Warnings: alternate universe fic, language, shounen ai, eventual yaoi (male/male sex), angst, eventual character death & reference to torture

Promises: no non-consensual or underage sex! none of the pilots will die! cross my heart...

DISCLAIMER - I totally don't own Gundam Wing, but I do borrow that little corner of Animeland a lot. Without permission.

A note from Manny - This is the prologue or prequel to a novel-length Duo/Trowa Alternate Universe fic which was inspired by the movie "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider." And, just like in the movie, no actual tombs are raided. Heh.

Recommended theme music for "Hieroglyphs" - "The Tension and the Terror" by Straylight Run

Tomb Raiders: Hieroglyphs

The boy was just as surprised to see me here as I was to see him. What were the odds that the archeological dig site my troupe had been hired to guard would be visited by someone who looked to be about my age?

My hand tightened on the gun strap slung across my chest. He blinked large, dark blue eyes at me, examining my dusty camo fatigues, the hunting knife in my belt, the steel water canteen dangling from my hip, and the binoculars around my neck. Standard uniform for guarding sites from tomb raiders and grave robbers.

He wasn't wearing any gear similar to what I was. He was dressed in baggy, khaki cargo pants and a black T-shirt with a pair of big, red lips that smiled at the world from the center of his chest. I didn't know what the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" was, but I was morbidly curious if this oke was going to give it a run for its money. Probably not. He slipped and skidded in the sand. The canvas takkies he was wearing were no match for the constantly shifting dunes. I wondered if the boykie was prone to seasickness.

The wind picked up, swirling around us. I waited for his judgment, but he only looked his fill, meeting my gaze with neither derision nor aggression. Unsettling.

"Come along now, Dominic!"

The boy startled in response to the affectionate and authoritative summons, whirling around, and I saw his braid roll with the wind like a whip as he dived for the hastily-laid wooden boardwalk and jogged after the man who had ridden shotgun in the Land Rover: Lord Maxwell. This was the first time I'd seen my employer. We'd been guarding the site for two months now, ever since some university professor out of Cairo had discovered this tomb and we'd been contacted to provide round-the-clock security. It did not surprise me that the man bankrolling this whole operation was clearly past middle age, distinguished and successful. He walked tall and straight, with purpose and drive to match his neatly trimmed, grey hair.

The kid surprised me, though. Graceful in the way dancers were graceful, with his long plait of thick, brown hair and wide, sparkling eyes. As if the world was a great joke he couldn't wait to share with everyone who happened to cross his path.

I sighed and turned away from the gaggle of archeologists and graduate students that were gathering around the pair as they headed deeper into the dig site.

Seeing someone around my age – someone who hadn't looked through me or dismissed me – should not have been all that interesting. How pathetic that it was the most noteworthy event of this entire job so far.

Nonetheless, I continued watching him even after he and Lord Maxwell had exchanged greetings with the head archeologist, Professor Merquise, so I knew exactly how many times he glanced over his shoulder and looked back at me. And with each time, his smile grew wider and wider.

I braced myself for the inevitable meeting.

It didn't come until nearly sunset. I finished my rounds for the day and the captain gestured me toward the makeshift armory. I collected a bottle of gun oil, a clean rag, and a tool kit and then I went to sit under one of the few emaciated trees. We'd set up a rickety card table and a bench. It wasn't the best of arrangements and the sand of the desert would get everywhere no matter how careful you were, but it was better than trying to field strip a weapon on the dust-covered floor of our tents.

I popped in my earphones and queued some music. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and got started. I was deep in the meditative process of polishing each piece of the dismantled weapon when something fell on me.

I rolled off the bench and came up on my knees, knife in one hand and the other reaching for the pistol I kept concealed under my vest.

"Whoa, damn! Chill, man."

I glared. Somehow, the boy I'd seen earlier had scaled the tree without me sensing him and then had crawled out onto the lowest, thickest bough which stretched out above the card table. He was sprawled there like a jaguar, grinning ruefully as he tugged his braid up and tossed it onto his back. "The damn thing always gives me away," he offered.

"You're lucky I didn't slice it off."

"Eh. It's hair. It'd grow back."

He had a point. I put the knife away and glared at him a bit more.

He laid his head down on his pillowed arms and grinned. "Nice evening, huh?"

It had been until that python of his had dumped itself on my head. I righted the bench and sat back down, determined to get back to work.

"Whatcha listening to?" he asked after a minute of silence.

"Chopin."

"No way."

I offered up the right earphone to him. He wrapped his legs around the tree branch and reached down for it. The cord was long enough that he only had to duck his head a bit below the limb to fit it into his ear.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, the earphones tethering us together. "Well, damn. It sure sounds like Chopin."

As if Mr. Hot Lips T-shirt knew anything about classical music. I turned away.

"Nocturne. Opus nine, number two," he surprised me by saying. I looked up again and watched his eyelids drift shut as his mouth curved into a soft smile. "My mom used to play this."

"Why'd she quit?" I surprised myself by asking. I didn't care. I wasn't curious.

"She's dead."

I didn't apologize for it. It never made much sense to me that people apologized for mentioning bad stuff they'd had no way of knowing was bad in the first place.

"What's your name?" he asked me suddenly.

"Trowa," I answered.

"First or last?"

"First."

"So, what's the last? Or do I gotta arm wrestle ya for it?"

I almost smiled. "Tempting."

"Trowa Tempting?"

I snorted once, rolling my eyes up at him at the dorky joke. "Trowa Barton."

"I'm Duo." He stuck his hand down in my face for me to shake. My fingers smelled of oil and gunmetal, but Duo had to know that they would; he'd been watching me clean the rifle. I grasped his hand firmly, but didn't let go right away.

"Duo. First or last?" Turnabout was fair play.

He grinned, not the least bit concerned that I might pull him off his perch. "First."

"And the last?"

"Maxwell. Like you couldn't guess." He winked.

As he'd arrived at the site with Lord Maxwell, clearly a guest and most likely his son, it was a pretty safe assumption to have made. "I don't like guessing." I took my hand back and returned my attention to the dismantled firearm on the folding table.

"Do you like guns?" he probed, examining the rifle I was cleaning.

"Not really."

"But you use 'em."

"I have to."

For a moment, he just watched me work. "Often?" he asked quietly, with the kind of reverence I should have used to speak of his dead mother.

"Sometimes," I admitted.

"Man, my dad would kill me if I touched a gun."

My hands paused as a kernel of an idea nestled into my brain and began to sprout. I looked up at him and found the same forbidden thought twinkling in his dark eyes. It was a look that could turn the world on its end.

"It's not that hard," I began, feeling my mouth twist into a small, unfamiliar grin. "You could learn the basics in an hour or two."

His answering smile was pure mischief. "But who would I get to teach me?"

I shrugged a shoulder. "I know a guy."

I'd never had my breath stolen away by a smile before, let alone one offered by a gangly, long-haired, smart-mouthed and no-doubt-spoiled lord's son. "My dad's goin' into town with Professor Merquise tomorrow morning. Business stuff. I can probably get him to let me hang out here."

I leaned back on the bench, fitting the gnarly tree trunk between my shoulder blades. He tucked his chin down to keep me in his sights and his braid slithered over his shoulder again. It was almost long enough to brush the gun parts on the table. "Meet me behind the supply tent about an hour after he leaves."

Duo grinned, upside down. "Yes, sir."

He removed the earpiece and I held out my hand so he could drop it into my palm. I marveled at him as I put it back in my ear, surrounding myself with glissandos and chords. He stretched out on the branch above me, squirming trustingly onto his back, putting his hands behind his head and staring up at the darkening sky through the twisted, anemic limbs. His braid did not dangle down onto the table, but I wouldn't have minded if it had. He was a creature unlike any I'd ever met. There did not seem to be a single territorial or vicious bone in his body.

I glanced up at him as I worked and shook my head. He wasn't a jaguar. He was… something else.

Letting the music and the repetitive motions coax me into that place where time stops, I worked until the rifle was cleaned and reassembled upon the card table. I took a deep breath and pulled the earphones free as I looked up.

I frowned at the bare branch above my head. I hadn't even sensed it when he'd climbed back down. Turning around on the bench, I scanned the darkness. He'd disappeared like a ghost.

The next time I saw him was behind the supplies tent, grinning triumphantly, his chin tucked down and eyes twinkling at me over a pair of dark sunglasses. He lounged in the driver's seat of one of the camp's dusty Land Rovers, his fingers tapping against the wheel as if keeping time to the beat of some drum line only he could hear. "The eagle has left the nest, Major Trowa, sir," he informed me with an irreverent salute.

"If you're going to spend the next two hours speaking in some doff code, I'll just shoot you now and go play some cards." I had hours to kill before my night shift started.

He started up the engine. "As if you'd get away with it," he said.

I waited until he'd put the vehicle in first gear and was even rolling away from the supply tent before I swung myself into the passenger seat.

"I should be driving," I said as the clutch caught smoothly.

"You should be telling me an amusing anecdote to pass the time. How far are we going, anyway?"

"About ten clicks." That would be far enough to muffle the sound of gunshots as long as we got down in between the dunes. My fingers stirred on the barrel of the unloaded rifle, drawing Duo's gaze.

"What are you, like, sixteen or something?"

I shrugged. I honestly didn't know. I was sixteen according to my passport. "You?"

"Fifteen." He said it with an air of distraction, as if he had no reason to not tell the truth about anything. I couldn't understand him. How could someone be this… open? Duo's voice burst across the wandering path my mind had begun to take: "I can't believe your mom and dad let you do this for a living."

"They don't."

"You left home?"

"The troupe is my home. I'm one out." When a frown pinched his brows together in confusion, I elaborated, "I don't have any parents."

Duo's hands tightened on the wheel. His expression turned both fierce and sad. I waited for the pity, the sympathy, the apologies. I'd never been particularly bothered by any of it before on the very few occasions when anyone from the outside had actually asked. What they didn't understand was that life in a troupe, especially one that didn't hire out for overland fighting, was better than living on the streets… and that was even better than the orphanages.

The guys in the troupe knew this, so they never felt sorry for me. Civilians didn't think that way, though. Whenever the subject came up, I'd just let it all slide over me like the desert wind. Besides, even though the captain had never claimed to be my father, it was always his hand on my shoulder in a silent show of allegiance. Still, pity from Duo would be…

I wondered if I had enough time to dismantle the rifle so I wouldn't be tempted to slam the butt of it into his face.

"An aunt or uncle?" he pressed.

I shook my head and looked out across the dunes, counting the oases of scraggly brush in the distance.

"So… how'd you get into this line of work if it's not, y'know, the family business?"

Ah, so that's what he was scheming. He was curious, just curious. I shrugged again. "It is a family business. A family of nobodies."

"But that's not true. You've got a name. That's something."

"Barton is the captain's name, and the name of our troupe. They call me Trowa because, when I was really little, back when they found me, I was obsessed with threes."

"Your lucky number, huh? Why not call you 'Trio', then?"

"My first language was French. Un, deux, trois…" Even as I heard myself offer the explanation, I frowned. How had he gotten me to volunteer all that? I wondered when it'd come back around to bite me on the arse.

"Trowa," Duo summarized, nodding. It wasn't the first time he'd said my name, but it somehow sounded different now. His gaze was focused on the horizon and there was a weight in his voice that pressed against my chest, making my pulse race and my fingertips tingle. I wished I were behind the wheel so I'd have something to grip. I reached for the window frame of the Land Rover.

"I'm a decent driver," Duo assured me.

"Ever driven on sand dunes before?"

"Before right now? Sure. I have ten whole minutes' worth of experience."

I rolled my eyes. He was probably going to end up rolling the 4x4, but I couldn't bring myself to really care. I was looking forward to a challenge. The last time someone had made a doff mistake in our troupe had been many jobs ago and the mistake had been mine. Although, if the Land Rover got rolled, I'd probably end up getting blamed for it.

I sighed.

"Bored already?"

"How come you don't go by 'Dominic'?" I asked instead, remembering the name his father had used the day before. I didn't actually give rocks about his life's story, but it would even the score between us.

Duo grinned. "Ah, yeah. Well, it used to be a thing in our family. My older brother was nicknamed 'Solo' 'cuz he was one of those shut-the-fuck-up-bitches-I'll-do-it-myself types whereas I was always trying to, y'know, grab a share of the glory."

I looked at him until he elaborated.

Sheepishly, he did. "Even if the glory was a broken window dripping with what was left of a gravel-filled mud pie."

"So you got dubbed 'Duo'."

"Yeah."

"Where's your brother now?"

"With my mom."

I didn't ask how or when. Instead, I nodded to the ridge of the sand dune ahead of us. "Take this slope down into the valley. There's a road."

"Copy that," he answered and I was almost positive that I hadn't imagined the giggle in his tone.

He navigated with understated ease. When it looked like we wouldn't be rolling the vehicle down the slope of the dune just now, I asked, "How come you don't sound British?"

"'Cuz I didn't grow up there." He shrugged. "Mom was American. We live there during the school year."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't say anything.

He let out a blustery breath. "Man, she woulda loved to see this place." Then he laughed and the claustrophobic moment fizzled into dust motes. "But she woulda kicked my ass if she found out about this!"

Duo shook his head ruefully, as if remembering a time when she had – quote – kicked his ass. "You know how to fight?"

"I had an older brother who was convinced he was an only child. What do you think?"

"I think you rely on stealth more than offense."

He nodded. "Right, well, if we don't end up shooting each other, maybe we'll see about that later."

"Maybe."

We didn't end up shooting each other, which was a welcome non-event. Although Duo claimed to have never handled a gun before, he was very careful with the rifle, always making sure that the muzzle was pointed down and away from us even when it wasn't loaded. When we got to the target portion of the lesson, he walked out with me to set up the scrap of old sail I'd brought along, helping me stretch it across the side of the dune and weigh the corners down. I wondered if he had any idea how comforting it was to see the rifle hooked through his elbow as he walked beside me. I would have been twitchy with a sense of doom if he'd stayed behind with the weapon while I'd come out here on my own to set up.

"You don't trust people easily," he observed as we made our way back in the direction we'd come.

"I've got no reason to."

"Oh, I'm not complaining or anything. I'm just sayin'."

"Saying what, exactly?"

"Is your accent French? It doesn't sound right."

"South African," I answered automatically.

"Ah… yeah. Now I can hear it. Well, anyway, I know you've got that knife on you and there's that handgun tucked into the back of your pants—"

I blinked. How had he known about my concealed gun? It was well-hidden under my flak jacket.

"—so I get that you're cautious and, hell, you have every right to be because, shit, you don't know me, but, thanks."

"Thanks?" I parroted, starting to feel a bit dazed from all the conversational vector shifts. His interrogation technique was masterful and I admired him for it.

"For, uh, going out on a limb?" He grinned.

I smirked. "You did that."

"Oh, right…"

Impulsively, I leaned in and bumped his elbow with mine. He laughed.

"Stop. This is far enough," I told him and gestured to the tatty, blue sail in the distance. "Try and hit that with something stronger than a glare."

He took extreme care as he loaded the rifle and removed the safety. I stared at him as he raised the gun to his shoulder and posed himself as I'd lectured earlier, his feet shoulder-width apart. I just couldn't figure him out. He was the son of a wealthy and distinguished British lord, likely had more pozzies than he had a use for scattered all over the planet. He should have been a self-absorbed brat. He should not be so trusting, so careful of others, so…

CRACK!

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw sand dust spray up in a tiny puff to the right of the target.

Duo put the gun down, took a centering breath, and then, with a glare aimed at the sail, he lifted the rifle for a second shot. He missed again.

"Stop trying to force it," I told him. "Guns are like people. Handle with care."

He glanced at me and blinked.

"What?"

Duo gave me a rueful grin. "You're telling me that people need to be handled with care."

"It's not as ironic as it seems," I argued. "When you have someone's life in your hands, that demands more care, not less."

The grin melted away. He looked at me for a long moment. The wind dipped down into this little valley and toyed with the loose strands of his hair, lifting my bangs away from my face. Our gazes met, two eyes to two eyes.

"You're right," he agreed, expression somber and tone rough.

I fisted my hands as a shiver fluttered against the base of my spine where the handgun pressed against my waist.

He lifted the rifle for a third time and a look – a very serious look – came over his face. His forefinger curled around the trigger. His lips moved in silence although I couldn't read the words. And then—

CRACK!

"Nice shot," I congratulated him flatly. I'd have to move in closer to check, but it looked like the bullet had hit only about ten centimeters off dead-center.

He smiled, but I could see that it wasn't a happy one. Not really. It was proud, but also sad. I knew the feeling. Knowing you'd just protected yourself and your troupe, knowing that their trust in you had been justified was an accomplishment. Knowing that you might have just killed someone, knowing you had definitely hurt them… that was less so.

"Try again," I told him.

By the time we headed back, he was a decent shot. He'd refused to waste more than twenty bullets: "Hey, somebody's life might depend on how much ammo you have." And he'd insisted on driving: "It'll be less incriminating if anyone objects to our field trip."

I had to agree. If the captain found out this was all my idea, I was going to be stuck on cook duty for a solid month. As it was, he'd be displeased, but I could probably sell him a line about making sure some hot-headed, rich boykie hadn't gone off on his own and gotten himself lost or worse. Duo wasn't hot-headed or a typical, upper-class teenage male, but the captain wouldn't know that.

"Whatever," I agreed, secretly pleased by his offer.

"I'm no expert on South African English," Duo said suddenly, "but you use a lotta American-isms."

"Bryce and Martins are Americans. They talk a lot."

"And give ya a hard time, right? Kinda like uncles?"

How had he guessed? "Ja. Something like that."

"You've got yourself a big family," Duo murmured. "Always wondered what that'd be like."

I looked over at him and something in me – something devilish and alien – made me say, "Too much klank and not enough sharp razors to go around."

"Klank?"

I lifted the elbow closest to him and affected a shudder as I mimed taking a whiff of my own underarm.

He blinked and then he threw back his head and guffawed. I grinned along with him, the expression stretching my face oddly, but it wasn't enough of a reason to stop. He glanced at me and something flickered in his eyes as his gaze snagged on my smile.

My fingers and my wrists tingled.

He turned back to the sand dune the Land Rover was crawling along. "Man, some guys've got it all."

My smile faded. "If I had it all, I wouldn't have to work for a living."

He didn't take offense. "Technically, nobody does, not if you're willing to accept a seriously shitty standard of living. But, that's not what work's about, anyway. It's about finding purpose. You think I've got it all because my dad's rich?" He shook his head but he wasn't bitter. "That's just stuff. Sometimes it makes life more comfortable but, mostly, it's just a pain in the ass."

I clenched my jaw shut to keep myself from gaping at him. Who the hell was this oke? Fifteen-year-olds from privileged society didn't talk like this. Not that I'd met my share, but…

Duo glanced over at me and shrugged a shoulder. "We traveled a lot when I was growing up." He said it as if that explained his divergence from the norm.

"And?"

"And… some things just don't change from place to place. I'm just sayin' – even if you'd been born into a family like mine, you'd still have to figure out who the hell you are, or wanna be. Or whatever."

"Whatever?" I echoed, a tickle of humor nudging at my lips.

Duo snorted. "Hah. Yeah. Whatever, man. Whatever."

We arrived back at the dig site before Lord Maxwell returned and, as I still had a couple of hours to kill before my patrol started, I let Duo wheedle one of the grad students – a woman named Lucrezia Noin – into letting us go down into the newly discovered tombs for a look around. Supervised, of course.

"Afraid we're gonna steal some priceless treasure or something?" Duo teased her as we followed her through the stone-lined passageway. He bumped my shoulder playfully and I felt myself relax. I was so used to the distance and distrust from civilians that I hadn't noticed the tension in me until Duo had shared the joke-that-wasn't.

"I'm afraid this tomb was raided ages ago," she told us. "Probably weeks after the deceased was laid to rest."

"So how come you're digging? I mean, if you don't expect to find anything…?"

She paused and held her torch up, shining the beam onto the wall and revealing faded paint. Images and hieroglyphics covered every inch of the tunnel walls. "I didn't say we wouldn't find anything or that it wouldn't be valuable."

"Oh, sweet!" Duo said, turning to move the beam of his own torch up off the sand-covered floor and illuminate the walls. I watched his eyes move up and then down, from left to right, his mouth moving again in silence. Amazingly, he was reading what was written there.

I'd never been jealous of anyone in my life. Well, not in my memory. But I was instantly burning with envy. I wanted to do what he could do. I wanted that knowledge, that power, that connection to the world which had been laid at my feet. I was right here, on the cusp of something mysterious and rare, and yet all I could do was gape at it like some kind of dorpie chop.

"This is the tomb of the cousin of King, er… hold up. I can't pronounce this name."

He pointed to the characters which had brought him up short and Lucrezia leaned over. She said it aloud for our benefit, but I couldn't tell you what it was. I was busy staring at Duo. Wanting. I was busy watching him for a flirtatious smile or a sly glance at the beautiful woman who was almost leaning against him as she answered his question.

He turned to me instead. "Hey, if you want, I could show you what some of these mean later." He gestured to the painted characters. "I'm not an expert or anything, but…"

"Sure," I answered, willing Lucrezia to back off.

She did. "Next stop, the burial chamber. Watch your heads."

I shadowed Duo as we moved deeper into the darkness of the tomb, pausing with him whenever he'd stop to point out some collection of hieroglyphs that he thought he knew. Had Lucrezia done so, it would have seemed condescending and superior in the way that these experts with their larny university degrees often were, but Duo acted like he was simply reading a book summary out loud.

I decided that Duo would make a good teacher, so when he plopped down next to me at lunch (which was actually my breakfast) the next day, I didn't waste time getting him started. Lord Maxwell was only staying for a few days in total and, when he left, Duo would be going with him.

"What does that owl character mean? And the eye one?" I said by way of greeting as I worked my way through my coffee, fried bread, and beans.

"Oh, man," he began, going from zero to enthused in about half a second. "The ancient Egyptians had the coolest alphabet ever. Here—" He pulled out a small, digital tablet from his pocket – he was wearing black denims today with a white T-shirt that had an illustration of a pink monster of some sort named "Mr. Bubbles" on it – and started poking at the touch screen with a plastic, pencil-shaped tool.

We sat there, warming the bench in the mess hall tent for the better part of an hour as he translated whatever I wanted to know, insofar as he could. "I'm not an expert at this stuff!" he kept saying until I replied, smirking, "But you will be, someday."

He looked bashful in response to that. "Yeah. Someday."

"C'mon," I said, dumping out my coffee grounds and rinsing my cup out at the pump station.

"Where're we going?"

I grinned. I couldn't remember the last time I'd smiled so much in the span of three days' time, but the gesture was starting to become more familiar. This time, I guessed my smile looked a little evil because Duo actually sucked in a breath and blinked at me. "Out," I replied.

"Uh… what for?"

"It's my turn to teach you something." I crooked a finger and watched him gulp.

Evil. Absolutely.

But he followed me out to a patch of vacant ground behind the supply tent where I invited him to throw a punch at me.

He laughed in my face. "Yeah, and the next thing I know, I'm eatin' dirt donuts for dessert."

"I'll be gentle."

He just laughed harder. "Dude. Two words: lethal force. Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

"If you'd been born yesterday, I wouldn't be bothering to show you how to defend yourself."

"Hm, yeah."

I folded my arms across my chest. "If it's not on, just say so."

"Oh, I'm interested, all right," he answered with gratifying certainty, "but I ain't suicidal." He glanced at the knife on my belt. "That and the gun in the shoulder holster under your jacket have gotta go."

I stared at him for a minute. How did he know I'd moved the handgun from the waistband of my pants to under my left arm today? But then I shrugged. "Fine." I disarmed myself, laying both items on the running board of a nearby Land Rover.

"And, just for the record," he continued when I turned back around, "I'm lettin' you keep the piece in your boot."

I squinted at him and speculated, "Been around mercenaries much before?"

"Once or twice. Only, they're called 'security goons' where I come from."

"I'll keep that in mind." I squared off with him. "Now, throw a punch."

"Slo-mo?"

That might be for the best. An actual punch would likely trigger reflexes in me that would have him savoring that dirt donut he'd mentioned earlier. I nodded.

"Ooo-kay…" He made a fist with his right hand and drew it back. "Shit, I can't believe I'm gonna do this. This has gotta be the stupidest thing I've ever done," he informed me, fist still poised in the air.

I rolled my eyes. "Slo-mo, Duo. I'm just going to show you what to do."

So he "punched" me in such painfully exaggerated slow motion that I almost laughed. But I kept my word. When I reached out to grab his wrist, I didn't grip him hard. The feel of his skin beneath my fingers was unanticipated, though. Normally, I'd be moving so quickly that the heat and tender flesh on my assailant's inner arm wouldn't even register. But I felt it all now. With almost frightening intensity.

I cleared my throat. "Easiest move," I began, "is to sidestep and then shove your opponent down. Use his momentum against him and push him to the ground." I tugged relentlessly on his arm, forcing him to stumble forward a step and bend his knees so I could place a hand on his shoulder blade. He kept his eyes on mine, though, and I couldn't bring myself to shove him into the sand.

I stepped back and released him. "Now you try."

I fisted my left hand and aimed a slow punch at the center of his chest. We worked on that until I was throwing actual punches at him, both left and right, and he was actually pulling-pushing me to my knees. When I decided he'd gotten the hang of it, I attacked one last time, let him yank and jerk me to the sand, and then, quick as lightning, I twisted toward him and drew the short, utility knife from my boot before leaping to my feet. I loomed in front of him and fisted his T-shirt in my hand, drawing him onto his toes and angling my knife toward his neck like I was intending to stab him in the throat.

"Don't panic," I coached him in a soft tone just as his eyes went wide and blank with mindless shock. "Grab my wrist with your left hand… Good. Now take a step back. See how you've got me off balance? Now pull my knife arm down and around behind my back—"

"Like this?"

I grunted as he swung me about. "Ja. Now use your right foot and step in front of my left…" I waited until he completed the maneuver. "Right, next, push me to the left so I trip over your foot as you drag me down."

He did. I taught him how to hold an opponent pinned to the ground, how to safely force him to release the weapon, and then we practiced. And practiced. And practiced some more.

Until, finally, I just stayed down and slowly rolled over, trying not to grin.

"Oh, shit, Tro. Lookit you." He squatted over me and grinned so maniacally it was a wonder he could speak at all. "This is Earth. Greetings, mysterious traveler from the far distant Planet of the Dust Bunnies."

"Bunny?" I coughed, sitting up and twirling the utility knife between my fingers.

"Er, a saber-toothed bunny."

With a snort, I slid the knife back into my boot and grasped the hand Duo held out to me. I let him drag me to my feet. Then I leaned forward and shook my sandy hair at him. He sputtered and coughed, staggering back a few paces and waving his arms to disperse the cloud. I laughed.

"You've been hanging around the toppie's lightie," the captain said to me as I reported for duty, still thoroughly camouflaged in sand dust.

"Ja." There was no point in denying it.

He smiled at me, his snarly beard twitching upward on his ruddy cheeks. "It's been tops to hear you laugh, Trowa."

I waited to be sent off to work.

"Can't remember the last time you did, to tell you the truth."

I couldn't, either.

"Don't let 'im break your heart."

I blinked.

The captain slapped me on the shoulder. "West perimeter tonight, Trowa."

I nodded and headed for my post. On the perimeter, I had to pause and take a deep breath to clear out the captain's words from my head. I wasn't… Duo wasn't… Besides, I didn't have a heart.

The blood churning in my veins settled. My thoughts stilled. My expression smoothed. I focused on the job.

After two night shifts in a row, I was rotated to afternoons and evenings, so I lost a whole day getting acclimated to my new schedule. I wanted to strangle someone. Ferociously. With a kak-covered shoelace.

"Been keepin' outta trouble?" Duo asked me when I stopped by the mess hall tent on my way back from walking the southern boundary line. It was long past dinner time; he and I were the only ones here.

"Ja," I answered, sliding into the seat opposite his without waiting for an invitation. "It sucks."

He gave me a crooked grin. "Yeah."

I took note of the somber, charcoal grey, long-sleeved knit shirt he was wearing in deference to the cool desert night. There were no illustrations. No red lips or pink monsters. Compared to those, this looked like something he'd wear to a funeral.

I looked down at the papers and reference books spread out over the long, folding table. He'd been working on something. Studying or translating. I wasn't sure which. I reached for a hand-written page and read the first line. It was a report on the discoveries Merquise's team had made here.

"Careful with that," Duo warned me, smiling. "It's my one and only chance to get my history teacher to ignore the fact that I never got around to writing my paper on British colonies in the Americas during the 18th and 19th centuries."

I set it down with exaggerated care. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks."

Silence curled around us and tightened its coils. Are you pulling out tomorrow? I didn't ask. I didn't want to ask. My throat closed in until it hurt to breathe. I ate my way through my late dinner gingerly and Duo nit-picked at his report with such care you'd think we were both navigating a minefield. My gaze caught Duo's again and again in edgy non-speak as he seemed to wage some internal debate.

Finally, he took a deep breath and fisted his hands with determination. "Hey," he said, reaching for and shuffling the pages of his report together before sliding them into the largest reference book on the table. He stood up and announced, "Grab a flashlight. I've got somethin' to show you."

I did as asked, ducking into the armory tent and then meeting him in the center of the moonlit dig site. In the darkness, I couldn't see his face clearly, but I watched as he lifted a hand to his mouth, pressed a shadowed finger to his lips, and shushed me.

"Hand," he requested on a breath and I offered him my left. His fingers banded hotly around my wrist and I followed him as silently as I was able as he threaded our way past tents and sail-covered excavation pits. For a minute, I was sure he was leading us back to the burial chamber we'd visited with Lucrezia a few days ago, but he turned sharply before we entered that tomb and climbed down a set of earthen steps, ducking into a far narrower tunnel. He had to let me go, but he turned on his torch before scuttling down the crawlspace.

"Another tomb?" I whispered.

"Yeah," he rasped in reply. "Not for a cousin of a king or anything, but yeah, it is."

There were no inscriptions on these walls and I wondered what could possibly be worth the effort of wiggling through the tunnel. I got the answer to my question when Duo pulled himself into the chamber beyond and reached a hand back to help me.

He pointed his light up at the ceiling and I could see his ecstatic expression in the glow. "Are you ready for this?"

Before I could answer, he shined his light around the room and, after a gob smacked moment, my torch beam joined in. This was no royal burial chamber, but the interred must have been a noble of some sort. Or perhaps a very wealthy merchant. I gazed at the painted pots, the carved statues, the scrolls and other items that awaited their lord's use in the afterlife.

"Where's the sarcophagus?" I whispered and Duo motioned to a neatly disguised archway which had been bricked over and painted with elaborate designs and hieroglyphs.

"Through there. They're still cataloguing everything from this room. So it's gonna take time."

I nodded, playing the beam over the room again, this time pausing to study the details, the writing, the craftsmanship that had gone into the chamber.

"We should go," Duo said a little sadly. "There aren't any air vents cut into the walls."

I sighed. "Thank you, Duo. For this."

He reached for my hand in the darkness and squeezed it. I listened as he squirmed his way back into the tunnel and then I followed after him. When we made it back to the sail-covered stairwell that the excavators had cut into the clay, he put a hand on my arm to keep me from heading above ground.

I sat on one of the ledges and Duo propped his torch on a step, shining the light away from the pit opening. He dug something out of his denims pocket, closing his fist around it and concealing it from view completely.

"Here," he whispered, thrusting his hand out to me. My acceptance of it was automatic.

In the wash of the torch's beam, I watched as he placed something small in my palm. I moved closer to the light and studied what appeared to be a painted clay pendant. There were hieroglyphs on both sides of the thing and a leather cord looped through the hole that had been punched into it.

"Did you find this?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Made it. This side has your name – Trowa – on it and the other…"

His tone petered out and I thought I heard him swallow. I turned the oblong pendant over and, if I was remembering the hieroglyphs he'd shown me correctly, then this was—

"Your name?"

He chuckled. It sounded forced. Nervous. "Er, yeah. Just in case you forget where you got the damn thing—"

"Duo." I reached for him in the gloom, my voice little more than a breath of sound. I framed his face in my hands, trapping the gift between his skin and mine. He stilled and something deep inside me clicked into place. Had I ever reached out so readily to touch another person? I didn't know, but it didn't matter. I'd reached for Duo and he was letting me hold onto him. "I won't forget." I couldn't. I didn't want to.

He didn't tell me he'd be leaving soon. He didn't tell me he didn't want to go. I watched his lashes flutter downward, felt my heart pound in my chest as he looked at my mouth. He leaned a little closer, into my hands which were rough and callused and a little grimy. He leaned and waited. Trusting. Always so bloody trusting.

I closed the distance between us and kissed him. He gasped against my lips, shifted forward, and I felt his hand land on my shoulder, his fingers curling into my muscles like claws. I shivered and pressed harder against his lips, moving mine in an approximation of what I thought a kiss should be, going on instinct alone.

I moaned when I felt his tongue touch my lips. I opened my mouth and kept it open, nudging against his lips until he filled the space with his tongue and I tasted him. One hand migrated to his braid and the other to his arm. He mirrored me, his fingers sifting through the short hair at the back of my head as his hand kneaded my shoulder.

He shivered when I stroked his tongue awkwardly with mine and then he retreated from my mouth. I followed. We kissed until our lips were raw and warm, tingling from the friction. He was breathing hard when he pulled back and his eyes were pure black in the dim light.

"Trowa."

It was only the sound of my name, but it made fire dance in my veins. I shuddered. I ached. I was leaking inside my pants I was so hard. It was exhilarating. It scared me.

"I've never done this before," he confessed.

I wasn't sure what "this" meant, but it didn't matter. "As well," I admitted and gave in to the temptation of his swollen lips.

He was my first. The first real friend I'd made on my own, my first kiss, my first love.

Damn it. I did have a heart after all.

It was on the tip of my tongue to offer to go with him, but how would I pay the airfare? Where would I get the documents needed to enter the United States (or Britain or wherever he was going) legally? I didn't have a birth certificate or legal guardians. Besides which, my shoddy passport read like it belonged to a mercenary, which it did. They'd never let me past immigration. And even if they did, what would I do in that far-off land of Duo's? Get a job? Go to high school? Where would I live? Who would I be?

I groaned at the impossibility of it all. God but I was going to miss him.

"Don't forget me," I whispered against his mouth, opening my eyes and watching him do the same.

He smiled, pressing his forehead to mine and curling his hand around the back of my neck. "As if I could."

I tried to breathe, but he was so close and warm. I damned time for existing, for only giving us these few days to know each other.

"I'm gonna write to you," he promised rashly. "And you'd better write back."

"And talk about what?" I challenged. Even if his letters managed to find me, what would we write about? What did we have in common? Nothing. It was hopeless. Why bother trying to keep in touch at all?

"We'll talk about whatever we want. Chopin. Dull razors. Gun oil." He glared at me, impassioned and determined. "Anything."

"Right," I agreed.

When he kissed me, I fell into the taste of him. Duo taught me how to kiss that night, and he seemed to appreciate my novice skill at it, making soft noises in the back of his throat as he melted into my hands. Maybe I was good at kissing but, if that were true, then it was only true in his case. I was learning how to kiss Duo and I knew I would not be kissing anyone else this way. Never in a million years.

When he drew back again, he panted against my cheek, "D'you think this means we're gay?"

I didn't know and I didn't care. "Does it matter?"

"No." He burrowed his face between my jacket collar and my sweaty, dusty neck and breathed deeply for one breath… two… three… "I'm never gonna forget," he whispered.

I clutched him to me heedless of the weapons and dust and layers of cloth between us, rubbing my cheek against his ear, his hair. I'd only known him for a few days, but I knew – deep down – that I was never going to meet another person like him.

"We'll see each other again," I promised suddenly. Someday, I'd have my own fortune. Someday, I'd have the kind of knowledge he did. I'd teach myself if I had to. I'd spend every morning, afternoon, and night off reading whatever I could get my hands on. Maybe I wouldn't be his equal someday, but I was determined to hold my own, to look him in the eye as a man who didn't have to have a gun in his hands in order to be useful.

"You're damn right we'll see each other again," he growled and a tingle shot up my spine. So, he was aggressive after all, just not about the things I'd expected.

We huddled in the dugout under the sail, arms wrapped around each other as we sat side by side. I dossed and woke repeatedly to the feel of Duo shifting against me, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth, waking me for another kiss. I did the same to him, rousing him with a touch along his sleeve from elbow to shoulder until he lifted his face from my neck and offered his mouth to me.

We shared warmth and breath, kisses and whispers until false dawn began to brighten the sky. With a last, gentle brush of too-sensitive and chapped lips – a single chaste kiss – I stood and nudged the sail aside for him. He placed a hand on my shoulder and climbed out slowly, his muscles as cramped as mine from spending all night sitting in the cool, hard-packed dirt.

I walked him back to his tent in silence, stopping him by the entrance to pull him fully against me. I wrapped my arms around him completely, petting his hair as I memorized the scent of him. He clung to me just as tightly. I brushed my lips along his jaw as I forced myself to let him go.

Leaving him there and heading back to my own bed was one of the hardest things I'd ever had to do. I was shaking and nauseous with exhaustion. My eyes were burning and itching, my vision blurring and swimming. The last thing I wanted to do was crash and miss his departure, whenever it was, but that's precisely what happened.

I came to hours later. It was sweltering in the tent. The sun was baking the fabric walls and my sweat-soaked clothes were clinging to my skin. It was past noon my stomach told me with a growl.

Movement at the tent entrance startled me. The gun was steady in my grasp even though my arm felt like jelly as I sighted down the barrel at the intruder. It was the captain. I lowered the gun. He met my gaze and sighed. In that moment, I knew that Duo was gone, gone back to where he'd come from and he wasn't coming back.

"Yoh," Captain Barton said, holding out a foil-wrapped military ration to me. I took it with numb fingers. "There's hot coffee in your flask. Take the day for yourself, Trowa."

The captain gave me a fatherly pat on the shoulder and then he left.

I sat and I shivered in the heat of midday in the desert. I had never been so terrified in my life. Nor had I ever been so determined. My fingers curled around the energy bar in my hand as something unnamable and undefeatable clawed its way up from my belly: Duo had given me purpose, had opened my eyes to the future. I didn't want to spend it like this, no matter how much the troupe was like a family to me.

I raised my other hand to the pendant Duo had helped me tie around my neck. It hung below my collarbone but above my heart. I'd asked Duo to help me position it so that the strap from my rifle wouldn't bump or rub it and end up breaking it. I closed my eyes and remembered his warm weight against my side, his lips against mine, his taste on my tongue.

I'd never known my parents, but I couldn't say I'd never known love. Not anymore.

The dig carried on. Days passed. I walked click after click on guard duty, never getting anywhere. I asked Lucrezia to let me borrow some of the camp's reference books so I could try to understand what was going on around me. Besides, it helped pass the time.

No one mentioned Lord Maxwell's son to me. Not even old man Bryce and he made it his mission in life to tease me about anything he could. He teased me about my hair ("When are you gonna switch sides? You don't want to end up with half your face tanned!") and about my seriousness ("Better not smile or your face'll get stuck that way!") and about my appetite ("Hurry up and eat, boys! Trowa's coming back for third helpings already!") but he didn't tease me about Duo even though he had to have known what had happened. They all must have.

I waited weeks to hear from him. Every day was longer and heavier to bear than the previous one. Every day I felt a little more hope die, another edge of my expectation dull. Eventually, I tried not to think about him at all.

And then—

A shadow fell over me and I startled, looking up from cleaning my rifle after my morning rounds. Martins was grinning down at me. I hadn't heard him stomp over; I was listening to Beethoven. I preferred Chopin, but Beethoven did not carry the same connotations for me, connotations I was trying to avoid.

I scowled up at Martins. I could feel the lines deepening on my face. I scowled a lot these days, but my irritation didn't even register on his radar. Grin widening, he waved a padded envelope beneath my nose. It was taped and re-taped and stamped with a seal of inspection from the Egyptian Customs Authority. I wiped my suddenly numb, jittery hands on my fatigues before I took it from him.

The return address was American and the handwriting was familiar. The envelope itself was addressed to "Trowa Barton, junior security goon of Professor Merquise's super-cool dig site" and beneath it was the professor's university mailing address.

Smiling, I made a mental note to thank him for letting Duo use his faculty mailbox.

I slit the envelope open with my utility knife and stared at what slid out. There was a digital notepad like the one Duo had used and a charger cable, complete with a voltage adapter. I somehow knew that Duo had taken out a service contract for it before sending it to me. I could probably send him emails from anywhere in the world. Perhaps I could even access the electronic libraries he'd used.

He shouldn't have done this; it was too much. But it was also just enough to ease the constant ache in my chest. I needed to talk to him more than I cared about letting him pay the bill for it.

I gave the inside of the envelope a cursory glance and was glad I did when I found a folded sheet of notebook paper wedged inside. I opened it. The message was simply "Do you miss me yet?" followed by a carefully printed email address.

Grinning widely, dismantled gun forgotten, I powered up the digital notepad and accessed the Internet.

I keyed in his email address and messaged him two words in reply. I hit Send.

Leaning back against the tree where I'd first shaken hands with him, first been introduced to his braid and his enigma, I queued Chopin's Nocturne, opus nine, number two as I waited and imagined where Duo was now, what he was doing, how soon he'd get my reply, the look on his face when he read my answer.

I smiled, picturing it. Did I miss him, he wanted to know.

The answer was: Of course.

Only five minutes passed before the digital pad buzzed in my hands and the screen illuminated. I had a reply. It was from Duo and it was only one word: /Good./

My smile widened.

And then a second text message alert flashed.

/And, by the way, you still owe me that amusing anecdote. From the Jeep./

I laughed. Ja, I guess I did.

I didn't finish cleaning the rifle until something like two hours later and then it only got done because Duo had to get ready to go to school.

We were still worlds apart in more ways than one, but I had so much more now than I'd ever had before in my life: I had a purpose, I had a friend, and I had hope.

NOTES:

I first encountered the image of Trowa with earphones on, listening to classical music, with a rifle in his hands in "Galileo" by Clever Young Theif. Loved it so much I had to develop it in this fic.

I know nothing about ancient Egypt or archeology. If you spot any errors, let me know! (I'm in this for the Duo/Trowa, but it'd be nice to be accurate on the RL details.)

Also, I'm not sure how soon wireless Internet service was widely available for Palm Pilot-type devices in Africa, but let's assume that it was possible by the time Duo visited the dig site. And let's also assume that Trowa didn't have to assemble anything or charge the battery before using it for the first time.

Also, I am not in any way an expert on South African English. If you are and you have some suggestions for me, please send me a Private Message (PM)! Your help would be MUCH appreciated. Trowa's voice is a mix of American, British, and South African slang and syntax since not all the mercenaries in this troupe are from South Africa. I only mention three and their origins (Captain Barton is from South Africa, Bryce and Martins are Americans) but there are others from completely different countries. I was going to use Afrikaans slang and words like "lekker" for Trowa in this first part but, in the end, I decided the Afrikaans would be too distracting from the rest of the prose and words like "lekker" (i.e. nice, good, great, awesome) were too casual for Trowa to use and still be in character. (But they will be sneaking their way in later.) So, the South African words and terms I've chosen for him often refer to a specific thing, like the kind of shoes Duo wears, or they regularly pop up in conversation, like "just now", or can be used sarcastically, like "give rocks".

Why doesn't Trowa go to school? I'm assuming it's because mandatory education isn't enforced in most African countries in this alternate universe. Trowa probably would be enrolled in school if he were living in an orphanage or something but, in this AU, living in an orphanage would be worse than being raised by mercenaries. I'm assuming he learned to read and write from the captain (and perhaps participated in distance learning via radio, which helps explain his correct usage of standardized English).

On the subject of mercenaries, I've decided to give the Barton Troupe a niche in protecting land and assets rather than fighting. Trowa undoubtedly knows how to fight and he lives a dangerous life, but I just didn't want to get into all the civil unrest that occurs (and has been occurring) in Africa. This AU focuses on the upper class or local businesses or organizations which need a little extra muscle for guarding something valuable. Since the dig site is funded by Lord Maxwell (and not the Egyptian government in this universe), they don't call in the Egyptian army to protect the integrity of the site. Although, if the army had better things to do anyway, the government might still have hired the Bartons even if the dig was state-funded.

In case you're wondering, there really was a French settlement/colony in South Africa once, but they were more or less absorbed into the Afrikaans culture. In this AU, however, I'm assuming that there's still a large French community in South Africa, so that's where Trowa is from and why his first language is French. Goodness, I sure am getting a lot of mileage outta my Artistic License.

There is no NCS in this fic. No references to past NCS, either. Trowa, due to his nomadic lifestyle and the fact that mingling with "civilians" is not encouraged (by either the troupe or the civilians), has zero sexual experience. (Also, when you consider the kinds of people who would normally need to hire mercs, it seems highly unlikely that Trowa would take a personal interest in them or that his troupe would allow them to take an interest in him.) As for Duo, he's pretty mature for his age so he's not as interested as other boys in casual sexual encounters. (More on why he is the way he is later.)

I tend to write OTP (one true pairing) fics, and Duo & Trowa are it in this one. As to why there isn't any sex yet: they're just teenagers (and young teens at that). Not every teen has sex on the first date… or the second or third. Especially when they don't have much experience or confidence. Gotta love it: uncertainty plus hormones equals epic make-out sessions.

South African terms and slang:

As well = me, too

Boykie = a sporty, white-bread, stereotypical high school boy

Chop = idiot

Doff = stupid

Dorpie = small town

Doss = sleep, nap

Don't give rocks (with or without the negative) = couldn't care less/don't give a rat's ass

Ja = yes/yeah (pronounced "yah", as in the Swedish or Danish "ja")

Ja well no fine = (I probably should have used this instead of "Whatever" if I'd wanted Trowa to be strictly South African, but he's got a steady American influence in his life so he says stuff like "whatever" and "sucks".)

Just now = in the near future (20 minutes or so from right now)

Larny (alternate spellings are also used) = fancy, snobby

Kak = shit (among other bad, stinky things)

Klankie = an unpleasant smell (I use the alternate spelling - "klank" - to mean "body odor".)

Oke = guy, dude, man (pronounced like the English word "oak")

One out = alone or by oneself

Pozzie = home/house

Sail = a tarpaulin, a tarp, a plastic sheet for covering and protecting stuff from wind or rain, etc.

Scheme = think/contemplate

Takkies = sneakers (US) or trainers (UK)

Toppie's lightie = the boss's kid (in this context), but "toppie" can also mean "old man" or "father"

Tops = excellent or the best

Yoh = an expression generally meant to convey surprise (like "Hey!" or "Oi!" or "Whoa!") but I use it as a substitute for "Here (this is for you)" – the captain says this to get Trowa's attention

Fic Recommendation:

Granate's 1x2x1 fic, "Layers" on uses many similar elements and the details about archaeology are hella accurate, which is awesome. It's a wonderful read and I highly recommend it if you're a Duo/Heero 'shipper.