Splendor Restored – Epilogue

Author: BadMomma

Warnings: AU (my first), limey

Pairings: 1x2x1, some mention of 3x4, OCs

Disclaimer: Own them, I do not.

Archived: GWA, Under the Bridge

Feedback: Craved, greatly appreciated and always answered.

Notes: See Chapter 1.

Summary: A Renovations Consultant finds more than just old buildings of interest on his new job site when he gets tangled up with the resort's Program Director.

Epilogue

It's been almost three years since I first drove down the road that leads to the Pirate's Cove Resort. Three years since my neat, orderly, controlled little world was thrown off its center. Three years since I first set eyes on him.

I clearly remember the excitement I felt over that new project. I remember the hope that it would bring drastic changes to my life, be it securing my position in the firm or opening doors to new opportunities. At the time, hope was something that had only existed for me in that one aspect of my life. It seems inconceivable to me now that I'd been living the way I was. While I had a few friends, who I'd spent time with and enjoyed the company of, I was truly only living a half-life. I think at some point I'd given up all hope of ever experiencing personal fulfillment outside of work. I had loved my parents, as only a child could, and when I'd lost them, the void it left had almost consumed me. I think that at some point in the intervening years I'd resigned myself to being alone, to never again experiencing the joy they had shared with me. I hadn't thought about love in a very long time. I think I had numbed myself to the absence of it.

It never would have occurred to me, all that time ago, that coming to this place, driving down this road, would change my life so completely. Because, not two days after that first fateful drive, I met the man that would set those changes in motion. And since then, life has certainly become interesting for me.

One of the biggest changes is that today, after a long business trip, I'm rushing to get home. Home. To the place where I live now, the house that we share, the man who holds and nurtures my heart. Home to Duo, who waits for me and teases that I'm usually so quiet he hasn't really missed me then, in the same breath, scolds me that I should have given him more warning of my arrival.

I've often teased him that he's brought a certain amount of chaos into my orderly little life. But the truth is that what he's done is bring /life/ into what was an otherwise boring existence.

Take, for instance, the Dorlain-Dermail Christmas parties. I'd attended them every year without fail since being hired as an intern. I'd always put in an appearance – with or without my roommate – always arriving early and never staying more than an hour, just to fulfill the obligation, a fact that was not lost on anyone who knew me. I'd never failed to participate in the gift exchange, but I'd also never truly given any thought to the recipient or the gift I was buying. Upon arriving at the event, I'd make sure, above all else, to greet or be seen by all the partners and department heads; then I'd seek out and greet anyone who had the power to adversely affect the successful completion of my project tasks. And then, once I'd checked off all my things to do and people to see, I would make my lame excuses and leave.

The only time that it was any different – what turned out to be my last Dorlain-Dermail Christmas party – was the one occasion Duo attended with me.

He had told me beforehand that there was an art – or a science perhaps – to surviving these types of functions and that I would be wise to follow his lead. We arrived approximately 34 minutes late, not punctually on the hour and not predictably at an hourly milestone such us 15, 30 or 45 past. This, according to Duo, was so that we did not appear to be purposely arriving late, nor did we appear to be too eager to make our presence known. After placing my - for once - carefully selected gift in the designated location, we'd lingered, looking around as if deciding where to go next. In actuality he had asked me to identify the people I felt the need to /greet, but not necessarily /talk to/. With that knowledge in hand, we took a leisurely stroll toward the bar; making a few, clearly obvious, deviations to greet those previously identified people. Then, with drinks in hand, 'Linger and bolt' became our M.O. It was an incredibly simple plan, since at the time I still felt the need to have a one. We would linger in a spot until someone approached us or we found someone else to approach; then, after a reasonable amount of time, we would politely bolt – always having 'noticed' someone else we wanted to greet.

I could kid myself and say that I was a hit - a hot commodity - that evening, casually hob-nobbing with both the partners and peons like myself, but the truth is that without Duo I probably couldn't have managed it. He made it so easy for me, moving us from one person or group to the next, always prompting me to tell him who people were, what they did, what I knew about them. I think he even picked up a little fan club while he was at it.

There were four women in particular who seemed to take a great interest in him, maybe even in both of us, though I'm not entirely sure. Most the women in the office – with the notable exception of Dori and Relena – rarely ever even spoke to me. But on that evening, with Duo at my side, their eyes were on us constantly. He made a huge impression on Shannon, an art student from the local college interning with the Rendering department. They talked for what seemed like hours just about their hair – she had a braid that might one day rival his. Then there was Debbie, from the IT group; she's someone I'd actually had conversation with in the years I'd worked there, since computers were one of my hobbies. She, of course, seemed to need to know everything about him, about how we'd met. Then, just when I was thinking it was about time to 'bolt' again - not that I had anything against Debbie but we'd been there a while - she'd called over two acquaintances of hers, only one of whom I knew, and the 'linger' lingered on. Sharon, I knew because, aside from being a very nice lady, she's responsible for reviewing and approving our RFPs before they go out. She's one of those people I'd always made sure to greet at the party in the past. Leslie, it turns out, had only recently been hired away from a firm in California and worked alongside Sharon, though I got the impression that she and Sharon knew each other from somewhere else.

We spent the better part of an hour talking to them before parting ways. Every time we passed any one of them for the remainder of the evening, they would always make eye contact or wave politely, though I think we may have embarrassed ourselves and Shannon when she caught us kissing by the water fountain. I could have sworn I heard her squeak before running the other way. The next time we saw her she kept shooting us furtive glances while talking to Debbie and scribbling furiously on a napkin.

Ultimately, with the help of Trowa and Quatre, who were also in attendance, we managed to stay until the end, keeping ourselves casually entertained. I've been told we left just minutes before the music stopped.

My behavior at the Christmas party isn't the only thing that has seen a change; it seems Duo's fervor has seeped into almost every aspect of my being. His after-effects linger on me. I've been told that I laugh a lot more now than I used to, that I smile more – frown less. Quatre has said that I'm more open and approachable. Anita says that I am very obviously happy and that I look younger. If I'm completely honest with myself, I must say that I feel freer, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

But then again, there are other things have become just slightly more… uncomfortable. I can no longer enter a sporting goods store without suffering a terminal blush. And this too is Duo's fault. He'd made an offhand comment one day that I'd worn my Nike sneakers and a Nike t-shirt, saying that he'd always thought me more an Adidas man. It had initially left me puzzled: if I owned one article of Adidas clothing, it was a lot, but when pressed he'd refused to elaborate. It wasn't until weeks later when I'd walked in on him singing and dancing along to the radio, that I'd come to understand the true meaning of his statement. Never heard the song A.D.I.D.A.S. by Korn? Go listen, and see if you don't die of the embarrassment. Though I must admit, it feels damned good to know he /sees/ me that way.

The same night I caught him dancing to A.D.I.D.A.S., I was treated to a lurid encore of what I've come to refer to as the Bonfire Dance. Performed exclusively for me, in the privacy of his bedroom, in a pair of black boxer briefs and nothing else, hair loose and hips shaking; he'd /enhanced/ the routine for this private viewing. He did the entire dance, standing over and moving all around me, while I lay on his bed. Half way into it I was so turned on, I didn't think I would last through the end of the song. That night, when the dancing was done, he played me like a demon fiddle.

Even after all this time, it still surprises me occasionally that he is as sexually aggressive as he is. When we'd first gotten together, he hadn't been that way. He had set the tone, yes, a slow and steady pace, but he had not really led when things came right down to it. And yet it was he who, barely more than month after we got together, took our relationship to the proverbial point of no return.

In the weeks leading up to my birthday that first summer there, he'd gotten in the habit of making some… intriguing… statements. Statements I very much wanted to believe were meant to imply certain. While he rarely ever out-right lies, he is very creative in his short-of-the-truth declarations. Whenever someone had asked what he was getting me, he'd hedge, saying he already had something in mind. If pressed about when he planned to shop for it or acquire it, he'd say he didn't need to 'shop', because he knew precisely what he would give me and where to find it – often amending that he was 'intimately' familiar with the item, or that it was 'close at hand'. Once he went as far as to say he'd had a good grip on /it/ for quite some time – this while smirking at me. It had seemed to me at the time, that all his answers to questions of my gift, implied that we would be taking our physical relationship to the next level. The more I'd thought about it, the more I'd questioned my interpretations, but I couldn't hold back the hope or my excitement at the prospect. When my birthday finally did roll around, I got what I had hoped, what he had implied, but by then it'd been a moot point. The weekend before, fate had intervened.

It all started snowballing on a hot Thursday morning. We'd decided to meet at the courtyard for an early lunch. He was taking The Girls out that afternoon and I was scheduled to meet one of the prospective contractors at the resort, but he'd wanted me to look over the drawings he had to turn in for his animation class that evening. Though I would have preferred to meet somewhere a little more private, the courtyard was the best bet for seeing each other that day. It wasn't that I'd hoped to engage in any strenuous activities during our lunch hour but he always seemed hesitant to display more than the most basic of affections when we were out and about at the resort. Despite claiming that everyone /knew/ about him and that it didn't bother him if people knew we were together, we rarely so much as touched hands – much less lips – however briefly, out in the open.

So in the light of day, amid foliage and fancy patio furniture, we'd greeted each other as was becoming habit in public - a slightly lingering touch to the shoulder, arm or back - dropped our belongings and headed into the kitchen to get ourselves something to eat. We'd sat, eaten, talked, and perused his drawings. We'd been bantering back and forth, trying to achieve the right mood for their avenging crusader Jarhead - a teenage mutant whose head resembled a jam jar due to a science experiment gone wrong - when the call came from my contractor.

The man had just disembarked from the ferry and was on his way to the main building in the dizzying company of Jim Hennessy. Remembering my own experiences with the young resort employee, and feeling an inordinate amount of sympathy for the man, I hurried to ready myself for his arrival. In the act of gathering my things, I'd looked around, suddenly noticing that there was no one else in the courtyard or adjoining grounds and no one that I could see had a clear view of our current position. I'd turned back to find Duo with his feet still propped against the edge of the chair opposite him, head bent over his sketch pad, diligently illustrating. My gaze lingered on him. The tip of his braid had gotten caught between him and the chair back, causing the length of it to loop outward across his shoulder, exposing that little spot at the back of his neck that almost never sees the light of day. I love that spot, its scent, its smoothness. And so, being besotted with him the way I am, have been, and probably will be for a long time to come, I'd leaned over and kissed it.

To say that it surprised him could very well be the understatement of the century. His hand shot up, pencil and all, nearly taking my eye out in the process. He turned to me, eyes wide and incredulous, mouth moving in a struggle to decide how to voice his shock. I'd almost laughed in the face of his obvious confusion but instead apologized, claiming that I'd simply been unable to stop myself. Confusion lost control of his features as a sweet, somewhat chagrin, look took over. 'I don't mind' rolled off his tongue even as a lopsided grin and rolled eyes told me that he realized his reaction had contradicted his words. His fingers were still lingering on the spot I'd kissed. When I'd stared pointedly at his hand, he'd dropped it, reiterating that he hadn't minded, just been surprised. Not having wanted to make a bigger deal of it than was necessary, I'd snickered and patted him on the shoulder in farewell, turning to be on my way. I was brought up short.

He'd caught me by the wrist and stood; whether it was to challenge me or just meet me eye-to-eye, I hadn't been sure initially. I caught a flash of that /something/ wild – feral – I'd previously seen a few times, right before his hand clasped the back of my neck and his mouth connected with mine.

His lips diligently worked me until my shock passed and I'd responded, then he worked them a little longer for entirely different reasons. When he was good and well satisfied he pulled back, knocking our foreheads together gently and telling me that when he said he didn't mind, he /meant/ he didn't mind. 'OK' was the only thing I'd had enough mental capacity to answer at the time. He'd nearly growled before gently knocking heads with me again, 'Good. Now get the hell out of here before I drag you under the boardwalk and show you /precisely/ what I wouldn't mind'. And with that he'd released me, almost flinging me away with the hand that had been at my neck.

That was the moment that had shifted things. He'd thrown me off my controlled center again like he hadn't done in weeks. That hesitant, near docile behavior he'd been showing me since the Sunday after my first bonfire had disappeared, replaced by the vibrant, willful, confidant man I was more used to dealing with.

Remembering what he did in the days that followed is enough to make my blood boil.

Saturday afternoon found us at a friend's house watching another round of soccer games. Back-to-back games were followed up by a barbecue and a dip in the pool. We left his friend's place well before midnight, begging off early only because we'd wanted to catch the last ferry back onto the island, even though we would have had other options if we'd missed it. By unspoken agreement, we ended up at the Glades as it was still, officially, only inhabited by myself, since Trowa's arrival had been delayed another month. Despite having more than one at our disposal, we decided to take turns in Master bathroom to rid ourselves of any left over chlorine… and barbecue sauce.

It had been… an interesting afternoon. As the hours had worn by, he'd become increasingly playful and affectionate, both out in the open and in a few stolen private moments. More than once, he'd approached me from behind, only to press up against me to nuzzle at my neck or shoulders. He'd licked sauce off my fingers and face, once to the accompaniment of his friends' hooting and catcalls. We'd also had a very brief, impromptu make-out session in the hallway that led from the bedrooms to the main part of the house. And no, we'd not been on our way /to/ the bedrooms, but on our way back from changing into borrowed swim shorts.

For me, having someone interrupt said kissing with the comment 'get a room already' should have, under normal circumstances, been enough to wipe all pleasure from the memory. Just the fact that his intensity is what I remember most vividly is what speaks volumes about the mood he'd been in. It was almost as if he'd experienced spikes of affection throughout the day. I'd labeled it lust at the time, but in retrospect I realize it wasn't quite that. His passion had been tempered and sensual, not sexual; erotic as opposed to pornographic, if that makes any sense at all.

When I'd exited from the bathroom, he'd been sitting on the edge of the bed watching me with that same look I'd been seeing all day. Since he didn't immediately move to take his turn, I tried to draw him out, inquiring what he wanted to do when he was done. I was trying to judge his mood, get a feel for what he had in mind. He'd shrugged, surprising me by suggesting we could watch TV in bed. That was not something we ever really did so it was enough to let me know that he was still in an odd mood.

I'd gone about getting everything ready, or as ready as I could without having figured out what he had in mind. I'd turned out all the lights save for the one on the night table, folded the bedspread at the foot of the bed, loosened the light sheet we usually slept with and artistically – or perhaps provocatively – draped a corner of it across my midsection, leaving one leg exposed in a way that let him know just how much clothing I /wasn't/ wearing. Then I'd grabbed the rather boring novel I'd been perusing off and on for the last week and pretended to be reading. All my maniacal planning and imagining had seemed unnecessary when he'd emerged from the bathroom with towels at hip and head and asked 'Nothing good on TV?'

Before I'd had the chance to formulate an answer, grab the remote or cover myself up more normally, he'd waved his own comment off – along with the towel on his hips – and thrown himself diagonally across the bed and half on top of me.

'How about…,' he speared me with an intense look, 'you put that boring book down' – here he plucked it from my lax hand and tossed it to the floor - 'and help me with my hair?' He'd freed it from the towel then and managed to brush a kiss against my ribs in the act of draping his hair across my chest. 'We'll figure the rest of it out after, OK?' Then, without waiting for a response, he'd pushed himself up to meet my lips with a kiss that was incredibly more intense than the ones we'd shared in his friend's hallway. After an eternity of bliss, he'd pulled back far enough to rub noses, humming his delight with softly closed eyes, before finally scrambling off the bed sighing a quiet, 'Hair. Brush. Be back.'

While tending to his hair, I felt like I was watching someone learn to drive stick shift. He'd have these bursts of physical intensity – touching, nuzzling, kissing - then suddenly he'd stall, retreating into a quiet shell, only to start up again a short while later. It was a dizzying experience; he kept catching me off guard. My heart rate would no sooner settle before he was making it escalate again. It wasn't until his hair was dry enough for him to feel comfortable binding it that he began to regain some sort of balance. I knew after a day like the one we'd had that we wouldn't be going straight to sleep. But still I wondered, somewhere in the back of my mind, if he had something specific planned. He hadn't, and I had no more foreseen the eventual outcome than he had.

Hair issues resolved, he'd settled against me, both of us on our sides, hands running gently over each other as we kissed. We'd walked this path before, we'd done these things, and it seemed to afford him a certain amount of calm. We hadn't gone all the way yet, and despite wanting it very much, I was OK with that. I knew he had issues but I figured that if things worked out between us, it would be well worth the wait. I was willing to wait. The pleasure we shared regularly was enough to tide me over, enough to satisfy my need to be with him.

Eventually, though, things began to escalate – the touches becoming more sexual, taking a well known path to their usual end. We'd rolled. We'd wrestled. We'd licked and sucked, bitten and kissed all over. We'd made each other gasp and moan. And then – in a moment that seemed to have snuck up on both of us - he found himself gaping down at me, struggling to form words, as his chest hovered above me. His hips were lodged firmly between my legs, straining in an upward movement. He had one of my legs hiked up, bending it back over my body, while his hand grasped at knee and thigh to keep it in place. His other hand had hooked itself over the curve of my shoulder, fingertips just barely reaching the front, straining to pull me down. A strangled sound escaped him when his hips bucked involuntarily, but the action served only to make him freeze, pressed against me, shock clearly written on his features.

I saw it in his eyes, in that moment, the realization of where this was leading, of what came next. But I also saw the hesitation, that it had not been planned. It became obvious to me that he did not know if he would – or could - go through with it. And then I saw the beginnings of retreat.

I must admit that when I'd imagined our first time together, I had not imagined it this way. Not since my earliest experiences with my college mentor, had I been on the receiving end often. Maybe twice in all the time since then. And that's when it struck me.

He'd been hesitant in the weeks since we'd admitted our interest in each other and he'd followed my lead in the bedroom, not because he didn't desire it or didn't desire me, but because he'd been unsure. Unsure that what we had could last or that I would stay after we'd taken that most intimate of steps. Maybe, even, that he could trust me not to hurt him.

I knew, suddenly and startlingly, that if I allowed him to pull back and allowed him to deviate from the current course, it would be a long time before he let himself stray this far again. I didn't want that. I liked how he'd been with me these last few days. I liked seeing his desire, his intensity and his passion. He'd kept himself and his desires so tightly reined for so many years, that despite being unlike every other aspect of his personality, I had accepted it as the way things would be.

Making up my mind, I dug my heel into his back, keeping him where he was. Afraid to spoil the moment with words, I shook my head slightly, digging my heel in again to convey the message that I wouldn't accept his retreat. He gaped at me, looking down at where we were nearly joined, then up again. The uncertainty was still there, but so was the desire. Slowly, I dipped my chin in a nod of acceptance, following it with a slight lift of my hips. The action pressed him against me more firmly, causing a surprised 'ha' to leave his still gaping mouth. I nodded again slowly, once more pushing gently with my heel to encourage action on his part. A strong resolve suddenly appeared in his eyes, his mouth snapped shut and he licked his lips; looking down again and pressing just a little more firmly. The action shocked a short breath out of me then, making our eyes lock onto each other. He stopped again, still pressed against me but not moving further, stuttering: 'We need…'

They were the first words either of us had spoken in some time and, while I appreciated the sentiment and the concern, I wasn't sure we'd be able to regain our momentum if we stopped now. I declined, admonishing him to go slowly. While some form of lubricant would have helped ease things along, I knew it could be done without it. For some reason, the thought of working with only spit and precum, increased my excitement.

In retrospect, it took what seemed like forever before we he was fully seated and I don't think I'd ever enjoyed the joining process more. He made shallow, rounded thrusts for an eternity before finally beginning to move in an in-and-out motion, and even then the pace was sedate for a very long time. Throughout it all, his eyes rarely left mine. At first I think it was to gage my reaction, my level of comfort, but towards the end it was as if our eyes could no more break away than the rest of our bodies. Not until we reached that peak.

That first time together for us had to have been the embodiment of lovemaking. Oh we've made love, had sex, even fucked each other silly, since then, but truly and honestly, there was something about that first experience we've never quite matched again. What he gave me that night outshines almost everything else in my memory of him.

Now it's not like I haven't equally participated in this relationship or given him anything in return. I think I've given him something that he hadn't had in years, maybe not since he was a child: a steady presence in his life, someone who has chosen him, accepted him as he is. I've given him love, affection and a sense of belonging not born of a familial commitment. You could argue that his two closest friends had also given him this, but what I offered was different. I offered him my whole self, body and soul, to have and to hold, for as long as he wanted.

There was one time about seven months after we actively started dating, almost at the point of completion of the first phase of my work at the resort, when I thought that a misunderstanding might have seriously jeopardized our relationship. His trust issues were something I was quite familiar with and it seems he'd been nervous about the impending end of my contract.

I'd needed to go home to the apartment I still shared with Trowa back then to attend the funeral of one of our coworkers. I had only planned to be away a few days and had packed hastily when I received the call, having only the opportunity to leave him a rushed message saying I was going out of town. In keeping with Murphy's Law – what could go wrong, did.

It took me a very long time to realize I'd left my cell phone behind in my haste to leave and by then the damage had been done. Apparently Duo had tried to call me back that afternoon and had repeatedly gotten my voice mail. Finding it strange that I wasn't answering, he'd swung by my apartment to see if he might be able to catch me there. He'd found my cell phone on the counter, the display showing a series of missed calls. Thinking that perhaps I'd called my own phone to determine its whereabouts, he checked the call list and dialed up the most recent number. When the call connected, it was not the sound of my voice that he heard, but that of a young, female, who answered with 'Heero, love, darling, sweetheart, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for days. I need you, honey, I need your bed, are you going to be home tonight?'

How do I know this? Because when I finally did get a hold of Duo – in his apartment after returning to the resort because he wouldn't answer any of my calls – he told me. Screaming at the top of his lungs. Fuming with anger and betrayal. All while not-so-calmly stuffing everything that belonged to me, and everything I had ever given him, into a large plastic trash bag. I'd waited patiently for the tirade to end – punctuated with the bag being thrown against his front door and the words 'Now get the fuck out and don't ever come near me again' – before attempting to explain.

There was only one person that ever spoke to me like that, only one person aside from him that ever asked to sleep in my bed – and not, I might add, while I was in it. Oniera had an entirely innocent reason for doing it, though. She was Quatre's niece, the daughter of a much older sister, who interned at a hospital about 3 miles from our apartment. Whenever she got double shifts or had to work overnight, she'd ask to crash at our place. When she'd first asked me for the use of my bed I'd questioned it; it made more sense to me that she would ask Trowa since she knew him better – he was, after all, her uncle's boyfriend. But she had countered that the thought of sleeping in a bed where her uncle might have been having sex had not appealed to her at all. Under the circumstances I agreed. It cost me nothing to let her use my bed while I was out of it, and I hadn't been doing anything in it other than sleeping anyway.

My calm acknowledgement of Oniera, her request and my attempt to explain it were met with more screaming and more anger. He saw it as proof that I had deliberately cheated on him, that I didn't even have the decency to deny it, and that I'd blatantly lied about going to the funeral – always a stickler for him – to run off and have my tryst. It took me physically blocking him from leaving his own apartment and following him from room to room for several minutes, trying to talk over his yelling, before I was able to get him to listen to me. And even then, I'm not sure he completely believed me. When I left him that day, giving him the space he requested to calm down and give my words a chance to sink in, I think he'd still been afraid – very afraid – to put the hurt and betrayal aside. It was over the course of the next painfully tentative days that I'd learned of the root of his fears. He'd been cheated on before, fooled and humiliated so completely that he'd never trusted anyone like that again. Until me. And wasn't it just a kick in the head that the first serious hurdle we had to overcome in our relationship was the one thing he feared the most. For a while I had been hurting, too, facing up to the fact that he didn't quite trust me. It took some time, and a lot of effort, but eventually we both got over it. And I think it went a long way to solidifying a sense of trust between us.

So when the end of my second summer here rolled around, after having accepted work on additional phases of the initial one-year project, it was with little surprise that I found myself being asked to stay and live with him and even less surprise to find myself agreeing. How could I give up what he'd gifted me with? How could I leave and leave him behind? He was a part of my life, so closely intertwined that it warranted no thought, no effort, to say yes.

It's been three years, almost.

Three years since I met Duo Maxwell.

Three years since I fell in love for the first time.

Three years since warmth was restored to my heart and splendor restored to my life.

Finito (for real this time)

FINAL AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thank you, thank you, thank you! To everyone who has read, commented, and hung in there with me.

Special thanks to Link for her beta services and rather amusing commentary: I enjoyed reading your play-by-play feedback so much I've kept them all for the entertainment value alone.

Also, big, big huggly-thanks to the special ladies whose guest appearances hopefully come as a big surprise and (equally hopefully) as welcome ones: Your support and encouragement has meant the world to me.