Heero glanced through the darkened window, sure of his invisibility in the tree outside. He shifted slightly with the sharp wind, concealed within the branches and leaves of gleaming snow. He frowned at Duo's absence, and Quatre looking through the room frantically. Trowa eyed the open window, the curtains blown from the open screen, and the Latin boy's eyes narrowed in dismay. Heero scowled, and slunk further into the shadows of the icy trunk and moonlit, icicle garbed fingers of wood twining about his slim figure. He could see Trowa's face scanning the trees and ground below as he scrambled towards the frosty earth, then the Latin boy turned away, his head bowed as he faced Quatre.
Heero snarled at himself silently, and dropped from the tree as quietly as possible. He winced at the crunch of his sneakers on the icy snow, unable to prevent the noise, and watched at the window. Trowa's head snapped up at the noise, and he cursed under his breath, fighting off unconsciousness. His skin was frozen, and the slits on his chest ached in the frigid air. And he still had too much blood leaking from his wounds, seeping in dark black drops to the pale innocent snow.
He shivered, unable to control his body temperature, and mumbled a weak string of foul language as he began to move, darting into the shadows of the safe-house, then towards the garage. He could pilot Wing half-conscious, and he could find some sort of safety. How fortunate that they were already stranded on L1 -- he hadn't far to move to get to his goal. He fought the trembling threatening to toss him to the ground, his limbs feeling dead as the wind bit sharp needles into his flesh, sliding insidiously inside his cuts, spreading the flesh minutely with tiny cold fingertips.
Heero blanched, and stumbled to his knees. He glanced wistfully at the warm safe-house, blankly desiring the bleak warmth inside. He had meant to simply sleep, and let his body heal some before -- before whatever could come next. Duo's discovery and subsequent shock had forced his hand. He gasped for oxygen, his lungs protesting the dry night air, and he glared, wrapping an arm painfully about his chest.
If only Duo hadn't questioned, if only Duo hadn't found out! He could be within, healing himself. He could be safe and heated and in control. Something within his chest twisted, and he scowled at the ground, sneaking slowly towards the hangar, where his beloved Wing awaited him. Duo's fault. Right. It was Duo's fault. Yet Heero still felt numb when he stated it. Duo had found out -- why?
He held back a sudden feminine sniffle. Duo had been concerned enough to trace him back into the bathroom, and he guessed had seen the mess. He should have cleaned it up, if he'd been conscious enough to do so. Heero snarled at the lock on the garage entry, and narrowed his eyes at the offending mechanism. He knew the truth, well enough to burn the snow from his bare feet. Duo cared enough to be concerned. And if Duo knew the truth, he wouldn't care for a certain gender-switched pilot any longer.
And that was why he was out in the snow, picking the lock to the hangar, and not inside, sleeping. If he had stayed, he would've been found out further by his American partner. That was unacceptable. Duo would have revealed his gender. The thought hurt Heero, somehow, almost physically. Duo could not deal with that reality, he was certain. The rejection would destroy Duo's usefulness to the group.
Even as the callous thought wrenched within his chest. It felt wrong to think of Duo as only an object, as merely the soldier he was. Heero scowled, shoving the door open, and stepping within the hangar silently, scanning the cavernous, ice-etched floor for any possible threat to his escape. He had to get away, before Duo corrupted his mind entirely. Before Duo made him vulnerable, or at least more weak than he was now. He cared for the American, he knew emotion -- he had to destroy the weakness, before he destroyed the group. He could not afford another show of disunity, another wilful destruction of the other pilots.
He needed to speak with Doctor J. He needed to have time to recover, to heal enough. Heero snorted disgustedly at himself, trudging across the barren hangar floor. He deserved the pain, his punishment, yet he had impaired himself temporarily due to his stupidity. He should have bandaged himself at least, yet had insisted upon suffering. He had not anticipated the outcome sufficiently, and now he was seriously injured by his own hand. How stupid of him, how foolish, how WEAK. He wasn't perfect. And that was why he couldn't stay, that was why he was punished. Somewhere within the recesses of his mind he knew a dark corner of values -- if he was perfect enough he wouldn't feel the pain, he would be escaping now, in the air, running to Doctor J...
"Weakling," Heero hissed, his throat clenching roughly about the words spoken to no one. He noted vaguely that he was weaving, clutching his chest with sticky, flaky hands. He was leaving a blood trail then. He grimaced at a shock of pain hurtling from the slits on his chest, and vaguely realised his breath was hoarse and gasping. He could not be found, not now! Heero growled softly, and closed his eyes, reaching out for something to support him briefly. His body was screaming in agony, clamouring for more oxygen from the thin streams of blood that soaked his shirt and shorts.
Heero fell to his knees, crying out softly as the painfully hard concrete met his kneecaps forcefully. He lurched forward to hold himself on his hands, and forced his eyes open. The dark hangar slid about with oily distortion in his vision, and he shook his head slowly, trying to retain awareness. He was weak, he whimpered furiously. He couldn't stand himself, he was pathetic, corrupted, unworthy. He railed against himself mentally, ignoring his shaking limbs, but failed. Heero collapsed, his cheek slapping against the concrete as his arms gave out. He couldn't feel his body, the limp dead weights of his limbs strangely absent. Then his gaze blackened to unconsciousness.
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