at Jesus, saw the sleep-mussed hair, the lazy but pleased smile, and his satisfaction was so thick, it was nearly tangible. Duo's heart swelled for a moment before coming to an abrupt halt. 

The instinct to run, run now, run far, and not stop is paralyzing. Which turned out to be a good thing, because fast on the heels of that instinct was a certainty that he has just signed Jesus's death certificate, so vile, it turned his stomach. 

He had bargained with Death once for a lover's life; look how well that had turned out.

Fortunately, or not, the paralyzing effect still seemed to be in play because he didn’t know what he would say to Jesus if his response to the most amazing sex of his life was to be violently sick upon his return to consciousness. Needing a distraction, Duo gathered his hair over his shoulder and began finger combing the tangles from it. Jesus began tracing the lines of Duo's back tattoo instead. It was something he did often, a lazy intimacy. 

It felt different this time. He wasn't surprised when Jesus asked, "Why the cross? Obviously 'Father' and 'Sister' don't refer to your blood relatives. And I know you've no love for God."

Did it actually do any harm to tell him at this point? It had been much more dangerous to admit to being a Gundam pilot with how many people still wanted to kill them.

"Would you believe I spent some time at a Catholic orphanage?"

Jesus's touch stilled, and Duo could feel him sit up.

"I'm thinking it didn't go so well." He traced the length of the cross that ran down his spine, stopping at the bottom of his rib cage. 

"No," he agreed. "It didn't go so well. I was there for about a year. I got fostered out a few times—I was seven, I guess. It was… after…” After I killed the man who raped me. “I was older than kids are normally fostered, but pretty enough to be the exception, I guess. Old enough to be too feral to keep. I never spent more than a couple weeks with a family before being sent back to the Church—the orphanage was run out of it. It was run by a priest and a nun—they were the closest thing to parents I ever had."

"So 'Father' and 'Sister'..." He traced the banners as he said each name. 

"Father Maxwell and Sister Helen."

Jesus sat up straighter. "Maxwell?" he asked, surprised. 

Duo nodded, reaching up to touch the back of his neck where the top of the cross rested. "Yes. Same Maxwell. I have no memory of my life before L2—I didn't even know my own name. I took Maxwell after they died."

"What happened?"

"The Alliance. It's why I joined the Rebellion when it came looking. Some idiot terrorist group—I'm not even sure who—decided to hole up in the church, figuring a couple hundred kids as hostages would keep them safe." He sighed. The pain was old, but it had been a long time since he'd spoken of it, and somehow, speaking of it always seemed to open those wounds. "They were wrong. The Alliance leveled the church and everyone in it. Two hundred forty-five dead, most of them kids, and of course Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. And a dozen or so rebellious terrorists."

"You survived?"

"Oh, I wasn't there when it was blown." He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, but that memory would always be bitter. "No, I had just wanted those idiots gone. They said they needed a mobile suit to leave—so I had gone to the local base to get one. By the time I got back with the suit, it was too late. There wasn't anything left to save."

"You're telling me you actually managed to steal a mobile suit when you were seven?"

Duo shifted so he didn't have to look over his shoulder to see Jesus. "I was precocious." He grinned as he remembered the rush of pride he'd felt as he piloted that suit for the first time. That rush had been forgotten so quickly in the aftermath, and the grin faded. "And after that, I was angry. Not at the terrorists. Even as a kid, I knew the Alliance was a problem. I'd survived two of the street 'cleanses' they'd run, giving a plague to street kids under the guise of vaccinations. So I didn't blame the idiots who'd come into the church trying to use it as sanctuary. I mean, they were stupid and mean, but I don't think they would have ever come in if they seriously thought the Alliance would attack it."

"How did killing over two hundred children not make sphere-wide news?"

It was the closest he'd ever seen Jesus to being naive. "They had spread plagues to try to get rid of us. Father Maxwell was seen as a crazy radical to think he could do anything for us. I suspect the Alliance paid off the Church for the deaths of the clergy and, frankly, there was simply no one there to mourn the children."

"Except you."

"Except me," Duo agreed. 

"If I looked, would I find record of an attack on that base?"

The smile Duo flashed him this time was all teeth and nothing nice. "Probably. I don't think they ever reported the theft of the suit—too embarrassed. And they recovered the suit while I was searching the rubble for survivors. They didn't catch me. I made a nuisance of myself for the next five years—so much so that they called me 'Maxwell's Demon' and most soldiers thought the base was haunted or cursed." 

Jesus threw his head back and laughed, a delighted sound that made Duo smile in return. He didn't often remember the humor, but at the time, he'd gleefully looked for the most irritating and frustrating ways to cause problems on the base. It was a time before he had escalated to the level of death and destruction he would after joining the Gundam program. Before the last plague came through and left him the last man standing for the third time. 

"So a memorial?" Jesus came back to the original question, stroking down the cross again. 

Duo nodded. "I used to wear a cross that Sister Helen had given me, but I lost it at the same time I lost my partner, so I guess I felt the need to replace it."

Jesus reached up to tangle his hand in Duo's nape. "They would be proud of you."

The snort was entirely involuntary. "They would be horrified," he replied. No matter how much he'd loved them, their disappointed specters didn't hang over him. He had never thought he'd live up to their expectations, so the failure didn't bother him. 

"You survived," Jesus pointed out with the tone of someone trying to be rational.

"By stealing, whoring, and killing. Not quite what they had in mind for me."

"But you survived." He began to massage the base of Duo's skull.

Duo hummed in appreciation. "Not sure how they'd feel about the sex with men thing either. They were Catholic, after all." But he was teasing now, and from Jesus's growing grin, he realized it too.

Jesus made a face, as if he were considering the issue seriously, but his fingers never stopped moving. "That one is a bit of a problem. Well, the only man you're having sex with these days is me. Maybe if we made it official, they could overlook the issue?"

The cavalier attitude had Duo smiling in amusement until the last thing penetrated. He went still, meeting Jesus's eyes. Not wanting to be distracted, he removed Jesus's hand from his neck.

"What," he began slowly, "exactly are you asking?"

Jesus smiled. "You know what I'm asking."

Duo wasn't amused. "Spell it out for me."

"Marry me."

Shaking his head, Duo replied, "You can't want to—" 

But Jesus interrupted him, shushing him, "I don't need an answer now. Or even today. Or next week." Duo's panic must have shown on his face because Jesus added, "Or even next month." He reached back up to stroke Duo's cheek. "There is no rush. I simply want you to know what I want. What I hope for."

"I..." He had no words. His chest was tight with a panic he hadn't felt in years. The last time Jesus had suggested it, he’d been teasing, not serious. There was no doubting how serious he was this time.

"Shh..." Jesus reached up to pull Duo back down to him, laying Duo's head on his chest, stroking his fingers through Duo's hair. "No answer is required now."
           
A fine tremble made his hands twitch, and Duo clenched both hands into fists to hide it. Of everything Jesus could have asked him, he didn't think anything could have possibly surprised him this much. 

Or frightened him more.

Chapter Text

Fernando found Gemelo beating the hell out of a punching bag in the gym as dinnertime was approaching. He had lost everything but a tanktop—it was rare for him to flash so much skin—shorts, and gloves. The sheen of sweat told him that Gemelo had been going at it for a while, but he didn't seem inclined to let up. The bag was swinging far more than Gemelo's slight weight should have been able to make it. 

The gym was otherwise empty, and Fernando wasn't surprised. Gemelo's ferocity seemed to crackle in the air. Even if most of the men didn’t know who he was, none of them would have wanted to be around him in this state—too worried his barely-contained rage would find a new target if they lingered. 

"What do you want, Fernando?" 

He really should not still be surprised that Gemelo could do that, know someone was there when all of his attention appeared to be focused elsewhere. And he barely sounded winded. 

"Jesus told me."

Gemelo didn't miss a beat in his assault on the bag. "And?"

"It’s been over a week. You seem quite upset." That was an understatement.

That got Gemelo to stop, turn, and face him. His face was streaked with sweat, bangs matted with it. His hair was in a ponytail for a change, and strands plastered to his neck and shoulders. Strangely, he wasn't flushed, but the disarrayed hair made him look wild and feral. His eyes locked on Fernando as if he were prey. 

"You're less upset than I would have expected," Gemelo commented after a long moment. 

Fernando waved a hand dismissively, pushing down the thrill of fear that wanted to climb up his throat. "Jesus does not listen to me when it comes to you. I am used to it."

Gemelo turned back to his bag, but the hits he delivered were not quite as vicious. "Please tell me you have someone for me to kill."

"Call me crazy, but most people do not fly into homicidal rages when their lovers propose."

"Well, you don't like me, and I haven't said yes, so you didn't come down here to congratulate me. You don't care about me, period, so it's not like you came to chat." He landed a particularly harsh blow on the bag that set it swinging. "Mostly, you only talk to me when you have something for me to do. Ergo"—he whipped a slash at the bag that made it spin, twisting up its chain—"you have something else you want. I’m hoping you need me to kill someone." He was finally breathing a little hard, but he reached to stop the bag from continuing to twist as it unwound itself. "For the record, you don't want to see me in a homicidal rage."

The quiet certainty in his voice sent a shudder through Fernando. Despite that, he was intrigued. He wasn't sure how he thought Gemelo should have reacted to a marriage proposal, but this was not it. He was lashing out, defensive. Almost... panicked? Was that even possible?

He looked more carefully, took in the tension that ran through Gemelo's body. He was so tight, even standing still, he was virtually vibrating with it. 

The realization startled a laugh out of Fernando, and Gemelo jumped as if a shot had gone off, whirling to face Fernando, crouching, ready to attack. 

Fernando sat on a nearby exercise bench. "I never thought I would see the day. You're actually terrified." He laughed again. "Jesus used to nearly strangle the life out of you, and you do not bat an eye, but he proposes to you, and you're like a cornered animal." He shook his head, knowing that Gemelo did not share his amusement, and trying to get himself under control. "You are seriously messed up in the head, you know that?"

The only response he got was a glare before Gemelo went over to a machine that had a towel thrown over, and began toweling off. It occurred to Fernando as he watched him, that Gemelo had no friends among the Kings. Jesus was his center, his only bond within the cartel. Due to his proximity to Jesus, few knew him, and while the few younger members who did, like Angel, seemed to like him, when they forgot how scary he actually was, but he wasn't friends with them. He was too close to Jesus; they were too far below Jesus to have reason to spend time with them. And Jesus was so jealous, that even if Gemelo wanted to, it was unlikely any of the young guns would risk Jesus's negative attention to befriend him. The lieutenants were all too wary of him and his position with Jesus to like him—if they weren't outright afraid of him. 

Gemelo had no one to talk to. No one he could express his emotions to. No one to reassure him or to tell him he was being stupid except Jesus himself, and this was the one thing that Jesus could not help with. 

Except for Jesus, Gemelo was alone.

Why had he not realized that before? 

If something about Jesus proposing had scared him, he had no outlet for it. Of course he was abusing an innocent punching bag or seeking a kill just to have some way to release that energy. 

"Why are you so scared?" The question was out of his mouth before he realized he had decided to ask. To his credit, Gemelo didn't deny it, but he didn't answer either. So Fernando pushed. "No matter our differences, even I can see that you care for him. I would think this would make you happy."

Gemelo was silent and still for so long, Fernando was about to give up. When his voice pierced the eerie silence of the gym, it carried a thread of anger that surprised him. "He was supposed to be safe."

"Huh?"

Apparently Gemelo needed to talk more than he disliked Fernando, because his shoulders slumped. "Jesus is a sociopath. He's not supposed to be able to care about me like this. He's not supposed to want to marry me. He should have been safe."

Fernando wasn't quite following the logic, so he started with the first assertion. "He's not a complete sociopath. You've seen him with Marianna. He adores her." He paused, thinking. "I will admit that the people he seems to be able to emotionally attach to are... limited. But his rules have never seemed to apply to you. But I don't understand how being involved with someone you expected to be a sociopath could be safe by any definition of the word."

Gemelo sighed. "It's going to sound stupid."

"I've heard stupid. Try me."

He would not look at Fernando as he said it, but finally, as if it were being dragged from him, he said, "People who care about me... deeply..." He sighed again. "They don't have happy endings."

It took a moment for Fernando to parse what he really meant. "Are you trying to say people who love you are doomed to die?" The incredulity was impossible to keep from his voice. 

"I told you it would sound stupid."

Fernando cursed. "I never expected you to be someone to believe such superstitious nonsense." He threw up his hands. "Did you really start sleeping with Jesus because he was crazy and you thought he couldn't love you?"

When he said love, Gemelo winced as if he'd been slapped. Fernando stared. Dios mío, he really does believe it. He really thinks that loving him is a death sentence.

Small wonder the kid was so fucked up in the head. 

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that."

"It sounds stupid because it is stupid!" Fernando snapped. 

"The number of people I've buried says otherwise."

He did not splutter. “Your ex-partner is still alive."

Gemelo went very still. "Does Jesus know?"

Even though Gemelo's back was still turned, Fernando shook his head. "I thought discretion was the better part of valor on that account. You've had no contact with him that I can find since he left the Preventers. I thought it was better not to risk making Jesus jealous about something that was obviously over."

"He doesn't remember me."

It was said so quietly, Fernando wasn't sure he heard it right. "Come again?"

"My partner." Gemelo sat down heavily on the floor, elbows on knees, staring at his hands. "Ex-partner. He doesn't remember me."

"I wondered why he left—thought maybe he just had enough with the buildings falling on his head and all."

Gemelo shook his head. "He took a bad hit in the head on our last mission together. Dissociative amnesia. He doesn't remember anything about his life or people in it before waking up in the hospital."

"That must have been difficult when you told him what you had been."

He shook his head again. "I never told him. I wanted to, but the doctors said that because we weren't married and I had no legal claim on him, trying to re-establish the relationship could do more harm than good. That he may feel pressured into a relationship he may longer wish to pursue." He laughed, but to Fernando's ear, it sounded more like a caged scream. "Obviously, he never wished to have anything to do with his old life, because after a couple months, he pretty much said 'fuck it' and just walked away." He sighed. "Even if he hadn't, it would never have worked between us again—not without his memories. Our experiences shape us too much, color our perceptions too much. The man I loved is dead. That guy out there now? Just a stranger with his face. He's worse than dead. He's been erased. Please, explain to me how that's better."

Fernando had the grace to wince. If Gemelo's record was extreme enough to make him believe this nonsense, it must be pretty substantive. 

"And you thought since Jesus couldn't love you, he would be safe."

"It sounds particularly stupid when someone else says it, but yes. Even if I was stupid enough to..." He visibly struggled before deciding on, "feel more than I should for him, it wouldn't matter because he couldn't return it."

Fernando shook his head in amazement as he understood. "You were never afraid of Jesus because you didn't care if he killed you. Now you care about him, and know that he cares about you..."

Gemelo hung his head and buried his fingers in his hair. For the first time since Fernando had met Gemelo, he looked his age. It was so easy to forget how young he was. Barely twenty-one. Involved with a man twice his age, and enough life experience for a someone older twice again. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was probably in love with Jesus. And the most terrifying thing in his life was the idea that Jesus may love him back.

"He can't love me, Fer."

It was the first time Gemelo had called him anything less than his full name, and it was Fernando's turn to sigh. "Like I said, Jesus's rules have never applied to you. I don't know why this would be different."

"You said that before. How don't his rules apply?" he asked, sitting back up, looking attentive.

Fernando thought back to all the different things he had told himself to try and comfort himself that Gemelo was not a permanent fixture. "At first, I thought you were no problem. He finds women weak, and he doesn't like petite, pretty men for the same reason. He liked them big—not quite as big as him, but, well, manly," he said, at a loss for a better way to describe it. "The first few times he saw you fight, despite your dominance in the arena, he didn't seem at all interested. I'm sure you know he's slept with sponsored fighters before?" Gemelo nodded, so he continued. "But you, nothing. Not until you freaked Rafael out. Then you piqued his interest."

He folded his arms, remembering. "The kill was enough to seal the deal. You were tough enough to get him past the pretty. Now, I think he even likes how small you are. But even when he took you to bed, I thought 'oh, no big deal. He never sleeps with the same guy more than a couple times. He'll get bored.'"

"But he didn't get bored," Gemelo filled in for him.

"Not only did he not get bored, he wanted you around all the time. It was like nothing I've ever seen with him. Before you, he was all about the chase, the pursuit. Nailing the guy was almost an afterthought—it was getting him over the finish line that did it. He didn't have to chase you at all—you practically rolled over and into his bed. I thought 'no way more than once.' I could not make sense of it. And the way he is with you." He shook his head. "I've known Jesus since we were kids. Do you know his longest relationship before you was two months? When he kept you around, I told myself, again, 'He'll get bored. This Gemelo is just a kid. He's not that interesting.' I was wrong again. To my shock, when I suggested that very thing, Jesus about lost his head. You were his—something else new. He never used to be jealous or possessive. Since it was all about the chase, he didn't care if someone moved in behind him. But someone said you should go? Forget it. He wouldn't hear of it."

"I almost feel like you're expecting me to apologize, but I didn't actually do anything."

"I know," Fernando agreed. "You were just you. It was apparently enough. And then he moved so quickly to involving you in things that people are usually eased into over years, things like Jimenez, things like distro. I tried to deal with that. Then I started noticing that you could direct him, influence him. You got him down off his ledges when he was ready to do something that could be bad for us all in a fit of temper. That used to be something I did. And I would have to fight him every step of the way. But you, he listened to you. We are more organized, more profitable, have had fewer run-ins with the law than we did before you began manipulating him. I don't think he even sees it. And since all of the results of your manipulations are good, it's rather hard to complain about them."

Gemelo shrugged, not denying it. "He knows when I'm doing it. I don't know why he lets me when he used to fight you tooth-and-nail, but I can see how that would be frustrating."

"Oh, that was just irritating. Frustrating is why the hell you put up with it all. Despite this superstitious death nonsense, you don't have low self-esteem. You could kill Jesus anytime you want, can certainly fight him off—frustrating was Jesus blithely ignoring how dangerous you could be to him. You know what you look like, could have, I'm sure, any number of sugar daddies to support you if you wanted. Ones who didn't turn your neck black and blue, who would treat you like a treasure."

Raising a doubtful eyebrow, Gemelo said, "I think you're overestimating my charms a bit." He held out his arms as if making a point. "Not all of me is as pretty as my face."

"But you're not just pretty—you're smart." Fernando pointed at his own temple in emphasis. "A lot smarter than you like to let on. You could have nearly anyone eating out of your fingers if you wanted to put the effort toward it. So why Jesus? And I've seen you two together a lot over the past year and a half. You don't do anything special that I can see. The only thing I can think of is... you're just not afraid of him. I have never seen the slightest hint of fear in you until now. Even when he was actively strangling you, you never flinched. Everyone else I've ever seen him with... there's that flinch when he gets in their face, that uncertainty. Like, 'if I go with him, maybe I'm not coming back,' no?" He met Gemelo's eyes squarely, and just as fearless as he was with Jesus, there was no give in them now. "You never once flinched. Till now. Why were you so sure he wouldn't hurt you?"

Gemelo finally blinked and Fernando felt like he could look away. "It's not that I was sure he wouldn't hurt me. I just didn't care if he did."

"You really didn't care if he killed you?" Even though he'd confirmed it earlier, Fernando was having a hard time wrapping his head around it. 

"I was in a bad place when I met Jesus. It's why I fell into his bed so easily. I didn't care enough to put up a fight if he wanted me. His attention was nice too. It has a weight to it. It's different than most people's. Doesn't hurt that he's good in bed." He grinned at Fernando's wince. 

"I actually knew that because of how some of his conquests acted. He may have had to convince them into his bed, but some needed a firm foot on ass to get them out once they were there." He cleared his throat, unnerved by the easy camaraderie between. It occurred to him that under other circumstances, he and Gemelo might actually be friends. "Anyway, back to the original point; the rules have never applied to you."

They were quiet for a few moments before Gemelo asked, "What are we going to do? Do I leave?"

"Do you want to?" Fernando asked, surprised to even hear him suggest it.

"No."

"Do you believe it would change anything if you did?"

He put his arms behind him, and leaned his head all the way back to look at the ceiling. "I don't know. Maybe? Would Jesus even let me leave?"

Fernando snorted. "Not if he could help it. He'd track you to the ends of the earth."

"Maybe if I told him I didn't want him?" He didn't sound like he thought it would work.

"Sure. And tomorrow the sun would rise in the west." His sarcasm got Gemelo's head to come back up. "Look, no matter how you and I feel about each other, I know that you have feelings for Jesus. You would have met with an accident a long time ago if I hadn't."

How infuriating that Gemelo didn't even bat an eye at the Fernando's casual mention of killing him.

"I don't have any particular problem with you, aside from the constant suspicion grating on my nerves,” Gemelo said. “The antipathy is all on your side. And any accident you arranged would probably have blown up in your face. I'm really, really hard to kill." Whatever face he was making prompted Gemelo to add, "The reason I hadn't blown my own head off before I met Jesus wasn't because I was too chicken to do it. It's because every gun I tried would jam."

At Fernando's incredulous sound, he continued, "Seriously. It didn't matter if it was mine, if it was a friend's, an enemy's, what caliber, I could have just fired it, just taken it apart, cleaned it, reassembled it. Hell, it would usually even fire perfectly fine if I aimed anywhere but at myself. I pointed it at my head? Jammed. Every. Time. Considering that, I decided I didn't want to see what would go wrong with more... gruesome forms of self-destruction. At this point, I'm pretty sure I could stand on a bomb meant to bring down a city block, and I would be the only thing left standing." 

Seeing the sincerity in Gemelo's face, Fernando said, "You're serious."

"Try and shoot me and find out. Ten to one, it jams."

"Jesus would kill me if he knew I had ever pointed a gun at you. Much less tried to fire it."

"It'll jam. There's no reason he needs to know."

"Thank you, no. If I want to end myself, I think I'll put a bullet in my own head, thank you very much. Jesus would not be so quick or kind. Besides, you have been shot."

"Not recently. And I don't know that I've ever been shot by someone specifically aiming at me. If it's a clean shot, something will go wrong. Hail of bullets—yeah, I can get caught in that. Clean shot..." He shook his head. "It'll never go." 

Part of him was sorely tempted to try it, but the wiser part of him spoke up. "So, back to the problem at hand. Jesus wants to marry you. What are you going to do about that?"

Gemelo dug his hands back in his hair and hung his head again. "I don't know."

"You said you don't want to leave."

"No."

"Then don't."

"If only it were that simple."

"Quit behaving like a child. You don't want to leave, so don't. Much as it grieves me to admit, you make Jesus happy. I would even go so far as to say you make him more human."

He didn't expect the bark of laughter that earned. "Ironic, since I think he calls to the monster in me."

"Perhaps," Fernando conceded. "You don't have to make any decisions immediately. Jesus will not send you away."

"Oh, I know." Gemelo sighed. "But that doesn't mean he shouldn't. I think he'd be okay if I weren't physically with him." He frowned. "I think."

Fernando was done coddling the man who had never needed it. "While you figure it out, I did come down here for a reason."

Gemelo pulled himself together and perked up. "You have something for me to do?"

There was a touch of caution in the question, but more eagerness. "Are you in any fit state to kill anyone?"

With a grace and agility that made Fernando's joints ache just watching, Gemelo stood from his awkward position. "As you said, I have time to decide. In the meantime, you are promising me a kill." Something about the brightness in his eyes and the anticipation in his voice reminded Fernando of an excited puppy. 

"I'm not promising you a kill. I'm giving you the information to present a multi-kill scenario to Jesus."

That banked the enthusiasm a bit as Gemelo prepared to listen. 

"You know the new players in town—the Death Riders?"

The smile that spread across Gemelo's face made Fernando's blood run cold. He'd deny it later, but at that moment, he would have sworn he saw black fog gather in Gemelo's eyes. 

"Oh, Fer," he said, and his voice felt like it was thrumming in Fernando's veins. "You give me the nicest things."

Chapter Text

Less than fifteen minutes after leaving the gym, having been driven straight to the brownstone, Duo flopped into the large chair across from Jesus’s desk. “Fer says you have something for me?” he asked.

Jesus gave him a long look. “I do,” he said after a hesitation. “But you should know that you do not have to do this.”

Duo rolled his eyes. He could feel Shini thrum under his skin, perking up almost like a dog that had heard the word “treat.” “Just tell me what it is and let me decide?”

“Do you remember the bodies found just outside our territory last week?”

He raised an eyebrow. Those bodies had been… rough. Even by Duo’s lofty standards. As bad as anything Duo knew Jesus to be responsible for. “Uh huh,” he said, encouraging Jesus to continue.

“The Death Riders claimed responsibility. They are making a statement. But the skimmer you found in the books? I had a… discussion with him,” Jesus said, voice thick with satisfaction that was nearly sexual. Duo hadn’t been invited to that little tête-à-tête, and he was grateful for it. He knew it had been bad based on Jesus’s behavior when he’d come back. Jesus may not strangle him anymore, but he still left bruises in less visible places regularly. He also tended to bite after he’d been… taking out the trash, so to speak. “He was trying to work us both. He told us where the Death Riders have made their base.”

“Okay,” Duo said, both eyebrows raising. That sounded promising. “Where is it and how many are we talking?”

“Maybe as many as forty.”

“Forty’s doable—”

“There is a complication,” Jesus interrupted before he could jump on it. Duo propped his elbow against the side of the seat and gave him an expectant look. “Do you know of Oliviana Fitzhugh-Stroh?”

Blinking, Duo thought about it. “They mayor’s kid, right?” Jesus nodded. “I know of her, obviously. Can’t say I know her. What about her?” He glanced over at Fernando, curious.

“The Death Riders have kidnapped her, and her boyfriend,” he said.

“Well, that was dumb,” Duo said before he fully thought about it. Kidnapping was tricky business at the best of times. Kidnapping high profile people tended to bring down a lot of unwanted attention. And Duo may not know Fitzhugh personally, but he knew the man by reputation. If someone were trying to strongarm him by kidnapping his kid, they were about to be very sorry. Fitzhugh didn’t survive the Eve Wars with power because he played nice. “And sucks for her. So are we waiting to move until they sort this idiocy out or just wait for the police to catch them?”

“I would prefer neither,” Jesus said. “I want them taken out. I want to make a statement—no one conducts business in Kings territory. No one. Drugs or otherwise.”

“Okay…” Duo said, drawing out the word as he thought. “So what do you want me to do about the hostage?”

“Hostages,” Fernando corrected. Duo looked back at him. “It’s not just the girl—her fiancé, a no one named Heero Yuy, was also taken.”

The name felt like a garrot had been wrapped around Duo’s heart and pulled tight. “Heero Yuy?” he heard himself ask, voice surprisingly steady, “Like the assassinated colonial?”

“I guess?” Fernando said, frowning, as if he wasn’t sure. At least he wasn’t watching Duo with expectant eyes anymore.

But Duo must not have been covering as well as he hoped, because Jesus said, “Is that a problem?”

Heero. Heero had been kidnapped. Heero and his fiancée. It had been over two years since he’d seen or spoken to Heero. Now, a week after Jesus proposed, he was about to be confronted with the man he once thought was his soulmate.

And they had both moved on.

He met Jesus’s eyes. “No problem,” he said. “Just trying to factor the hostages into the equation. I can expect the Fitzhugh girl to have some self-defense training. Do we know anything about the fiancé?”

“You’re not worried about forty Death Riders?” Fernando asked.

“Am I going to have to face all forty of them at once?” Duo returned, giving him a flat look.

“Well… no—”

“Then it’s not a problem.” 

“I don’t care about the hostages,” Jesus said. “Do whatever you want with them.”

Duo shook his head. “We should save them, if I can.”

“You think that’s smart?” Fernando asked, frowning.

“I think killing them while I take out the rest of the Death Riders is a first-class ticket to bringing hell down on the Kings.” He turned his attention back to Jesus, because in this, he needed Jesus’s approval. “Fitzhugh has a reputation. He’s not someone I would carelessly make an enemy of. If I can save them, I should.”

He kept his eyes on Jesus, but he could see Jesus and Fernando trading looks.

You know what I am, he thought as Jesus turned his attention back to Duo. If I say I can do this, I can.

Sometimes Jesus’s eyes were as deep and unfathomable as space. “If you say you can do this, Gemelo,” be began, “then I will let you do this.”

“Forty people?” Fernando sounded incredulous, but Duo ignored him.

Cold started in Duo’s chest, spreading out to his extremities, but there was something comforting, something strong in the cold.

Death was cold.

“Leave it to me,” he said, feeling the grin twist his lips.

Jesus answered it with one of his own.

They were being subtle, only Une and a couple of trusted agents in the house with Mayor Frederick Fitzhugh and his wife, Georgina Stroh.

Her phone rang, and seeing the unknown number, she excused herself. "Hello?"

"Hi, lady." The voice made her run cold. Why on earth was Maxwell risking a call to her? Surely he hadn't already heard? She'd only been contacted an hour ago. It was a fluke that she as in New York at all.

"I'm surprised to hear from you like this."

"Yes, well, it's not every day that you have a former flyboy and his fiancée kidnapped. Or should that be a powerful mayor's daughter and her flyboy fiancé?"

Okay, that Duo knew Heero was engaged wasn't a surprise. Oliviana Fitzhugh-Stroh was the eldest child of one of the greatest power couples on the American East Coast. Nearly regarded as American royalty, her business was splashed all over every new publication in the hemisphere—especially her surprise engagement to an unknown, but brilliant law school student. Duo had been instrumental in scrubbing files to hide Heero's role in the wars. Not that it had been that difficult—even now, the identities of the pilots were unknown except among a very small group of people. The few who found out balked at the idea of revealing that fifteen-year-old boys had piloted the Gundams.

"It's still a risk to call me. Not that I'm not glad to hear from you."

Duo's warm chuckle loosened the knot in her chest a bit. "Less so than normal. Do you know who your kidnappers are yet?"

"Narrowing down suspects."

"I do. They're a little upstart cartel that's been trying to cut into Kings territory. Looks like someone was stupid enough to think that taking Fitzhugh's kid would be a way to get some leverage on him and maybe make some headway into Kings areas."

It had been stupid. Fitzhugh was not the kind of man who was easily intimidated, and his daughter was likely to be a tough hostage to keep regardless. Not to mention that kidnapping was always tricky business. It was rash action by someone young and inexperienced.

"Which is why you found out so fast—if they're trying to intrude on Kings business."

"Got it in one."

"So, are you going to share that information with us?"

"I was more thinking of taking care of the problem myself. I have approval on this side to put this little operation into the ground. I was hoping I could get your approval before I go do that."

"You know where the hostages are?"

"I certainly do."

"Can you get them out?"

"Of course."

"Without killing everyone in your path?"

He paused. "Probably, but I don't have a lot of reason to go in and just free the hostages. And I sold it on the questionable benefit of possibly having Fitzhugh owe a favor for saving his daughter. Not that I think that stuffy old prig would ever concede it, but it gave me a reason to care about the safety of the hostages." When Une didn't respond, he sighed. "Une, this little problem child? They're trying to butt in on Kings territory—which means they're being at least as ruthless as the Kings are to try and compete. I wouldn't want anyone I cared about in their hands for long. Trust me. You want me to put them down now."

She saw no good answer. "Fine. Just..."

"Don't leave anything. I know the drill."

"You can't rely on Yuy, either," she warned.

"I'm well aware of that. Best-case scenario, he's still all tabula rasa. Worst case, he's flashbacking, in which case, he becomes a hell of a liability. Hope for the blank slate, okay?"

"Take care of yourself too."

"Death walks with me, lady. I don't need to be concerned with myself. Oh, since I don't know when we'll talk again... you should probably know." He paused, which Une thought odd. What could possibly be so—"He asked me to marry him."

Her blood felt like ice in her veins. She must have misheard. "I'm sorry, come again?"

"You heard me."

She had no idea what to say to that. What do you say to your undercover agent who is so deep that the target wanted to marry them? What do you say to that agent when they have a positive complex about promises and telling the truth?

"What are you going to say to him?" she heard herself ask.

"I haven't decided. When I do, you'll know."

Here was the tipping point, the thing she had most feared when sending Duo into this, when Sally first told her what Duo was planning. He would never, never take those vows unless he meant them. If he married Reyes, he was lost to them. That was why he hadn't said he'd tell her—she'd know. He'd do something that would show that he was not on their side anymore. 

Another thought occurred. He hadn't decided and was about to be face-to-face with his lost lover. And said lost lover's new fiancée. The compounding of circumstances would almost be comical if it weren't so terrifying.

"I've changed my mind. Pull back."

"You're not going to find them in enough time."

"We would find them if you would tell us where they are." She motioned silently to an agent, drawing a triangle in the air and pointing at her phone, mouthing NOW. Duo had been on plenty long to triangulate—she should have had them start as soon as she realized who she was on the phone with. 

"The instant this group suspects a cop is coming anywhere near them, they're going to kill the hostages and go to ground. I'm your best bet."

She had to keep him talking. "You are not my only bet."

"Uh huh," he agreed, the sarcasm thick. "Cause you got a dragon in China, and even if you put him on a plane now, it'd be five hours before he got here. The other two are offplanet, and last I heard, the only other last-ditch flyboy you have is on Mars. Face it, Lady," and this time, it was clearly a title instead of an affectation. "I'm your only shot at this."

Duo's rule, she thought. There is always another option.

"Heero could—"

"You and I both know he's useless if not outright dangerous if he's flashbacking. If he is regaining his memories, it's going to take time to reintegrate them. Time they don't have. They'll kill him before they kill her. She's the high-priority target. He's just collateral."

He was right. She knew he was right. But she could think of little she wanted less than to put Duo Maxwell and Heero Yuy in the same room under these circumstances. 

"And I'm not there right now, so if you're triangulating, you're wasting your time. The phone'll be so much melted plastic and metal once I hang up."

Une knew when she had been beaten. "Do everything you can to save them. We'll continue to treat this as a normal kidnapping and work it from our end."

"Good luck with that." The line went dead. She looked up, and Agent Sand nodded. 

"I have the location. Do you want to send...?" But she was already shaking her head. 

"By the time someone gets there, he'll be long gone. But I do want to see where he was. It may give us a starting point."

"Did that call have anything to do with my daughter, Colonel?" Fitzhugh looked surprisingly calm, given the circumstances, but his hands were white-knuckled on the back of the chair he stood behind. 

She didn’t correct him on her title under the circumstances. "I have a—" she was afraid to call him an agent when she wasn't confident that would be true much longer, "contact in the field who may have located them. They're going in to confirm." She turned back to Sand's screen. "Give me a twenty-square mile perimeter around that point. I don't think he'd be much farther than that from his target."

Duo had left the phone in pieces on top of the building he'd been on before using the close buildings, speed, and agility that would have any parkour runner seethe in envy to cover miles in minutes. At a flat run, he had an under three-minute mile. Covering distance like this, he could at least match that speed if not better it—and more importantly, he was moving in a basically straight line. 

Shinigami roiled under his skin, waiting, anticipating, bolstering his speed, strength, and stamina, though not to the level it would when Duo let it have free rein. Death lived within him, making him superhuman. But only when he was running toward death. Only when the opportunity for the kill was at least on the horizon if not immediately before him. He was still on par with Olympians on his own, but when the opportunity for Death lurked, he was something more.

And they were going to work. It was what Duo was made for. It was why he went for the headshot—the sure kill instead of the probable one. This was why he fit in Jesus's world, why the monster in Jesus called to him, sang the same sweet song that his own monster did. 

Duo stopped at the edge of a building, his target in sight when something in his mind clicked into place. "I'm in love with him." He said the words aloud, putting them out in the universe. He wasn't sure if he had said them to test them or because he expected the universe to reject them. Shinigami subsided at his surprise, leaving him feeling a little weak, a little like he'd pushed hard on a workout. It would fade when he continued forward, toward his target, toward the kill, but at the moment, he had other concerns. "I am in love with Jesus Reyes."

Nothing felt wrong about that statement. 

"I'm going to marry Jesus Reyes."

Again, nothing exploded, nothing within him rebelled at the assertion. Instead, he found a peace inside him that he had not known since before he had lost Heero. 

Saying it out loud, acknowledging it to himself and the universe, loosened something he hadn't even known had been tight in his chest, and a surprised, happy laugh found its way out of him, startling the pigeons nearby. 

Marrying Jesus meant abandoning the Preventers. It meant walking away from the other pilots, who could probably would never understand how he could be with Jesus even if Jesus hadn't been a borderline sociopathic cartel don. Even if they could find a way to reconcile Duo's emotions with the man, they wouldn't be able to reconcile him going over to the Dark Side. Well, maybe Trowa could. Trowa was the truest pragmatist of them, but Quatre would be horrified. He could only imagine the travesty Wufei would feel he was making of justice. 

It was too bad he hadn't made the realization before destroying his phone. He would have liked to say goodbye. 

And because he was going to marry Jesus, was going to be at his side, he needed to bury this upstart wannabe cartel. The very idea of the deaths the lay ahead of him were enough to stir Shinigami again, and Duo straightened, the wobbly feeling of well-used muscles fading. These idiots were a threat to Jesus. 

Shinigami knew what he did to such threats, and rose higher in him. 

Oliviana was worried. Heero had been curled up on the cot, battling waves of debilitating migraines since they had first woken up. Sometimes, he seemed to swim out of them in the middle of one, but the man who looked at her from behind Heero's eyes was not someone she knew. And that stranger made their captors nervous. She had been too busy doing what little she could to soothe Heero to adequately assess their situation or make any sort of plan. Heero was at greater risk than she was, she knew. It was her father these people wanted to influence. Heero was collateral. 

An abbreviated cry from outside the door and a thud made the two guards in the room stand up and exchange glances. One moved toward their cell, gun coming to the ready, the other moved to the door. "Hey, man—"

The door was shoved into him, flinging him back. Before the captor next to their cell could raise his gun, a black streak flew through the air and penetrated his skull with a solid thud Oliviana was sure would haunt her dreams. A small figure clad entirely in black had sprung into the room when the door had been shoved, and before she could turn to watch, he'd dispatched the man he had downed with the door. Through the open doorway, she could see at least two other bodies. 

"Whatever you want..." she began, but was stunned as the figure—a man she was pretty sure despite his short stature—didn't give their cell more than a cursory glance before taking a black knife and slid it between the bars where the lock was engaged. With an almost casual movement, he sliced down, and she saw it pass cleanly through the lock.

He threw the door open, then appeared to dismiss her from his mind as he said—voice muffled behind the cloth over his mouth and nose, "You may want to look away." He strode to the man with the knife in his head and reached for it. Understanding, Oliviana turned to Heero, though she was sure the sound of the knife being removed from the dead man's head was one she’d prefer not to know. 

"Heero." She shook his shoulder insistently. He groaned, eyes still tightly clenched. "Heero, you need to get up." Oliviana looked nervously over her shoulder at the black-clad man who was going methodically through a dead man's pants. 

She was not going to be sick. 

"Liv?"

"Can you see me?" she asked. Heero's deep-ocean eyes showed him. Oh thank God, she thought as he sat up. 

"Head's up." Oliviana barely got out of the way of the gun that was tossed at Heero. Heero somehow managed to catch it on reflex. He looked up at the black-clad man. Even his head was covered, showing none of his hair, barely enough of his skin to confirm he was Caucasian, and wraparound glasses hid his eyes. He wasn't big, but his presence felt big in the small room. 

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked. Oliviana would like to know the answer to that too. The one and only time she tried to take Heero to a shooting range to teach him out to shoot, he almost had a panic attack, and they’d had to leave.

"Protect your girlfriend until the cavalry arrives," came the droll response. 

"Why did you—"

"I'm going to take another run through just in case I missed anyone, but—" He went to the first body and pried the handgun from the dead man's hands, turning to casually place it in Oliviana's. She felt something slick and damp on the grip, and checked her hand. She yelped and nearly dropped it when she saw it was blood. "You should probably be armed, just in case,” the man continued as if she hadn’t reacted at all.

"You're not getting us out of here?" Heero sounded confused. 

"I'm eliminating all of the people keeping you here, but you probably want to stay put until the big boys can get here and... sanitize it out there a bit for you. It's rather gruesome."

Oliviana felt sick as she realized the shiny, wet places that were liberally splattered on the black-clothed man were probably all blood. A lot of blood, she thought, forcing down her gorge as it tried to rise up. 

"How are they even supposed to know where we are?" Oliviana asked. The man plunked a locked phone into her bloody hand. 

"You can dial emergency services even from a locked phone," he informed, not unkindly. He moved toward the door, and a clack of a rifle being prepped surprised her. Heero was standing, his rifle aimed at the man's back, standing like he knew how to use the gun, which was more than a little odd considering the last time she’d seen him with one in his hand.

"And who are you that you think you can just walk away after killing this many people?" Heero's voice was a little unsteady, but his hands weren't.

"I could have killed you both. Instead, I'm letting you go. Your princess can let her father know that we may be asking for a small favor for that sometime in the future. Obviously," he turned and executed a point-perfect, waist-deep bow. "your freedom is not contingent on his assistance. And you want to stop pointing that at me before I remove it from you."

"You don't have a gun."

"I have less than ten feet between you and me. I don't need a gun. Knives are more effective at this range, and I promise—I can kill you before you can pull that trigger. So save your trigger-happy impulses for people who actually want to hurt you." He turned away again, Heero raised the gun like he was going to fire, but the man was pulling the door closed behind him. "You probably want to lock this behind me." 

After he shut the door, Oliviana dropped the gun and ran to open it, half-convinced it would be locked, but it opened, and the man was gone. She looked down the hall nervously, then turned back to Heero.

"Should we leave?"

Heero lowered the gun with obvious reluctance. "I think his suggestion is the most tactically sound. We call for help and stay put until it can get to us. We can't know if he missed people, and we can't know if there are snipers or something outside. We're relatively safe in here for now."

Oliviana closed the door and fought down her gorge again. "I guess it says a lot," she began, swiping her finger across the phone she encountered the Locked screen. "that our best option is to lock ourselves in a room with two corpses."

Heero frowned, slinging the strap of the rifle over his shoulder with the ease of a habit she didn't know he had, then turned and stripped the flimsy sheets from the cot. He took one then the other and laid them over the dead men. "I know it's not much," he admitted. "But at least we won't have to look at them."

Giving Heero the best smile she could work up—it probably was closer to a grimace than a smile, she pressed the Emergency option on the Lock screen. When it connected, she said, "This is Oliviana Fitzhugh-Stroh. I'm not sure where we are, but I'm with my fiancé, Heero Yuy. Can you please forward this to my father? I can give you the number. I think we're safe for now, but I think we were just rescued by a man who killed a lot of people to do it." Her voice cracked when she said it, and she realized as Heero pulled her into his arms, she was close to breaking down. "Can you please put us through to my father? I—" she choked. "I'd really like to speak with him."

Chapter Text

A few blocks away from the building, in the pouring down rain—how kind of the weather to cooperate with covering his tracks—a black sedan pulled up and the door opened toward Duo. He ducked in and pulled his hood back. To his surprise, Jesus was in the car.

"I appreciate the lift, but the leather is probably going to be ruined," he warned, pulling his gloves off. 

"We'll have it replaced," Jesus assured, reaching toward his face, and using a thumb to rub a smudge of what proved to be blood from his cheek. "How did it go?"

"Well, there could be a major player or two left I need to hunt down, but for the time being, they're going to be very high and dry without any men." He could hear sirens in the distance, heading toward the old apartment complex, no doubt. He leaned eagerly into the kiss Jesus bent for. Eagerly enough, apparently, to surprise Jesus. He pulled back and looked at Duo, curious. "How much do you like that suit?" Duo asked. 

"This suit? It's not a favorite..."

Duo wasted no time climbing onto Jesus's lap, kneeling up so that he could lift Jesus's face to him for a change. "Good," he breathed across Jesus's lips. "Because I need you to fuck me," he rolled his hips forward to make his point. "Now, and you're going to need to either get out of that suit now or burn it when we're done."

He dove in for a kiss, and Jesus's hands came around his waist before diving down the back of his pants to cup his ass. 

"If these sorts of assignments wind you up like this," Jesus began, moving to Duo's neck, tonguing where his name was permanently inscribed. "I will have to find more opportunities."

Duo laughed, a breathy sound. "Oh, that's not why I'm so wound," he said, pulling back enough to yank his shirt over his head quickly. He paused, cupping Jesus's face, making sure he had his complete attention. "Yes."

Jesus looked confused. "Yes?"

"My answer, Jesus. Yes."

He could see when Jesus made the connection because his eyes lit up. Not a complete sociopath, Duo thought, reassured. "You will marry me?"

Part of him wanted to say I already let you put your name on my neck, don't you think that should have been a good indicator of my answer? But he was too happy with his decision, too pleased to see the surprise and happiness in Jesus to be snarky. "Yes, I will marry you."

He wasn't surprised to get thrown to the seat or turned onto his stomach, his pants yanked down quickly. It was the quickest way to get access in the space. Apparently, Jesus had lube ready, because he heard him quickly unzip his pants, slick up his dick, and felt its pressure at his entrance in record time. Jesus barely paused before sheathing himself fully. Duo clawed at the seats and cried out. Jesus reached up to cradle his neck, as he often did in this position, but since Duo had gotten his neck tattoo, Jesus almost never bruised it. He pulled back slowly and thrust in with enough force that if he hadn't been holding Duo in place, he would have gone tumbling forward. 

"We will go apply for the license tomorrow."

A particularly well-aimed thrust pegged Duo's prostate and threatened to make him lose track of the conversation.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, gasping as his prostate was pegged again. 

"Tomorrow. We can get married this weekend. I know a judge who owes me a favor."

Duo's ability to respond was stolen as Jesus sat back, using his grip to haul Duo into his lap as he did. He landed exactly right to light up his body like a firework, and Jesus took his cock as he made a conscientious effort to nail that exact spot and drive Duo wild. His orgasm hit him with little warning, and Jesus was quick on his heels. Duo chuckled as he tried to melt into Jesus, the endorphin rush making him giddy. Jesus moved his braid to the side so he could kiss his shoulder, one hand splayed on Duo's stomach, the other still resting at the base of his neck. Turning his head, Duo sought his lips, and they continued to kiss, gently, lazily.  

When they finally broke, he could see Jesus checking, making sure he wasn't hurt. 

"None of it's mine. Up close and personal gets bloody," he assured. 

Jesus chuckled his low chuckle that always tickled Duo from within. "Blood is a good look on you, so long as it's not yours." His hands had moved from their stationary position to caress every bare patch of skin he could reach, tracing shapes around his knives and their sheaths. 

Despite the warmth in the car, Duo had been soaked through, and being mostly naked and wet, a little shiver went through him. Jesus must have seen or felt it, because he shifted Duo off his lap, gently, as if reluctant. Duo wriggled his pants back up in the limited space as Jesus tucked himself back in, but before he could reach for his sodden hoodie, Jesus had shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it around his shoulders, pulling Duo's braid forward so its cold, heavy weight wasn't trapped against him. The jacket was delightfully warm—Jesus always felt almost feverish to Duo's touch. It was, however, laughably large on Duo's slight frame. He rolled up the sleeves, shaking his head. At least it didn't snag on any of his weapons. Satisfied, he moved back to straddle Jesus's lap, facing him this time.

Jesus leaned forward almost immediately to lick a long stripe up Duo's neck, as if tasting his own name on Duo's skin. "So," he purred into Duo's ear. "What made up your mind?" He nipped at the ear, and Duo shied away from the tickle, pulling back enough that he could make Jesus look at him. He framed Jesus's face, feeling the scratchiness of Jesus's permanent 5 o'clock shadow. It had seemed at odds with his otherwise clean-cut persona once, but now, it was just a part of him. Part of him like the near-black of his eyes, the deep tones of his voice, his ambition, and his ruthlessness.

A soft melody played in the depths of Duo's heart—Shinigami's melody. Just being near Jesus brought a promise of Death. 

"I had a chance for this once." The slight tremor in his voice surprised him, but when he paused to try and control it, his it just stuck in his throat. He breathed out slowly to move past the catch, soothing his thumbs over Jesus's cheeks to ground himself. "And I didn't take it then. And it is one of my greatest regrets." Finally, his voice settled, even as he felt the prickle of tears in the back of his eyes. They wouldn't fall. They hadn't since he was a child. "I try very hard not to make the same mistake twice." He pulled Jesus's head forward to rest against his own. "I was in love before, and I thought there was time to make promises. I know better." He chuffed. "I've always known better. Every day I am alive I am demolishing the odds that said I would never live to be five on L2's streets. That I'd never see ten when I started turning tricks. That I should never have survived the war."

He paused, but Jesus said nothing, his hands a solid presence on Duo's waist. Duo pulled back slightly so he could see into Jesus's eyes again. "But I walk with Death, Jesus, and while I defy the odds, the people I love don't. I don't want to regret again. I love you—I'm in love with you. And I want to marry you as soon as I can. Tomorrow is never a guarantee, and I don't want to rob myself of taking every opportunity I have to be with you in every way I can." He placed a reverent kiss on Jesus's lips. "Te amo, Jesus." 

A hand in tangled in the base of his damp braid, massaging his scalp, and Jesus pulled him in for a scorching kiss that left Duo gasping and his pants getting tight again. The hand in his braid moved to cup his face, and he couldn't help but lean into the touch. When he met Jesus's eyes, the heat in them warmed Duo in a way that he'd desperately missed. 

When Jesus finally spoke, his voice had the scratchiness of intense emotion. "I would tear down the world for you."

Duo heard what he meant and kissed him again in reward.

Ring shopping was the next day. Jesus must have already had the rings in mind—though when he had time to do that without Duo, Duo didn’t know—because he already had his own ring picked out. It was a bright yellow gold with a white gold braided inlay. Duo settled on a simple band with black-colored rhodium-plating. It was heavy on his hand, and it’d take time to get used to it, but it was solid and grounding too. 

The courthouse was the first stop the following morning as soon as it opened. Being in a courthouse with Jesus definitely qualified as nerve-wracking, especially since Duo had just killed some thirty-odd gangsters the night before. Security was tight at the courthouse, the police sharper-eyed and more alert than usual. 

Duo wore his most discrete sheathes, relieved he didn’t get a pat-down when he made it through the metal detectors. It probably had to do with the suit. 

Jesus definitely got a second look-over, but he radiated charm and good humor, so laidback about the possibility that they let him go through unmolested. Not that Jesus had anything dangerous on him. Duo might love him, but his knives were his, and Jesus might know how to use one, but he wasn’t a knife fighter. It was Duo who had to be concerned with a pat-down. He probably shouldn’t have risked the knives, but he really did not feel comfortable unarmed these days. 

They bypassed the door labeled “Marriage Licenses” and headed for the stairs. It itched at Duo to be doing this in a building he knew was crawling with cameras, even as good as both he and Jesus were at avoiding them. His instincts said that this wasn’t something you did in the open. Waltzing into the office of a judge who you owned should be more fucking discrete. 

Then again, he knew better than most that sometimes the best way to hide was in plain sight. 

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Kings,” the admin said, smiling broadly at Jesus when they came in. “I’m so sorry for the difficulty with your marriage certificate.”

It was a good thing that Duo had a good poker face because he really wanted to give Jesus a what the fuck look. 

“Just our luck, I’m afraid,” Jesus replied, oozing enough charisma to choke on. “Are we early?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Kings, go ahead right in. He’s expecting you,” she said with the kind of sincere it’s always a pleasure tone that Duo was going to ask questions about later. 

Deciding not to let Jesus have all the fun—he hadn’t missed how the admin had run a discerning eye over Duo, even if he’d been quickly dismissed in favor of Jesus—he leaned forward and offered her a winning smile of his own. “Thank you so much for your help,” he said, adding a whisper of an RP British accent into his voice. Along with the suit, he had his hair mostly down, a curtain of soft waves, bangs straightened and styled to the side. It was a look that allowed him to pass without negative remarks among the upper crust, and the kind of look he often went with when working the really high-end events. It had exactly the intended effect on the admin. 

She flushed rather prettily for a woman on the other side of fifty. “No problem at all,” she assured.

“Darling?” Jesus said, having moved to the inner door. He waited with an indulgent expression, though Duo could see the heat in his eyes. 

Duo sent him an adoring look that wasn’t entirely faked, and thought he heard the admin sigh. He joined Jesus’s side and leaned into him when Jesus put a hand around his waist before they entered the judge’s office. 

“Good morning, Mr. Kings,” the judge smiled up from his desk warmly, standing up to offer his hand to Jesus. Duo honestly wasn’t sure if the judge knew who he was dealing with or not. He offered his hand to Duo, “And this is the lucky soon-to-be Mr. Kings as well, I assume?”

“Gemelo,” Duo replied, taking the hand. The plaque on his desk said Honorable John Smith, which kind of made Duo want to laugh. It was the kind of name made to slip under the radar. 

“Gemelo then,” he said, pronouncing it well. His eyes were shrewd as he took Duo in quickly, then turned his attention back to Jesus and added, “No trophy spouse, for you, I see.” 

Jesus settled into one of the large, leather chairs and smiled, still congenial, but with an edge that Duo was more accustomed to. “No,” he agreed, sounding pleased. Duo could feel his gaze rake over him. “Not for me.”

“All right, then. I have a copy of your marriage certificate here.” The judge opened a folder and pulled it out, sliding it across his desk. On the lines, it read Jesus Reyes and Gemelo Randolph. “It’s been backdated appropriately—you know how those clerical errors can be,” he said with a commiserating tone but a look in his eye that said he knew what he was doing for them. He turned his attention to Duo. “Let me know when you need the paperwork on your legal name change to go through,” he said, then smiled like an indulgent grandparent. “To make certain all of your new documentation is updated, of course.”

“Of course,” Duo said. He’d told Jesus to use Gemelo Randolph instead of Duo, tying the paperwork to a backup identity he’d been saving just because. If he was careful, and with the help of the Honorable John Smith, Duo should be able to back his legal identity into it down the line, but it was going to need to be backdated a bit to ensure that it was dated before Une knew Jesus had popped the question. He wanted it to be legal, but not easy to tie back to him. Jesus using his legal name was a bit of a risk, but it was common enough that it shouldn’t throw red flags. “Thank you so much for your assistance with this, your honor.”

“Yes, well, I know I already did this for you boys once already,” the judge said and winked at Jesus, “But if you’d like to do it again…?”

Jesus stood, straightening his suit jacket. He held out a hand and pulled Duo to his feet, eyes locked on Duo the entire time. “Just to be proper,” he suggested, pulling off Duo’s ring and his own, handing his to Duo while keeping Duo’s. 

“To propriety,” Duo agreed, heart beginning to race. This wasn’t the big celebration that the media made everyone think was necessary. It was just them and their crooked judge, but it wasn’t a farce. This was no sly lie. He couldn’t help but ache, just a little, for having passed this up before, this chance to tie himself to someone he loved legally, not just emotionally. It was a piece of paper between two men who held little regard for the law, but somehow, it still meant something. 

“... till death do you part?” Judge Smith asked, and Duo realized that he’d been focused on Jesus and his thoughts and had entirely tuned him out, though he’d managed through the rings.

Duo’s voice shook as he said, “I do,” and meant it.

Jesus was looking at him with incandescent joy, a happiness so vivid that Duo thought he might explode from it. 

“Then with the power vested in me by the state of New York, I pronounce you married. You may kiss.”

Jesus slipped his hand under Duo’s hair to cup the back of his head and tilt it back, and Duo followed the gentle pressure, closing his eyes as Jesus leaned down and placed a shockingly tender kiss on his lips. His own hand rose to tangle in Jesus’s hair, mussing it as he fell into the heat and strength of Jesus. When the kiss finally broke, Jesus murmured, “Se solo mio,” against Duo’s lips. 

“Solo tuyo,” Duo confirmed, closing the distance to get another soft peck. 

Till Death parted them.

Chapter Text

“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” Duo asked. “You being cagey makes me nervous.” He spun his wedding ring on his finger, then made himself stop, not wanting to make it a habit, but he wasn’t used to the weight of it yet.

“I simply want to surprise you,” Jesus said easily, reaching behind Duo and tugging him closer in the back seat of the town car.

“I’m not that big of a fan of surprises these days,” Duo replied, though he went with the tugging.

“You will like this one.”

The car came to a stop, and Duo frowned. “The tattoo parlor?” he asked. “I’m not getting—”

Jesus tilted his head back and silenced him with an unusually soft kiss. “Trust me,” he said when he broke it. “Now, go.” Jesus ushered him out the door, then followed him. He didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around Duo’s shoulder to lead him in.

Edge had to unlock the door. “Good morning,” he said, a professional smile on his face as he took their jackets. “Nice to see you again.”

It wasn’t phrased like one, but the look in Edge’s eyes made it a question. “I think so,” Duo said. “This trip is a surprise to me.”

He could see Edge’s eyes find the Jesus on his neck. He didn’t often wear shirts that covered it—Jesus liked to see it too much. “That looks like it healed really well,” Edge said, something almost like surprise in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t disrespect the artist by not caring for their art,” Duo said, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. 

“He is not your canvas today,” Jesus said, adopting that upper-class accent that still made Duo’s head spin. He rested his hand at the nape of Duo’s neck, rubbing just at the base of Duo’s skull in a way that usually made Duo melt into a useless puddle. “I will be.”

That was enough to pull Duo out of his little bubble of pleasure. “Wait, what?”

“You have my name.” He leaned forward and nipped Duo’s throat above his name. “I will have yours.”

Duo turned and stared in shock. “You can’t be serious?”

Jesus laughed, that deep rumble that Duo so rarely heard. “A wedding gift,” he said. “You have my name, and you have taken my name. It seems only fair that I should also have yours.”

Blood rushed in Duo’s ears, and the world began to gray. He pulled Jesus down and kissed him hard, focusing on the now. When they broke, the color was back and Duo couldn’t help smiling. “You’re insane.”

“Only for you,” Jesus said, his own voice deepening, the desire obvious in his eyes.

Edge coughed discretely. Jesus chuckled and straightened.

“So… what will it be?” Edge asked.

Holding his right arm in front of him horizontally, showing the side of his arm from the wrist to the elbow. “I’d like Gemelo’s name here. In a script similar to the one you used for my name.”

Duo had thought it odd that Jesus was wearing a short-sleeve shirt, both because Jesus had a preference for formal button-downs and because it was October. Now he knew why. “How long have you been planning this?” he asked as Edge came over with some tracing paper to get the shape and size of Jesus’s arm.

“Give me a few minutes to get a couple options drawn up. It shouldn’t take long,” Edge said, seemingly eager to get out from between them.

“A while,” Jesus demurred.

“How long is ‘a while’?” Duo asked, unimpressed with the dodge.

“When I began to consider asking you to marry me,” Jesus said.

“Uh huh.” Duo crossed his arms as Edge went back to his desk. “And how long has that been?”

Before Jesus could answer, Edge called, “Gemelo—can I borrow you for a moment?”

“We’re not done,” Duo warned.

Jesus smiled, that disarming, little-boy grin that no one as dangerous as Jesus should be allowed to have in his arsenal, but he let Duo go without further comment.

Duo wasn’t surprised to see the Edge watching him with attention. “Just need to see the script?” Duo asked, turning to the side to give him an undistorted view of it.

“That’s perfect,” Edge said, looking over it. Then he added, “Congratulations on your wedding. You seem very happy.”

It was almost but not quite a question. Duo answered it anyway. “We are.” He turned to catch Edge’s eyes and added, “Thank you,” making sure the artist understood what Duo wasn’t saying. I made this decision and I’m happy with it.

Edge nodded. “As I told you last time, we don’t usually do significant other’s name tattoos here, but if we do, I prefer it when both partners are getting done.” He started sketching out Gemelo in the outline he’d made, frequently glancing at Duo’s neck for reference or maybe just inspiration. “I’m glad I get to finish the set.”

“Me too,” Duo said. He remembered Edge’s sincere offers to help him, to get him out of this. It was a kindness he wished he had a way to pay forward. He was glad that he had been able to come back and complete the circle, hopefully putting Edge’s concerns to rest. He seemed the type to remember clients like Duo.

A couple more minutes and the name had taken shape. The script wasn’t an exact match for Duo’s, but it shared some of the shapes of the letters. It was legible and had some more flourishes than Duo’s own did, but he liked it.

“What do you think?” Edge asked him.

“I think I still can’t believe he actually plans to do this,” Duo admitted, thumb going to twist his ring. “But yeah, I like the look.”

Edge nodded. “Then let’s run it by the big guy.”

Jesus approved the style, uninterested in seeing another one, so Edge went to make his stencil, then came back and shaved Jesus’s arm.

“I should warn you,” he said, settling himself and getting ready. “The forearm”—Edge held out his to demonstrate—“is usually where people get tattooed because there’s a lot of meat here. Where you’re getting.” He maneuvered Jesus until he was where it would be both comfortable for Edge to work and Jesus to sit. “This is right along the bone. It’s going to hurt a lot more. We have time, so if you need to take a break, let me know. Don’t try to macho through it.”

He didn’t say anything, but Duo could tell from the look on Jesus’s face that he wasn’t taking the warning seriously.

Edge could see it too. He glanced up at Duo. “What what the most painful tattoo for you?” he asked.

Duo thought about it for a moment. “Probably the sternum,” he admitted. There was enough nerve damage on his back, that even the spine hadn’t hurt that much.

“Right on the bone?”

“Yeah,” Duo confirmed.

Edge gave Jesus a look as if to say, See?

Jesus huffed.

Shoulders rising and falling in a silent sigh, Edge picked up his tattoo machine and got to work.

Jesus held his arm like it was wounded, and it took a lot more self-control than it should to keep from laughing at him about it. The tattoo itself had also taken more than twice as long as it should have because Jesus had struggled to sit. When Jesus had taken a breather, Duo had apologized to Edge for what a bad canvas Jesus was, but Edge had just smiled.

“He chose a rough spot to get his first tattoo. Even for those of us used to them, that can be a tough place.”

Duo didn’t remember any of his tattoos being bad enough to need a break, but he probably shouldn’t hold Jesus to his standards regarding pain.

It didn’t mean that it wasn't straining Duo’s self-control considerably not to give him grief about it. He may not be actively teasing Jesus, but apparently his amusement was obvious on his face.

“It hurts,” Jesus said in a voice that was part whine and part growl.

“You don’t have to explain how tender a new tattoo can be to me,” Duo said, just managing not to laugh, although even he could hear the laughter in his voice.

Jesus glared. “And here I was going to surprise you.”

“I thought we established that I don’t like surprises.”

“You liked this one.” He lifted his arm.

Duo bit his lip to resist telling Jesus that while he enjoyed his partners being possessive, he wasn’t particularly possessive himself. It might be backward, but Jesus’s possessiveness was its own reassurance to Duo. Someone who was worried about keeping Duo wasn’t thinking about cheating on him. Besides, he was pretty sure Jesus knew by now that if he did lose his mind and cheat on Duo, he wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.

“I do,” he said, soft and warm. He may not be possessive, but he was moved by the intention behind the decision. Jesus reached out with his left arm to wrap a hand around the back of Duo’s neck. He didn’t make Jesus pull him forward, instead straddling his thigh and kissing him. It was slow and unusually soft for Jesus. When Duo pulled back, he said, “Thank you.”

“You have given me everything of you,” Jesus said, resting his right hand on Duo’s waist. “This seems a small enough thing to give you in return.”

Duo kissed him again, but kept it short. “So where are we going?”

Jesus chuckled. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Rolling his eyes, he let Jesus claim his mouth again. He supposed he’d just have to trust Jesus.

Trust his husband.

“You are aiming to become a lobster, aren’t you?” Jesus asked, settling behind where Gemelo was sprawled out in the sand on the beach. He had the suntan lotion to apply yet another coat to Gemelo’s fair skin, which had, by some miracle, not burned yet, despite nearly a week on their own private island.

Gemelo turned away from where he’d been focused on the ocean waves.

“I’m surprised you brought this much,” Gemelo admitted as Jesus poured a generous amount on his hands. He twisted his loose hair into a tail and pulled it over his shoulder so Jesus could start to lotion him.

“I was worried about that pale colonial skin of yours,” Jesus said, feeling the ridges and scars hidden beneath Gemelo’s backpiece as he moved from the shoulders to the back. “It turns out I was right to do so. You’ve gotten a little bit of color, but not much. If not for me slathering you in lotion all day, you would have been badly burned by now.”

Gemelo shrugged. “I heal fast,” he said, voice still distant and distracted.

Jesus let him stay quiet for another few minutes while he lotioned Gemelo down, then said, “Come. Let’s go sit in the shade.”

“You just lotioned me,” Gemelo pointed out.

“I am done being ignored in favor of the view.”

That made Gemelo’s head snap around to him. “I wasn’t—”

“You’ve been increasingly distracted and distant the last three days,” Jesus said, which was true. Gemelo had started out warm and a little giddy at the beginning of the week, but as it went on, he’d gotten quieter, more withdrawn, as if something heavy weighed on his mind. “It is our first time truly alone like this, and I thought you would enjoy it, enjoy being away from it all, but it seems I’m wrong.”

“No,” Gemelo rushed to reassure, standing and dusting the sand off him as best he could. “That’s… that’s not it at all. I promise.”

Crossing his arms, Jesus asked, “Then what is it?”

Gemelo closed his eyes and sighed, as if pained. “It’s…” he trailed, then shook his head.

Jesus took Gemelo’s chin in his hand, forcing him to look up. “Are you regretting this so soon? Regretting me?”

“No!” Gemelo insisted, gratifyingly quickly. “No,” he repeated, more controlled, stepping into Jesus and leaning his head on Jesus’s chest. “I’m sorry I’ve been in my head.”

“I don’t mind you being in your head, so long as you do not forget that I’m here,” Jesus said, stroking the side of Gemelo’s face. He could feel the breath of Gemelo’s sigh against his bare chest.

“I’ve… just been thinking, is all.”

“About?”

“You. Me. Us.” He wrapped his arms around Jesus’s waist, pressing himself closer, putting his head over Jesus’s heart as if he needed the reassurance of it. “I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured against Jesus's skin, so softly, Jesus almost didn’t hear him over the sounds of the waves lapping behind them.

He took Gemelo’s chin again, forcing him to meet his eyes. “There are never guarantees in life—”

“I know that, dammit—”

“But trust that I will never leave you, just as I trust you will never leave me.”

Jesus meant the words to be reassuring, but what he saw in Gemelo’s eyes was more akin to agony. “I don’t want you to die because I love you,” Gemelo said, voice thick with emotion.

“With you by my side, who could touch me?” Jesus asked, genuinely curious.

Gemelo shook his head loose of Jesus’s grip and laid his head back on Jesus’s chest, hugging him tightly as if he could crawl under Jesus’s skin. Confused, Jesus simply wrapped his arms around Gemelo in return, holding him close despite the tropical heat.

“I want to do it,” Gemelo said, low, voice still rough with emotions that Jesus couldn’t name.

“Do what?” Jesus asked, because nothing about that tone or Gemelo’s body language seemed to speak to the normal things that might accompany that sentence.

“I want to talk to that doctor… the one who does the surgeries…”

The topic was so unexpected, it took a moment for what Gemelo was talking about to register, but once it did, elation welled in Jesus’s chest. “You haven’t said—”

“And neither have you,” Gemelo interrupted. “I appreciate that. I said no, and you backed off, and that’s what I needed.”

As much as Jesus wanted exactly what Gemelo might be proposing, he also wanted to have this conversation with a clear head. “Let’s go inside so you do not bake alive,” he said. Gemelo came with him easily enough, which was somehow both a relief and a little unnerving. Gemelo usually followed his leads, but something about this was different. Usually it felt like Gemelo was just indulging him, this felt more like Gemelo couldn’t resist. The nuance bothered him. He sat on the couch on the covered porch and pulled Gemelo into his lap. “Now,” he began, “I am… overjoyed that you have changed your mind, but…”

“But you want to know why?”

Jesus nodded, brushing a loose lock behind Gemelo’s head.

Gemelo bowed his head, seeming to gather his thoughts. Jesus let him, rubbing his hands up and down Gemelo’s sides in a soothing rhythm. Rushing Gemelo on this was not something he wanted to do.

“I don’t get to keep the people I love,” Gemelo started, haltingly, as if he were almost afraid to speak of this. Jesus had never known Gemelo to be afraid before, and he did not like the new development. “If… if something—” He cut himself off, looking irritated, though it seemed directed inward. He looked up after a moment, meeting Jesus’s eyes. “If the worst happens…” He reached up and cupped Jesus’s face. “I want to have a part of you. A piece of you. And it needs to be a part of me too, so no one could ever take it away. I don’t want more regrets. If I—” His voice cracked and cut off. He took a deep breath, then seemed to forge on. “… If… I lost you, I’d regret it. Not trying. Not having taking that chance.”

Jesus didn’t have names for all the emotions swimming in Gemelo’s eyes, but he knew the most important ones—the stubbornness. The resolve. If these thoughts had been chasing themselves around Gemelo’s mind for days, it was no wonder he’d been distant and quiet.

“I want to look at his documentation. I need to understand as much as I can about the procedure, what to expect. I’ll… probably need to make some odd requests, but if… if what he says is true… if he really can do this, and do this at least as safely as it can be done… then I want to do it.” As he spoke, his voice gained strength, as if saying the words solidified his decision, made it more real. Then a startled laugh escaped him, and he smiled. “I want a child with you, Jesus.”

The joy that had been building in Jesus’s chest felt like it must be radiating from every pore. He pulled Gemelo in and kissed him hard, just the idea of Gemelo carrying his child making him swell so quickly, it left Jesus almost dizzy. He devoured Gemelo’s mouth, claiming it, owning it, possessing it.

“Mine,” he growled when he had to break the kiss.

Gemelo himself looked a little dazed. “Only yours,” he confirmed.

Jesus couldn’t even be bothered to get Gemelo’s swim trunks all the way off, pulling them down just far enough to shove Gemelo back onto the couch, legs piked in the air, trapped by his shorts while Jesus grabbed the lube off the coffee table and quickly slathered himself with it.

“I need you,” he said, his own voice rough with desire.

“Yes,” Gemelo said, desire on his face, along with something else that Jesus didn’t understand, but that was fine. He twisted Gemelo’s hips to the side, then guided himself to Gemelo’s hole. He rubbed once, letting his cock slip over the hole without dipping in. Gemelo cursed under his breath, then met Jesus’s eyes. “Fuck me,” he demanded.

That was all the encouragement Jesus needed, and he buried himself in one powerful stroke, earning a cry from Gemelo, regardless of how often they had sex, that first hard thrust seemed to be as much pain as pleasure without prep. Gemelo never complained though, and Jesus loved to hear him. Only when Jesus was sheathed to the hilt in Gemelo’s body did Gemelo ever sound like that—needy, vulnerable, desperate. Only Jesus could make him sound that way.

He pulled back and thrust in hard, getting another cry but no protest. Instead, Gemelo glanced up and said, “More,” in a raw rasp that he only had at his most desperate.

Jesus was happy to oblige.  

Chapter Text

The “doctor” introduced himself as James Brown, which if nothing else meant he wanted to be as anonymous as possible. And he was very anonymous. If Duo had to define someone as unremarkable, James Brown would be it. He was average height, average build, still has a full head of hair in the most ho-hum cut possible, clean-shaven, and brown eyes. 

It made Duo distrust him on sight. No one who put that much effort into being unmemorable was doing so for a good reason. 

Then again, the man was doing extremely illegal and dangerous surgeries under the radar, probably at least some against people’s wills, so Duo really shouldn’t have expected any better. He was trusting the man’s skill, not his character. That, and the man’s self-preservation instincts, because if anything happened to Duo, Jesus would kill him. Probably very slowly and very painfully. 

At least he seemed well aware of it. Brown wasn’t timid or openly afraid, but he knew what Jesus was, by reputation if not from experience. 

“I really didn’t think I would get to meet you,” Brown said to Duo with a practiced smile as he had Duo sit on a portable exam table. “Our friend seemed very sure you would not change your mind.”

He might be smiling and someone less experienced with liars and psychos might have bought the facade, but Duo saw the eager glint in his eyes. If nothing else, this man would do everything in his power to make sure Duo survived this ordeal, not because of Jesus, but because of his own ego. 

“What do you need from me?” Duo asked. His impatience must have been clear because Jesus set his hand on Duo’s neck. 

“I need samples. Blood. Tissue is best for the uncompromised DNA samples needed for organ growth,” Brown said. 

“Tissue from where?” Duo asked. 

“Bone marrow is best. Usually it’s taken from the pelvis,” Brown said quickly as if saying it fast meant Duo might not understand him. “I can do that here, today. From the sample, I can evaluate if Mr. Reyes is a candidate for growth. I also want to do an ultrasound of your abdomen. It’ll work to map your organs so I understand the space I’m working in.”

“Assuming the growth goes without a hitch, and I heal up good as new, how exactly does a kid get in there?”

Brown smiled again. Duo assumed he thought it was reassuring, but it was a practiced, empty look. “Well, we have options—”

“If you say ‘ass babies,’ you might find this is a non-starter,” Duo said, crossing his arms. 

That got an eyebrow twitch, but it was the only sign of irritation that Brown betrayed. If Duo hadn’t done the research and didn’t know that there no one was doing this surgery legitimately, he probably would have risked reaching out to Quatre to pull strings to make it happen. Unfortunately, even with his resources, there was nothing. It was illegal for good reason. 

“If you would not like… natural options,” Brown said delicately, but something in his voice got a little harsher as if he thought Duo was an idiot, “We can do simple implantation. It will mean that a cesarean is required for birth.”

Duo took a deep breath. Making the decision was one thing, but hearing a word like birth and having to associate it with himself was stranger than he’d thought it would be. His stomach twisted in anxiety, so he turned his attention back to the room. Fernando had somehow found an old doctor’s office that was no longer in use and set Brown up there, so it actually felt like a real practice, which was probably driving Duo’s agitation up, not making it better. He hated doctors. One he knew to be sketchy was even worse. 

“Gemelo?” Jesus asked, in a tone that suggested he’d said Duo’s name more than once. 

“Sorry,” he said, tuning back in. He really should be listening, and he knew it. “You were saying?”

Brown coughed delicately, but something dark passed behind his eyes. “I have some general health questions, then we can take some blood, do the ultrasound, and I can do the marrow sample today if you like.”

Fuck, was he really going to do this? Nothing about the idea of going through surgery, putting himself in this man’s hands sounded like a good idea. The thought of having another… thing growing inside him made a shudder run through him. 

He turned to Jesus to say he’d changed his mind but stopped cold. He was still tanner than usual from their honeymoon, his hair longer than he usually let it get before getting cut, a little less perfectly styled than usual. He looked younger than he was, healthy, full of life. 

Duo loved him--he loved Jesus so much, it made his throat tight thinking about it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear something that wasn’t quite a clock, more like a distant thrum, something barely heard in the distance, but it was counting down. 

I can’t protect him from this, he thought. I don’t think I should, even if I could. And I don’t know how much time we have.

However much it was, it wouldn’t be enough.

He turned back to Brown. “What do you need to know?” he asked, making himself focus. 

Brown asked a lot of questions about Duo’s health, more than half of which Duo couldn’t answer. He knew nothing about his family history, barely even knew his own. He didn’t know what all G had done to him when he was training to be a pilot, other than it gave Sally fits. Brown took what Duo felt was an excessive amount of blood, and Jesus rubbed his back as he held the cotton in place while Brown filled out his label. 

“Given your tattoos, I’m surprised you are nervous about needles,” he murmured, clearly amused. 

“I don’t like doctors, and I don’t like being poked and prodded,” Duo said, unable to keep his agitation out of his voice. 

Jesus cupped the back of Duo’s neck and leaned down, resting his forehead against Duo’s. “You really do love me,” he said, teasing. 

Duo met his eyes, and the words poured out of him, almost as if pulled from his soul. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“I can’t believe you did that without anesthetic,” Jesus said, glaring down at Gemelo as he limped, however slightly, before he laid down on the bed on his stomach. It wasn’t a position he usually took while he was awake, as if he were reluctant to put his back to anyone while he was still conscious.  

Gemelo propped his head up on his arms and glanced at Jesus. “It wasn’t really a choice thing,” he said. “I react weirdly to anesthetics. It was better to just fight through the procedure than it was to risk feeling it in the middle when I wasn’t ready.” He laid his head back down and closed his eyes, exhausted. “Trust me.”

Jesus sat next to the hip that hadn’t had the biopsy and tangled his fingers in Gemelo’s hair. “I didn’t like seeing you in pain.” 

He opened his eyes again and looked up at Jesus, making Jesus pull his hand out of Gemelo’s hair. Jesus couldn’t read the look in his eyes, he just wasn’t sure he’d seen it before. “You usually like seeing me in a little pain,” he commented. 

“Not like that,” Jesus said, thinking through why it had been different. Seeing Gemelo lying on the table, just holding himself still as Dr. Brown drilled into the bone, how tightly he’d gripped the table, his face as he kept silent, as if he’d gone somewhere else in his head. It wasn’t like when Jesus hurt him. Watching someone else hurt Gemelo felt like a violation. “No one else should be able to hurt you.” 

Gemelo was quiet again, wheels turning, processing, till he said quietly, “You haven’t hurt me in a long time.”

Startled, Jesus thought about it. “I’ve left bruises,” he said because Gemelo still bore bruises on the insides of his thighs that matched the shape of Jesus’s hands. 

He shrugged. “I bruise easily.”

Jesus reached out to shift Gemelo’s shirt up, showing a ghost of another, mostly healed bruise over the back of Gemelo’s hip, and pressed on it. 

“It’s too healed to hurt anymore,” Gemelo said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “And if you poke the biopsy wound, I’m going to hit you.”

“I want you.” Jesus fit his hand to where that bruise would have originally spread. 

“You always want me,” Gemelo said in a tone that was still amused but not an invitation. 

Lying down next to Gemelo, Jesus put his hand on Gemelo’s waist to turn him until he was rolled up on his good hip. 

“Jesus…” Gemelo complained, but he went with the motion.

Arousal built within Jesus, and he nipped behind Gemelo’s ear as he pulled him in close, pressing against Gemelo’s ass. Gemelo hissed but didn’t try to get away. 

“Need you,” Jesus murmured into Gemelo’s neck. “My husband.” He dropped his hip from Gemelo’s hip to rest low on his abdomen instead, grinding himself against Gemelo, relishing the hiss and the way he tensed in Jesus’s arms. 

“It’s going to be a few months to grow the organ. Then the surgery.” Gemelo pointed out, putting his own hand over Jesus’s, his voice tight with the pain. 

“You are going to carry my child,” Jesus replied, undeterred, unbuttoning Gemelo’s pants, then dropping the zipper. Before he could dip his hand into Gemelo’s pants and pull him out, Gemelo’s hand tightened on his and stopped him. 

“I am really not in the mood,” he said.

“Is that a no?”

He grew harder as he waited for Gemelo to reply. Without warning, the tension went out of Gemelo, and he murmured, “No,” releasing his grip on Jesus’s hand. 

Jesus quickly shimmied Gemelo’s pants down his hips, ignoring the sharp inhales and catches of breath as he did so, only bothering to get them around Gemelo’s knees. He reached over Gemelo to grab the lube off the nightstand, slicked himself up quickly, then thrust inside in one hard thrust. Gemelo’s knees were trapped by his pants, and being unable to open his legs wide made him a little tighter, a little less accessible. Without any prep and with the soreness of his hip, he arched his back and cried out, a sound of mostly pain, followed by a profusion of curses, most of them in languages Jesus didn’t recognize, but the tone was universal. When Jesus found his length, it was limp, but a couple of minutes of sitting still and stroking him overcame the pain and coaxed his body to respond. As he began to roll his hips, he made sure to keep stroking Gemelo in time to his thrusts, feeding on the soft whines and whimpers Gemelo made as Jesus began to chase his orgasm. 

“Jesus… ” Gemelo gasped after a particularly sharp thrust. 

“Mine,” Jesus growled into his neck, hips snapping forward harder. “Just mine.”

One of Gemelo’s hands reached behind him to grip Jesus’s neck. “Yours,” he agreed before Jesus’s hardest thrusts pegged his prostate and stole his words as they came together, Gemelo spilling over Jesus’s hand. 

They lay pressed together for long minutes, catching their breaths before Gemelo murmured, “If you popped my stitches, I’m going to be seriously annoyed.”

Jesus chuckled into Gemelo’s throat, cuddling him close.

Chapter Text

It was Christmas before the organ was ready, two months since he and Gemelo had been married, nearly three months of eager anticipation. Despite being told that they couldn’t have sex for several days before the surgery, despite knowing that they wouldn’t be able to have sex for several weeks while Gemelo healed, Jesus found himself nearly giddy as Gemelo got ready for the surgery. 

“And I can stay,” Jesus reiterated as Gemelo sat on the gurney in nothing but a front-closing gown. Brown fluttered around and took his vitals. 

“Yes, yes,” Brown said, waving him off. “I have already promised, though I will need you to get scrubbed in, and if you interfere, I cannot be responsible for what happens.”

A nurse that they hadn’t been introduced to and Jesus didn’t care much about took Gemelo’s hand. He snatched it back. 

“I don’t need an IV,” he said. 

Brown sighed. “It is standard. This is a serious surgery. If we need to give you blood, we need the IV line in place. At worst, it will do no harm to have you attached to a drip to keep you hydrated after the surgery.”

“I can just drink for myself then. You’re operating on my abdomen, not my head,” Gemelo snapped back. 

Brown looked frustrated, so Jesus decided to step in. “Please, Gemelo. If it is standard, please allow them to do it.”

Gemelo glared, but he put his arm out. “Fine. But no drugs,” he said firmly. 

“Of course,” Brown said, sounding more than a little bit annoyed with Gemelo’s insistence. That had been a long, loud argument last week when Gemelo had come in for a final discussion, once Brown had confirmed that everything was coming along with the organ growth. 

It was hard for Jesus to accept it, but it was why he was staying with Gemelo—to give him something to focus on. Gemelo clenched his teeth as the IV was put in and secured in place, but he didn’t say anything else. The fierce glare made Jesus want to kiss him, and he had to push the desire down. 

The nurse moved on to opening Gemelo’s gown, and he yelped at her. 

“I need to put in your catheter,” she pointed out dryly. 

Gemelo rolled his eyes, but let her do so, and Jesus watched as the tube was inserted into Gemelo’s dick. He made a mental note to bring it up in a more intimate situation once Gemelo was recovered. 

“Get your brain out of the gutter,” Gemelo told him, genuine irritation in his voice. Jesus didn’t blame him. If he were undergoing a major surgery, awake, with minimal anesthesia, he would be a little bent out of shape too. 

“I need you to scrub in as well, sir,” the nurse told Jesus.

“Very good. If you’d like to come with me,” Brown said. “We can scrub in together. Nurse, if you can take our patient to the operating room?”

“Yes, doctor,” she said, a second nurse coming in to wheel the gurney out. 

Jesus followed Brown to a bathroom, and followed all of his directions as he put on his mask, hair net, and scrubbed his arms and hands down. There was no small talk, but Jesus had to remind him. “If he dies…”

“I haven’t lost anyone in over two years,” Brown said, dismissive. “He’s young and strong. He’s an excellent candidate. Are you sure you wouldn’t like…?”

In private, Brown had tried to persuade Jesus into suggesting Gemelo have a full vagina placed—something Gemelo had been adamantly against. 

“No,” Jesus said firmly. Although the idea of being able to fuck a child into Gemelo himself had some appeal, the idea of Gemelo having some female genitalia was repulsive. 

“I know he said ‘no ass babies,’” Brown continued as though Jesus hadn’t just shot him down. “But that is an option as well.”

That was more tempting, if not for the fact Jesus was sure Gemelo would literally murder them both if they did it. 

“No,” he repeated. 

Brown sighed, as if they were being unreasonable. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose that keeps me in business when you want more.” He shrugged as if it were a mere inconvenience. “Well, off we go. Don’t touch anything.”

Jesus felt stupid holding his hands up, but he did as he was told, not daring to do otherwise and possibly put Gemelo at risk. He followed the doctor into the room that they had converted into the operating room, where four nurses now moved around, a well-oiled machine. Business had been good for Brown and the Kings, though it was risky and expensive. A nurse came over to put gloves on Brown’s hands, then repeated the process on Jesus’s. 

“There’s a stool for you at his head,” she said, clearly dismissing him. 

A curtain was set up across Gemelo’s abdomen, so he wouldn’t be able to see what was happening. Brown had explained it was used for women having C-sections, as they usually weren’t put under for the procedure. A blanket covered Gemelo’s legs, and a blue fabric square sat over his lap. Jesus went around and found the stool. Gemelo looked pale and unhappy. Jesus stroked his forehead, and accepted Gemelo’s hand when he reached up. 

“You have no idea how much this means to me,” Jesus said. 

It seemed to release a little bit of tension from Gemelo. “Yeah, well, maybe I want this too,” he said softly. “Maybe I want something that’s part of us both too.”

Out of the corner of Jesus’s eye, he saw a nurse grab Gemelo’s IV. Immediately, Gemelo turned toward her and began to try to yank away. “What the fuck are you—?”

“It’ll be just a moment,” the nurse said calmly. 

For a moment, something dark flashed across Gemelo’s eyes, before they rolled up into his head. 

Jesus turned to glare at Brown as the nurse came over to put an oxygen mask over Gemelo’s face. 

“He said he was not to be sedated,” he growled. 

“You can’t honestly expect him to stay awake and still through a major surgery. This surgery typically takes about five hours. It would be beyond torturous for him to be awake, not to mention what would happen when he started screaming,” Brown said reasonably. 

“Gemelo said that he doesn’t react normally to anesthesia,” Jesus said. “He said he could do it.”

“I appreciate that bravado, sir, but I am not comfortable operating on an awake patient. If you would like to cancel the surgery…?”

Jesus’s jaw clenched so tightly, it ached, but he said, “Do it.”

Brown nodded as if he had expected nothing else. Jesus settled in, but kept ahold of Gemelo’s hand. 

For the first hour, everything seemed to be going as expected, but then the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor started to change, and Gemelo squeezed Jesus’s hand. 

“Up the dosage,” Brown said without missing a beat. 

A nurse moved over to up the anesthetic dosage. The heart monitor settled down after a moment, back into its expected time. 

A few minutes later, another monitor began to make warning beeps. 

Brown sighed. “What is it?” he asked, continuing to work.

“His temperature is dropping rapidly,” one of the nurses said. Even through the glove, Jesus can feel how cold Gemelo is getting. 

That made Brown look up, brow furrowing. “His blood pressure’s within tolerance.”

“Yes, doctor,” the nurse said, “But he’s down to 90.”

In the moment Brown paused to think, Gemelo’s eyes opened. They locked on Jesus for only a moment, the pupils tiny pinpricks in an ocean of rich violet. 

Then they turn black, and whatever looked at him from behind his husband’s eyes, it was not his Gemelo. 

He didn’t even see Gemelo move. Once moment, he was holding Gemelo’s hand, the next, he was staring up at the nurses trying desperately to hold Gemelo down. 

“Mr. Reyes! You need to stay still!” Brown yelled as Gemelo thrashed. The curtain had been thrown aside, and there was a lot of blood. Brown leaned leaning over Gemelo’s waist, trying to hold him down, but he didn’t look like he’ll be able to keep him for long, and it was clear that Gemelo couldn’t hear him. 

Jesus lurched gracelessly to his feet. “Gemelo!” he called, stepping over to put his face in Gemelo’s line of sight. Gemelo has a hand around a nurse’s throat, another nurse trying to pry his hand off. “Duo!” he tried, something like fear beginning to nag at him. If Gemelo didn’t get under control, he was going to kill himself. “Duo!” He pulled down the mask as Gemelo’s other hand tore free of the nurse holding it to close around Jesus’s throat. It was so cold. Jesus had touched corpses that cold, but never someone alive. Was his Gemelo even still alive? 

“Solo tuyo,” he forced out around the grip that was so cool, it nearly burned. 

Gemelo froze, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his eyes had returned to their normal purple, and he released both Jesus and the nurse. The nurse coughed and gasped as she caught her breath, but Jesus’s attention was all on Gemelo, even though he could feel the impression of Gemelo’s fingers against his throat. He’d be the one bearing a bruised throat for once. 

“Motherfucker!” Gemelo snarled. He didn’t sit up, just lifted his head. “I fucking told you not to drug me, you fucking moron.” His chest heaved, but he laid his head back, looking nearly ghostly. 

“You have to stay still,” Brown said, urgently, standing back up. “You’ve lost a lot of blood with your stunt. Nurse, blood. Now.” 

“No fucking stunt, fucker. I warned you—”

“Yes, yes, now we need to save your life. Don’t Goddamn move, and we might be able to finish this yet.”

The male nurse who had been helping the female nurse who had nearly been strangled patted her shoulder. “Go,” he said. “We got this.”

A hard look came into her eyes. “No,” she said. “Let’s do this.” She rubbed her throat, but got to her feet, going to grab a bag of blood. She glanced down at Duo, and said, “This is going to hurt. A lot.”

He closed his eyes, obviously working to control his breathing, and the heart rate monitor settled back into its normal rhythm. “I know,” he said, voice tight. He reached up his hand, obviously seeking Jesus’s. Jesus took it, startled by how cold it still was, but he could see on the monitor that his body temperature was coming back up. “I need to focus on you,” he said, soft, jaw tight, the grip on his hand beginning to squeeze hard. 

“Do you need me to talk?” Jesus asked, shoving aside his own shock. 

“No,” Gemelo said, meeting his eyes. “Just… stay in my sight.” 

Jesus could do that.

The soft beep of a heart monitor woke Duo first. He felt like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. After a moment, it flooded back—the horror he felt when he realized he was being drugged, the tugging pain that had woken him, pulling deep for Shini to make it go away, trying to kill to fuel the cost— 

Jesus’s voice, strained, saying Solo tuyo. 

His mind shied away from the pain of sitting through the rest of the surgery. Looking to the side, he saw Jesus sleeping in a large chair beside the bed. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’re awake already,” Brown said from the doorway. Jesus’s snuffed in his sleep but didn’t wake. 

“I suppose not,” Duo said. “Can I sit up?” he asked.

Brown had a file in his hand. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “I don’t usually keep people for long post-surgery, but given the circumstances, I’d rather be cautious.”

“Is the nurse okay?” Duo asked, a vague memory of holding a neck in his hand and someone trying to pry his fingers off. 

“Relatively. I’ll have you know, they’ve refused to work on you further,” Brown said, sounding annoyed.

“I told you sedating me wasn’t safe.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d wake up.”

“I told you it wouldn’t work. What did you think would happen?”

“I didn’t think you’d nearly disembowel yourself,” Brown said as if Duo had lied to him. 

“I didn’t think you’d fucking drug me after I expressly told you it wasn’t safe. I’ve been awake through surgeries before. I would have been fine.”

Brown sighed. “I couldn’t take that risk.”

“You nearly got us both killed instead,” Duo said. Fuck, he hurt. His abdomen was cramping like a beast. 

“Cramps?” Brown asked. 

“Yeah,” Duo said shortly. 

“Very normal. You should expect to have them for at least a couple weeks. If your pregnancy takes, the first one will have a lot of cramps. Many patients have required bedrest for the majority of their pregnancy as their bodies accommodate the fetus.”  

“Something to look forward to,” Duo said coolly. “Did it take?” he had to ask. 

“As far as we can tell, the surgery was a success,” Brown said, then glanced up at Duo over the rim of his glasses. “Now the biggest concern is rejection.”

Duo resisted the urge to curl up around the cramping. “How long?” he asked. 

“How long?” Brown raised his eyebrows.

“How long before we know if we can do the implantation.” 

“Knowing what you just went through, I’m surprised you’re willing to continue. If you conceive and carry to term, you will have to be awake through the c-section.”

“I knew what I was signing up for,” Duo said, the pain and his own frustration making him short-tempered. “Stop stalling.”

Brown sighed again, as if Duo were very tiresome. “We’ll take a look after a week. Generally, I would say at least two months, but I can see you’re going to be unreasonable about this.”

“I heal fast,” Duo said. “It won’t be that long.” 

He didn’t have a name for the look he saw in Brown’s eyes, but he didn’t like it. After a long moment Brown said, “At this time, I think I will defer to your expertise with your own system.”

“Good call,” Duo said. 

“You’re going to be on IV fluids and nutrients for a day or two,” Brown warned. 

Duo waved him off. “I remember.”

“Well, there’s a buzzer there on the nightstand if you need anything. Given your previous warnings, we haven’t given you any pain medication—”

“Good call.”

“And it would be best to not give you any if we can avoid it.”

“Understood.”

Brown set his file down and poured a glass of ice water for Duo, holding it out so Duo could sip at it. He sipped, but after just a few mouthfuls, the cramps got worse and he pushed it away. Brown put it back on the side table. “A nurse will also be by shortly to check your catheter.”

“Awesome,” Duo said sarcastically. 

“Try to rest.” 

“Doc.” He waited until he had Brown’s full attention. “If you ever try to drug me again, you had better kill me or I will kill you when I wake up.”

Brown nodded to himself and left without further comment. Duo waited until he couldn’t hear his footsteps before he turned onto his side and curled up around his abdomen. 

This was going to suck way worse than he expected. 

“I told you I heal fast,” Duo said pointedly, raising his eyebrow, resisting the urge to wrap his hand around Brown’s throat and squeeze until he didn’t breathe anymore. 

“Yes, but I haven’t seen anyone recover in less than a month before,” Brown said, frowning. “Honestly, even that is iffy.”

“But it looks like everything is good?” Jesus asked. “You told me you had everything ready.”

By everything, Jesus meant the fertilized eggs for implantation. Along with the uterus, Brown had been able to inject eggs with Duo’s DNA that could then be fertilized with Jesus’s. 

The furrow between Brown’s eyebrows deepened. “I would feel much better waiting at least two more weeks,” he said. “Especially given how badly your surgery went.”

Duo did not want to wait. He wanted this over and done with. He couldn’t explain his anxiety about this; he just felt like there was a countdown hanging over them. “But we can do it today, right?” he asked. 

“As I said—”

“Yeah, yeah, you don’t recommend. That’s just being cautious, right?”

Brown hesitated, but after a glance at Jesus, who was just as eager if not more so than Duo, and he sighed. “Okay,” he said, though he didn’t sound remotely happy about it. “I need you to understand that if this goes wrong, if you lose the fetus, we’ll have to open you back up to remove it.”

“You know better than to try and put me under again,” Duo said. “I’ll accept that risk.”

“All right. Give me a few minutes. At least this will be much easier than the surgery.”

When he stepped out, Jesus stroked Duo’s hand. “Not that I’m not happy you’re eager, but would two weeks make that much of a difference?”

Duo crossed his arms. “I can’t explain it,” he said softly. “I just… I’ll feel better when I’m…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. No matter how committed to this course he was, it was still bizarre to think of himself as pregnant. If everything went well, he’d have nine months to get used to it. 

Jesus took Duo’s hand in both of his, and raised it to kiss the back. “I cannot wait to see you swell with our child,” he admitted, meeting Duo’s eyes. 

Brown came back in with a prepared syringe. Duo hated needles, but he sucked it up, and really, it wasn’t that bad. 

“All right,” Brown said when he was done. “Remember, you really need to wait two weeks before taking a pregnancy test. Any over-the-counter test should be fine. HGC will occur in your blood just like any natural woman’s if the pregnancy takes, but you need to give it two weeks. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Duo said. 

Chapter Text

Duo leaned against the counter, watching the timer on his phone count down. He could practically feel Jesus vibrating from the bedroom. To say he’d been solicitous the last two weeks was a gross understatement. Even Anderson was giving Jesus odd looks. 

Even as he watched the count down on his phone, he could feel another clock ticking in the back of his mind. It seemed to be getting louder daily. 

Please, he thought, please be positive. 

The waiting was making his stomach churn. Why did this damn thing take so long? Diabetes sensors could instantly measure blood sugar levels—why couldn’t pregnancy tests automatically detect the HGC? 

His phone buzzed, and Duo picked the pregnancy test up off the back of the toilet. 

Pregnant the window read, bright and clear. 

Duo had to sit on the floor, stop, and breathe through the relief. 

It worked, he thought, hands shaking. He’d had more than one nightmare of waking up on the operating table and having his bowels open and exposed. Fuck, he dealt with traumatic surgeries so much better if he was just awake from the beginning. 

He let out a shaky breath and looked at the test again. It still read Pregnant in its bright red text. He was pregnant. He, Duo Maxwell, was pregnant with Jesus Reyes’s child. 

Gemelo Reyes-Maxwell. He was pregnant with his husband’s child. 

And if he kept said husband waiting much longer, Jesus was probably going to break down the door. 

Pressing back on the wall to help him get up, he swayed, a little lightheaded. He braced himself against the sink counter for a moment, letting his head clear, then made himself put one foot in front of the other. The click of the lock turning seemed unnaturally loud in the silence, and Duo jumped when he opened the door to find Jesus immediately on the other side. 

“Fuck,” he griped. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“You look pale,” Jesus said, wrapping a hand around the back of Duo’s neck. “It’s no good?” he asked, his face falling. 

Duo turned the test to face him and held it up so Jesus could read for himself. Confusion clouded Jesus’s face for a moment before joy overtook it. “This is real?” he asked, almost as if he were afraid to hope. 

“I mean, there’s another one in the box, but the result seems pretty clear—”

He really should have expected to be picked up and spun around, but his brain wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders at the moment. It made his head spin again, and he didn’t refocus until Jesus set him on the bed. His dark eyes sparkled and he was grinning so wide, it looked like it hurt. He was so beautiful in that moment, it made Duo’s breath catch in his throat. He reached up to pull Jesus down to him, needing to kiss him, needing to ground himself. The kiss stayed chaste and sweet, Jesus’s grin teasing a smile onto Duo’s own face. 

Jesus’s hand rested heavy and low on Duo’s abdomen, just above where the scar from his surgery sat. He broke the kiss, leaning over Duo, happiness continuing to radiate off him. “My child,” he said, then caressed him there. Then he met Duo’s eyes again, and said, “My husband.”

“Mine,” Duo countered, pulling Jesus down again and kissing him hard this time, and wrapping a leg around Jesus’s waist. He ground up against Jesus, and Jesus growled into his mouth. 

He settled a hand on Duo’s waist and pulled back. “Are you sure—?”

“Pregnant women have sex all the time, and we haven’t fucked in over a month. I need you.” He cupped Jesus’s face in both of his hands. “I have your child inside me… now fuck me like you put it there.”

That did it. Jesus scrambled to strip Duo, then grabbed the lube off the side table as Duo slunk up to the center of the bed. Though they hadn’t had penetrative sex in over a month, it wasn’t like they hadn’t been having sex. Still, Duo found he had missed it. Over a year and a half of nearly daily sex had given his body certain expectations, and he missed it. 

Jesus prepped him with more care than Duo thought he’d ever done. He gave Duo the most teasing blow job Duo remembered receiving as he opened him up, his spare hand resting possessively over Duo’s abdomen. He pushed Duo until he begged, then he taunted him further by holding Duo’s hips and sinking into him as slowly as he ever had. To add insult to injury, Jesus fucked him every bit as slow and sweet as he had the night he had proposed. He’d been on the edge for so long, his orgasm caught him off guard, and his brain sort of fuzzed out for a few minutes. 

When he came back to himself, Jesus was curled around him, the heat of him like a comfortable blanket, protecting Duo from the world. 

For a little bit, the clock in his head was silenced. He’d think about the reality of being pregnant later. 

Duo woke slowly. The amount he was sleeping lately was unreal. Easily sleeping twelve to fifteen hours a day in the last week. Brown assured him that the amount he was sleeping wasn’t unusual for pregnant women, and that, since his body wasn’t designed to carry a child, he shouldn’t be surprised if normal pregnancy symptoms were amplified. 

He did miss waking up with Jesus. Not only was he sleeping more, he was sleeping more deeply than he remembered ever doing. It meant that if Jesus didn’t wake him, he didn’t necessarily wake up when Jesus did. Jesus, being ridiculously indulgent and doting, didn’t want to hear about waking up Duo if he was sleeping, even if it fed Duo’s paranoia to be sleeping that soundly. 

The clock on the nightstand told Duo he’d been sleeping for a solid ten hours, but his stomach was grumbling and demanding. In the last few days, his appetite had noticeably increased. It was different from the hunger Duo was used to, insistent in a way that he found difficult to ignore. 

Dragging himself out of bed, he went to the bathroom. He couldn’t resist checking in the mirror, but despite the signs that told him things were changing, there was no sign of it on his abdomen yet, though there was the new scar. 

He sighed, brushing his teeth, taking his prenatals, then redoing his braid. He was still tired, but he felt a little more human, so he went downstairs to feed his demanding stomach.

In the kitchen, he found Fernando seated at the island, and he paused. 

“Where’s Jesus?” he asked, going to the fridge. 

“Business,” Fernando replied shortly. 

It made Duo hesitate, turn, and look at him. “That’s the second time this week,” Duo said. 

“Keeping count now?” Fernando asked, not looking up from whatever he was working on. 

“Considering he almost never goes anywhere without me, yes, I’m noticing when he’s been somewhere without me five times in the last month.”

Fernando sighed and looked up. “You are with child. Of course he does not want you with him, where you might be at risk,” he said as if he were being rational. 

Duo opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Brown had been clear about how fragile this first pregnancy could be. All it might take was a good hit to his stomach, and that would likely be it. As competent as he was, he was also used to taking a lot of casual damage. It really wasn’t a good idea under current circumstances. 

“Okay, so maybe he has a point,” Duo conceded, opening the fridge, looking for anything that sounded good. He grabbed eggs, a bell pepper, and bacon out, setting them on the counter. He knew he was missing something, so he went to the pantry and pulled out an onion. “Do you want an omelet?” he asked. 

Fer shook his head. “I’ve already eaten.”

Duo shrugged; his loss. He put a pan on, threw six pieces of bacon into it, then put the leftovers away. He kept an eye on the bacon as he quickly prepped and diced the bell pepper and onion, then scrambled six eggs. Once the bacon was done to his satisfaction, he pulled it off, then wiped out the pan. Some butter went into the pan, then the onions and peppers went in to start softening while Duo diced up four slices of bacon. When he went back to the pan, he got a whiff of the cooking scent, and his stomach promptly rolled—and not in a good way. 

He backed away from the pan, putting the island between himself and it quickly enough to get Fer’s attention. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, obviously unnerved by Duo leaning against the island with his wrist pressed under his nose. “Sit down before you fall,” he insisted, wrangling Duo onto a stool. “Was it the smell?” 

“I… guess?” Duo said. 

Fer went over to the stove and stirred the vegetables. “Can I add the eggs now?” he asked. 

Duo nodded. “You can add the bacon too.” While Duo’s stomach settled, he continued to give Fer instructions. A few minutes later, Fer had the massive omelet dished out on a plate with the leftover side of bacon and slid it cautiously over to him. The scent of the bacon, onions, and peppers all together with the eggs somehow made his mouth water, as if he’d totally forgotten the way just the pepper and onion had made it turn, and he dug in. 

“Okay now?” Fer asked, sliding a large glass of water to him as well. 

Duo nodded, swallowing his bite before he spoke. “I don’t know what happened. I was fine, and then…”

“Food aversions,” Fer said. “Marianna has had them. There’s not usually a lot of rhyme or reason to them.”

“For real?” Duo asked. “I’ve always been able to eat literally anything.”

“Don’t force it with these. You’ll just end up being sick,” Fer said, sliding back into his seat. 

Duo tried to wrap his head around being as hungry as he was and his stomach revolting at things that had sounded good a few minutes before, and gave up. “This is going to suck so much,” he complained. 

“It still amazes me that you did it. I remember your reaction the first time Jesus suggested it.”

Finishing the bite he’d put in his mouth before speaking, Duo asked, “Is it so hard to believe that I wanted to have a permanent piece of him?”

“Like this?” Fer retorted. “Yes.” 

That was fair enough. Duo’s initial reaction had been rather vehement. 

“I didn’t think you’d risk your life for his whims.”

Duo stuffed another bite in his mouth—he would swear this omelet didn’t usually taste this good—and chewed while he thought about it. Finally he shrugged. “I can understand wanting something that is both of us. This is the only good way to get it right now.” 

“But to risk your life on the surgery....”

“I’ve risked my life for things that meant far less to me. Why wouldn’t I risk it like this?”

Fer sighed. “I suppose.” He shuffled the papers he had been working on. “When do you next see Doctor Brown?”

“Three more weeks.”

“That’ll be eight or nine weeks?” Duo nodded. “The heartbeat appointment then.”

The fork stilled as he remembered that Fer was a father as well. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, that’s what that appointment is for.”

Fer slid his eyes over to Duo. “Take care of yourself first,” he said, surprisingly compassionate. “Jesus needs you more than he wants that child.”

Duo met his gaze. “I’ll do my best. I do want this too, you know.”

Nodding, Fer returned his attention to his papers while Duo bolted down the rest of the large omelet. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable though. Stomach full, Duo stood to go clean up his dishes, but Fer took the plate from him. 

“Go. Rest. I’ll take care of this.”

Stomach satisfied for now, the exhaustion pulled at Duo again. “I can do the dishes, Fer.”

“I know, but as I said, take care of yourself first. You look ready to pass out. I can wash the dishes for once.”

Duo opened his mouth to protest again but was interrupted by a massive yawn. “Okay,” he said when he could speak again. “You win.” He stood and nearly swayed with another huge yawn. 

“I know you are not used to letting others care for you,” Fer said, a little hesitantly as he loaded the plate and fork into the dishwasher. “But for once, just… let Jesus take care of you. I don’t want to know what he would do if he lost you or the child.”

Duo didn’t want to know either. He fought down another yawn and gave up trying to resist his bed’s call, half stumbling up the stairs. He was out cold almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

The urge to break Brown’s neck every time he saw the man wasn’t going away, but Duo was just going to have to accept that as long as he was pregnant, he was going to have to deal with the man. Aside from Duo’s instinctual revulsion and the fact he hadn’t trusted Duo when he said he couldn’t be sedated, he hadn’t actually done much that wasn’t professional. 

It still made Duo’s skin crawl to let him touch him,  but he was grateful for Jesus’s presence. He was pretty sure that Brown wouldn’t dare try anything as long as Jesus was there. 

“All right,” Brown said, pulling out a weird little monitor and putting the cool gel on Duo’s abdomen. “Let’s see if we have a heartbeat, shall we?” He put the wand to Duo’s abdomen, and there was a rushing sound. “That’s your blood,” Brown said, moving the wand around. He moved it around for a minute, seemingly over every inch of skin above where the uterus should be. The monitor sounded staticy as it was moved, but the steady whoosh that Duo recognized as a heartbeat remained steady. 

Brown frowned, pulsing the wand as if he could giggle Duo’s insides around. 

“What’s wrong?” Duo asked. Jesus took his hand. Brown pulsed the wand again, which felt weird and uncomfortable, though it didn’t precisely hurt. 

“I’m not getting anything,” Brown said, moving the wand again. 

“Perhaps Gemelo’s muscles are too thick?” Jesus suggested. 

“No, that shouldn’t be an issue. The tissue may be a little denser, but…” He pulsed the wand yet again.

“But you should still hear the heartbeat,” Duo finished for him, strangely calm. 

Brown moved the wand all over again, jamming and pulsing, generally making Duo super uncomfortable, but once the static cleared, there was no fluttering, rapid rush that was supposed to be a fetal heartbeat. 

“Could the test have been wrong?” Jesus asked. 

“No,” Brown said. “Home pregnancy tests are, honestly, about as conclusive as official tests, and Gemelo has been experiencing all the normal symptoms.”

“Could they be psychosomatic?” Duo asked, needing to ask the question. 

Brown put the ultrasound aside and wiped off Duo’s abdomen. “Have you been reading a lot of pregnancy materials?” he asked. 

“No.”

“Been around a lot of pregnant women?”

“No.”

“Any morning sickness?”

Duo frowned. “A couple food aversions…”

“Did you even know that was a potential side effect before it started happening?” Brown asked.

“No,” Duo said, closing his eyes. Jesus squeezed his hand as Brown stripped off his gloves. 

“Then I’d say no, it wasn’t psychosomatic. Although your stomach is very flat, your muscles very developed, you can see a bit of loss of definition. Generally, those well-developed abdominals will keep you from ‘popping’ and showing your pregnancy longest in your first pregnancy—your abdominal wall is just stronger and more able to resist expanding. It looks like you’ve been losing weight—probably because you didn’t have much extra weight on you to begin with—”

“I’ve been eating like three times more than normal,” Duo protested. 

Brown shrugged. “You can see a small bump here because of it.” He pressed on Duo’s abdomen again, and Duo squirmed, uncomfortable. 

“So what are our options?” Jesus asked, a growl in his voice that said he didn’t appreciate Brown touching Duo unnecessarily. 

Brown sighed and sat back. “You’re nine weeks. We should be able to pick up the heartbeat. At this point, I’d like to set up a formal ultrasound and see if we can see what’s going on, and confirm if it’s viable or not.”

“If it’s not?” Jesus demanded. 

“Then it’s surgery again,” Duo heard himself say. He met Brown’s eyes. “You need to remove the nonviable tissue, right?”

Opening his hands as if to say, I told you so, Brown confirmed, “Yes. Without a natural way for your body to expel the nonviable tissue, we will have to clean it out.”

Duo nodded, trying to shove down his nausea at the idea. “What will that be like?”

“Let me get the ultrasound set up first. Let’s confirm, then we’ll decide how to go from there.”

He patted Duo’s thigh as he stood, then left. 

Jesus moved closer, putting an arm around Duo’s shoulder, letting him rest his head on Jesus’s chest. The sound of Jesus’s heartbeat under his ear echoed the sound of Duo’s from the heartbeat machine, and Duo took a shuddering breath. 

“It’s fine,” Jesus soothed. “We know it can work now. We’ll just have to try again.”

The ultrasound confirmed it: no signs of life.

In the back of Duo’s mind, the clock he thought he’d avoided ticked louder than ever before.

Chapter Text

Exhausted as he was, Duo barely slept in the wake of the confirmation. He had been pregnant. The pregnancy had failed. He wasn’t pregnant anymore. Brown recommended a bare minimum of a month to recover before they tried another implementation. Every time he closed his eyes, he either heard the sound of the vacuum used to clean the “nonviable tissue” out of him or the ominous final tock of a clock. A timer run out.

It didn’t help that he’d panicked during the operation to clean him out, ripping open the old wounds from the original surgery. It was the first time Duo had ever panicked during a surgery, and he had no real memory of his thoughts or anything beyond the pain and the absolute certain knowledge that Brown was taking his children.

When asked, Brown confirmed twins.

This time, when Brown had sewn him up, he’d done so with thick, ugly cord usually reserved for the emergency room when closing a wound was far more important than making it pretty. It also tugged and itched a lot worse as it healed.

“Gemelo,” Jesus said, exasperated as he leaned in the office doorway at a little past four in the morning. “Have you slept at all?”

Duo shook his head. “I just… I can’t…”

Sighing, Jesus approached the desk and took the composite pictures that he had shown Duo all those months ago. Duo had to resist the urge to snatch them back a Jesus sat across from him. “Solo mio,” he sighed. “Even I know this is not your fault. Stop doing this to yourself.”

“I should have waited. I shouldn’t have pushed—”

“Dr. Brown says these things happen sometimes. There’s no way of knowing if it would have happened if you had waited. It was just as likely that they wouldn’t have taken in the first place.”

He was repeating words that Duo had tried to tell himself a thousand times, but they rang hollow in Duo’s chest. “I just… I feel like this was it.”

“We have time.”

“What if we don’t?” Duo demanded, sharp and desperate. “Everyone, everyone, Jesus. Everyone I have ever loved, I’ve lost, and… I…” He slumped back in the chair, rubbing his hands over his eyes, ignoring the dampness gathered in his lashes. “You can’t take for granted that we have time,” he finally said around the lump in his throat.

“It’s only three more weeks, then we can try again.”

“Do you know what could happen in three weeks?” Duo asked, feeling like his magboots had unexpectedly broken loose and he was spinning off into the infinite black with no tether.

Jesus sighed again. “We cannot live as if tragedy will strike tomorrow. It’s simply not healthy to live expecting to die at any moment. We must embrace the time we have, make plans for tomorrow. Now come to bed. You’ve barely slept all week. If you look this ragged when Dr. Brown sees you next, he may refuse to do the implantation on principle, and I’m not sure I’d blame him.” He stood and circled the desk, putting the pictures into a drawer and closing them firmly, then he took Duo’s chin in his hand and kissed him. “Come to bed.”

He may have intended the kiss to be soft, but soft wasn’t what Duo wanted right then. He kissed back hard, almost angry, pushing Jesus in a way he never had before, clinging to him hard enough to leave bruises of his own. When Jesus finally made him break the kiss, they were both breathing hard.

“Gemelo?”

“I need you,” Duo said, moving to suck at a spot on Jesus’s collar. “I need to feel you. Need a reminder that you’re alive. That I’m alive…” He kissed Jesus hard again, then bit at his lip and met his eyes. “Fuck me like you used to,” he said. “I want to feel it for days. I need to…”

He saw the heat catch behind Jesus’s tired, sad eyes, and that was what he wanted. He wanted the monster back. Duo had never been drawn to Jesus’s humanity alone—he loved the monster in equal measure, and right then, he wanted to fight. Wanted an outlet. Duo had never mourned in soft, quiet ways, in lonely offices, wrapped up in his thoughts. He raged. He hit and screamed and killed when he mourned, and that was what he needed now.

Jesus seemed to understand it because he bent Duo over the desk, pressing him down with all of his weight, pencil holder clattering to the floor, muffled against the carpet.

“Is this what you need?” Jesus growled into his ear, the bulge of his own arousal pressing against Duo’s clothed ass.

“Yes,” Duo gasped. Jesus lifted Duo’s hands until he could clutch the edge of the desk, then he pulled down Duo’s pants until they just cleared his ass. It wasn’t the first time they’d had sex in the office—no matter how much Fer bitched about it—and there was still lube in one of the drawers.

Jesus shoved a dry finger into him, and Duo hissed. “So fucking tight,” he rumbled. “But you can still take me, can’t you? You were made for me. Made to take me. You’ll let me in, won’t you?” he asked, the finger retreating.

“Yes,” Duo said, need thick in his own voice. “Please, please…” he murmured over and over while Jesus lubed his cock, until the thick head pressed against him. Fuck, it felt so much bigger than normal, but Duo tried to thrust back on it anyway. Jesus held his hip in a bruising grip.

“Ah ah,” he admonished, then thrust forward, hard. Hard enough to make Duo cry out far louder than he usually did. It hurt. They hadn’t had sex in nearly two weeks. Duo had been a walking ball of tension, and as much as he wanted sex, needed to feel possessed, feel down to his core that Jesus was alive, he wasn’t turned on, so there was none of the usual arousal to balance the pain. The lube and his own body’s natural elasticity were probably the only reasons he didn’t tear.

But it was exactly what he needed. He needed that pain, needed to be grounded, wanted to feel every inch of Jesus inside of him, not distracted from it by his own pleasure. It still didn’t hurt as much as the thought of losing Jesus did.

One of Jesus’s hands wrapped around his neck, prying Duo’s upper body off the desk, making his back arch uncomfortably. His hips snapped forward with a bruising force, tagging his prostate brutally, bringing Duo’s own arousal with it, almost against his will.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Jesus demanded, his voice seeming to echo in Duo’s chest. “You need me to hurt you. Need to feel me. Need to belong to me!” The hand on Duo’s hip left to stroke his length in time with Jesus’s hips as they sped up, even as his grip on Duo’s throat tightened so Duo struggled to breathe around it. “You are mine. And after this, you will move on. No more moping. In three weeks, we will try again, and you will be filled with my children. You will be.”

He released Duo’s neck to hold onto his hips again as he chased his orgasm, dragging Duo over with him as he gasped, body desperate for air. He could feel Jesus’s tremble above him as he rested his forehead in the center of Duo’s back, letting the last aftershocks of his orgasm peter out.

“You are mine. And you will bear my children. And you will stop borrowing trouble where this is none. Am I clear?”

Duo shuddered as Jesus pulled out, feeling somewhere between beaten up and relieved. “Clear,” he confirmed.

“Good. Now come to bed.”

Head clearer than it had been in what felt like months, Duo chuckled. “The cleaners have got to hate us,” he said, his voice scratchy, but his throat oddly didn’t feel bruised. Jesus had pressed exactly where he needed to in order to cut off Duo’s air, and no harder.

Jesus tugged on Duo’s oversensitive length, almost as an admonishment, making his squirm and hiss, “Shit!”

“That’s why I pay them well. Let’s go to bed.”

“Not sure I can walk after that,” Duo admitted, a little endorphin bubble making him giddy.

Jesus sighed and picked him up like he weighed nothing, then carried him back to their bed. He tucked Duo in, then curled up around his back. Duo fell asleep with no dreams for the first time in weeks.

Reese wasn’t really nervous when he stepped into Jesus Reyes’s brownstone anymore, and he had no idea what that said about him. Things had changed when Gemelo and Reyes got married—Gemelo had changed.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he just stopped not being himself anymore. Maybe what Reese had seen was the mask, the lie. He wasn’t sure he knew what the truth was anymore.  

He might not be in as deep as Gemelo was, but he was trusted, as this request proved.

“We have an important meeting today,” Reyes said. “But I don’t want to leave Gemelo alone, and there’s no reason for him to come.”

Cautiously, Reese glanced at Garcia to see how he felt about Gemelo being left at the brownstone. They didn’t get much time alone, but Reese was pretty sure that Gemelo wouldn’t want Reyes to be doing something potentially dangerous without him there.

“Where is Gemelo?” he asked after getting a poker face from Garcia.

“He’s sleeping,” Reyes said shortly.

Reese tried not to tense, tried not to stress visibly. Access to Gemelo had been decreasing at an alarming rate in the past several months, and while Garcia and Reyes didn’t seem concerned, but that did not mean that there wasn’t something to be concerned about.

Reyes pulled a jacket on, then loomed into Reese’s space. No one ever really forgot how big of a man Jesus Reyes was, but when you were six feet tall, you didn’t look up to a lot of people, and few people loomed over you. It wasn’t just his height, but the breadth of his shoulders, the weight of his gaze. When Jesus Reyes looked down on you, he was not looking at a man, at a person—at best, he was looking at a tool; at worst, he was looking at a bug. The only people he seemed to truly see were his sister, Garcia, and Gemelo. Even Rafael and Alejandro never seemed real to him.

“If anything happens to him while under your care, I assume you know what will happen to you,” Reyes said, his voice dropping to a low growl, as if some sort of primal monster were speaking instead of a man.

“Yes, sir,” Reese said, straightening his back.

Straightening as well, Reyes patted Reese’s cheek. “Good,” he said, then turned to Garcia. “Everything in place?”

Garcia frowned. “I don’t like this, Jesus,” he said with the tone that suggested he had said it more than once. “I don’t like gathering this many of us in one place.”

Wait, what? Reese wondered, trying to listen without seeming to.

“You worry too much,” Reyes told him, voice fading as they headed toward the door. “This meeting will—”

The door shut. Reese resisted the urge to go stand at it or crack it open, but it would be too obvious. Instead, he decided to go up and check on Gemelo.

When he stuck his head in the room, he found Gemelo curled up into a small ball on what was probably his side of the bed. With the blankets pulled up to his neck, there was no way to see if Gemelo was hurt or damaged, but Reese didn’t want to wake him up just to check. He looked small in the king-size bed, almost like a child, and he didn’t stir as Reese opened the door.

That didn’t mean that Reese could get close though. Sighing, he closed the door softly and went back down to the kitchen. It wasn’t as though he really needed to protect Gemelo from anything…

…Unless he did? Could Gemelo have really been hurt? Hurt badly enough that he couldn’t defend himself? It was hard to imagine, but it made Reese want to go up and see if he could get a better look at the man. But just because he hadn’t stirred when being checked on didn’t mean he’d sleep through having blankets pulled off.

He sighed, settling in at the island, pulling up his most recent book on his phone to wait for Gemelo to get up and talk to him. He hadn’t been reading for more than an hour when his phone buzzed. Reese swiped over to the text, then felt his breath catch.

It looked like a spam text, but it was from his handler. Since the only one in the house already knew about him, he quickly replied, deleted both messages, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long before his phone lit up with a blocked number. Reese answered it. “You got Rico.”

“Surprised you’re not partying,” his handler’s voice replied, sounding tight, asking him if he was safe to talk.

“Not when I have work,” he said, giving her the all-clear. “What do you need?” he asked, not liking the tone. He glanced up the stairs again, but there had been no movement from Gemelo.

“The fishing was good, and we caught a big one. You should come to Uncle Jorge’s and see it for yourself,” she said.

A sting! How? Reese had some good information, but he didn’t know if it was enough to really nail Reyes. Had Gemelo set this in place? Were Preventers involved? Was Gemelo just pretending to be hurt? Questions he couldn’t really ask over an open line like this.

“When should I head home?” he asked, heart beginning to race.

“If you don’t want to get caught in traffic, sooner is better. Uncle Jorge is expecting you by this evening, he says.”

This evening meant by noon. That was fast. Really fast. Whatever was happening had to be going down like, right now.

“All right. Tell Uncle Jorge I’ll do my best to be home before dinner.”

“See you then,” his handler said, then hung up.

By noon gave him less than an hour to get to the safehouse. Reese glanced up the stairs again, wondering if he should wake Gemelo, tell him what was happening. If he should bring him with or offer him the chance to turn himself in or…

… Or just leave him here.

If Reese woke him up, would he go to try to get Reyes out? Would he try to protect him? Reese didn’t know.

If this sting went well, Jesus Reyes was going to end up in jail. If it went slightly sideways, Reyes could very well end up dead. Reese just didn’t know what Gemelo would do to protect the man, how deep he was in. Ever since Gemelo had gotten Reyes’s name tattooed on his neck, Reese had been worried. The wedding rings appearing without comment or explanation was a step farther than Reese was comfortable with.

If Gemelo got the chance to interfere, Reese wouldn’t be surprised if he and Reyes would somehow manage to slip through the trap.

Reese couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t dare risk trying to knock Gemelo out—even with an advantage, he wasn’t putting the money on him over Gemelo. So if he couldn’t risk Gemelo interfering, he couldn’t wake him up. Couldn’t talk to him or explain to him or give him a chance to fight.

It sat uneasy in his chest, but there was really only one option, and the option was to leave Gemelo sleeping and not tell him anything.

Before he could examine his decision too closely, he went to the door. Stepping outside, he hesitated before closing it behind him. If he left, that was it—there was no going back.

It was now or never.

He shut the door firmly behind him.

The buzzing of his phone woke Duo up. He vaguely remembered Jesus getting up, but he must have been playing catch-up for the lack of sleep because it looked like he’d slept well past noon. Something in the brownstone felt off, and it took Duo a moment to put his finger on it.

It didn’t feel like anyone was there. He didn’t often actively sense for people, but being entirely alone could be a little jarring. That was odd. Jesus hadn’t left Duo alone at the brownstone in months. He shook his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes before reaching for his phone.

It was a message from a blocked number, and all it had was an address.

“Weird,” he muttered to himself. He set the phone aside and went to take a quick shower, skipping his hair, but taking care with his stitches. He fingered the bruises on his hips that had turned a deep purple. They ached when he pressed on them, but it was grounding, oddly satisfying. He was definitely sore inside as well, though it was hard to complain since he had very explicitly asked for it.

After he was done with his shower, he brushed his teeth. A quick check showed, not surprisingly, that he didn’t need to shave. It also showed Duo only the barest yellow of bruises at the hinges of his jaw, virtually invisible if he weren’t looking for it.

The empty brownstone was starting to itch at him, so he got dressed quickly and tried to figure out what was nagging at him. His phone buzzed again on the nightstand. One word.

Coming?

“The fuck?” Duo flicked the message aside and called Jesus, but it went straight to voicemail. Fine, whatever. Jesus was nearly as bad with his phone as Duo usually was, so he called Fernando instead.

Straight to voicemail.

That was not normal at all. Where Jesus could be a disaster where his phone was concerned, Fernando always, always answered. On a whim, he called Anderson.

Voicemail.

Shini began to thrum under his skin. Given time, Duo could hack the phone and probably backtrace the blocked number, but it would take a lot less time to just go to the address he was obviously being summoned to.

It had to be a trap. Absolutely had to be.

The phone vibrated in his hand again. Another short message.

Hope you kissed him goodbye.

Trap or not, Duo was going.

He pulled out his knives and guns, suited up, and was out the door in record time. Alejandro’s motorcycle was still parked in front of the brownstone, so Duo simply hotwired the damn thing and took off, braid flying behind him like a banner. In New York’s traffic, it was the best way to get around anyway.

The address wasn’t far, and when Duo pulled up, there were police blockades all around the area. He could tell them he was a Preventer and try to get information out of them, but that would take time. Time he somehow knew he did not have.

Then the shooting started. Duo simply used the bike to jump the blockade as the world went silent and gray. If the police yelled at him, he didn’t hear them. The Laughing God of Death walked, and they were nothing.

Then Duo sank deeper.

Fog obscured everything. It muted gunfire, smudged outlines of people and things. In the heart of a shootout, the only thing that was solid, real, was the ripple. The ripple that told him someone had died. 

This was not where Duo lived while Shinigami was riding him high. This was not how he saw the world. But he had seen this before, been here before. 

The last time had been in that building where Heero had lost his memory. Where Heero had shoved him out of the way of that railing that would steal him from Duo as surely as Death would have. The last time before that was as he had raced back to the Church to find only ruins.

Another ripple raced toward him, hitting him like a blow to the throat.

And he knew.

Throwing himself from the motorcycle, Duo moved as if pushing through water, feeling the paths bullets traced around him, but untouched. As surely as if the path had been lit with neon lights, he knew exactly where to go. Someone ran at him, but he pushed them back as if they were nothing. He reached Jesus's side, moved a frantic Alejandro to the side with less effort than would have been needed to move a child, and knelt by the body.

Blood soaked the front of Jesus's expensive suit, trailed down his mouth from where he had coughed it up. It was spattered, handprints where someone had pressed and held and tried to make it stop. Lung shot, an artery too, judging by the volume of blood. It soaked into Duo's knees, but he ignored it, lifting Jesus's head to cradle it in his lap. He closed Jesus's eyes, and gently petted at Jesus's hair. He could hear Alejandro yelling in his ear, but it was just as distant as muffled as everything but Jesus was. 

"Cease fire." His own voice was strangely clear in the fog. 

No one else appeared to hear it.

"Cease fire," he said again, more firmly this time, and his voice rushed through the fog in the same way that the deaths had. Silence, real silence, fell. 

"We surrender." Duo's voice carried clearly again. If any Kings protested, he didn't hear it. After a few moments, weapons began to clang on the ground, dropped or thrown. Sounds of police moving in were still muted, as were the unhappy mutterings of Kings, but Duo ignored them. Someone must have protested because another ripple raced toward Duo, but he didn’t recognize it. The resulting ripple washed away distortions, and Duo returned all of his attention to the dead man in his arms. 

“Jesus is dead,” he said, the words soft and terrible, yet they rushed through the fog as if they were a ripple of their own.

Death prowled in the fog, but its prey had been claimed. Time had run out, as Duo had known it would. He’d known the moment he said yes to Jesus that this was how things would end. The best he dared to hope for was to keep a piece of the man he loved in their child.

But the children were gone, forever a what if, an unrealized dream. Brown would flee as soon as word reached him. Even if he had other seeds that could maybe be planted, it would never be allowed.

The clock had run out.

Jesus may have cauterized the wounds in Duo’s heart, and he may have saved Duo’s life by doing so, but he would leave scars of his own.

Duo bowed his head over Jesus’s, pulling him a little closer, trying to pull the last bits of warmth from Jesus into himself. He remained there until the blood cooled and the police pulled him away.  

"Tell me how to love again when the ashes of my heart and smoke in my chest are evidence that love burns everything it touches."
— Nikita Gill, Your Soul is a River