Author: Ravengirl
Rating: R (subject to change as fic progresses)
Pairings: 1x2x1, R+1(past)
Warnings: Duo's POV, Duo's mouth^^, slight Relena bashing, forthcoming citrus, possible future lemon, dubious attempts at humor
Disclaimer: Don't own them, make no money offa them. 'Last Beautiful Girl' is the sole property of Matchbox 20.
A/N: This isn't going to be a terribly long fic, but it will have several more parts, so stay tuned. My inspiration for it came from the song 'Last Beautiful Girl' by Matchbox 20, the reasons for which will become clear as matters proceed. As with most of my stuff, while Duo is not technically a 'top', he's still a very strong personality both in bed and out... i.e. NOT a bottom boy. Don't expect any 'take me and make me yours!' BS from him. You won't find it here.

[ ] = Duo's direct thought

The Last Beautiful Girl + Part 1

Someone was pounding on my front door and my head was pounding right along with them. To top that off, the blinds were open, allowing the obscenely early-morning sun to stream all over my extremely hung- over person.

This was so not my idea of how Saturday was supposed to go. Any intelligent person knows you don't even crack your lids before noon on the weekend. This common fact of life was obviously unknown to whom-so-ever was presently mounting a full-frontal attack on my door... or the guy who'd just waltzed into my bedroom, tastefully attired in the frilly apron Trowa gave me as a gag-housewarming present and nothing else.

He curtsied quite passably for a bishounen in an apron, smiling at me as I gaped back at him like a complete baka.

"Breakfast is served Mr. Maxwell," said my last-night's stand.

He obviously had no idea that correct morning-after etiquette around Duo Maxwell's place is to get the fuck out before he realizes that he was too drunk to kick you to the curb last night.

The hammering at the front door had escalated to assault and battery... can doors claim a chipped lintel as emotional damage? My life was quickly spiraling out of control and I hadn't even been lucid for most of it.

"Thanks," I croaked at the beaming bishie, "but I'd appreciate some space. Like, right now."

The smile transformed quickly to a scowl and said bishie ripped the apron off and began looking for his scattered clothing, thank Shinigami and whatever other gods might be listening.

"Well! I know when I'm not wanted. But I guarantee you, Duo Maxwell... Noah Richter does not take this kind of insult sitting down! I can't believe-,"

His voice faded as he disappeared down the hall, following the trail of discarded leather, silk and mesh. I leaned forward, gingerly supporting my throbbing temples with careful hands. And realized, suddenly, that the hammering from outside had stopped. Hard on the heels of that thought, a shrill scream pierced my eardrums, making me clutch at my head and moan in sheer agony.

"Who the hell are you, and where's Maxwell?"

I jerked upright, every inch of my body protesting, my eyes open to capacity. I knew those deep, irritable tones, even if it had been nearly three years since I'd last heard them.


Yanking the nearest pair of pants from the disaster area that is my floor, I tugged them on while hopping as fast as I could for the great room. The sight that met my eyes was not unexpected, but it still shocked the hell out of me.

The half-dressed bishie cowered against my black leather love-seat, staring like a hypnotized rodent at the spandex-clad wet-dream pointing a gun at him.

Tousled black-coffee hair fell in spiky profusion, nearly obscuring glaring cobalt eyes... nearly.

[Well... the 'ol Stare 'o Death ain't lost any of its punch.]

Neither had his body. He was still the finest thing on two legs, as far as this boy was concerned. I blinked. The tank was dark blue, not green. And his hiking boots were brown leather. Yessss!!! He can be taught!

I must have made some movement, since he turned, with those lightening reflexes I remembered so well, and the gun was suddenly pointing at me.

"Hey, hey, Heero-buddy! No need for that. 'S all good, here," I said hastily, raising my hands in a placatory fashion and stepping through the archway into the room.

There was a strangled squeak and the pattering of feet as the bishie made a break for it while Heero's attention was on me. Stupid of him. Heero would have plugged him if I hadn't already been in motion, pushing my trigger-happy friend's weapon towards the floor before he could drill my one-night fuck-toy.

"Ease off, partner. He wasn't after anything but a good screw and an ex-Gundam-pilot boyfriend to brag on," I murmured in Heero's ear.

I could swear he quivered against me, but then his muscles relaxed under my hand and the grip on his Sig loosened.

"You never change, Maxwell," he said in that flat voice I still hear in my dreams... and nightmares.

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "Unrepentant slut, that's me. So... you hungry?"

He gave me a 'you-gotta-be-kidding-right?' look before making his gun disappear to wherever it goes when he isn't threatening people with it.

"Hey, I have it on the best of authority that breakfast is ready. Let's eat!"

The tantalizing smells issuing from the kitchen had awakened my stomach, which immediately attempted to chew its way out of me to get at whatever was generating that heavenly scent. For the record, I may get righteous hang-over headaches, but I am never without the ability to eat. And whatever faults the bishie might have possessed, he obviously made a damn good mushroom omelet.

I cut it in half with a spatula, plopped it on two plates, and set them on the table.

"You want milk or orange juice, Hee-man?" I asked, inspecting the contents of my fridge. "Or -- I know -- mimosas! I've still got that bubbly Q left here last New Years. After all," I turned to grin at my silent companion, "it's not every day my best bud shows up on my doorstep!"

[And I could use a little 'hair of the dog'.]

"So," I popped the champagne, adding it to the oj pitcher, "how long's it been now... three years? Damn, Heero, we gotta start doin' more than the email thing. I haven't seen you since Quat blew the Gundams and Relena put us all on display at that stupid summit."

That thought pulled me up hard, thinking about my beautiful 'Scythe and how much I missed him. Okay, so he was an unfeeling hunk of gundanium, but Deathscythe was one of the few things I've ever loved in my short life... he was mine.

Heero, to my surprise, had seated himself while I was babbling, and he looked up at me as I put a glass of the oj mix in front of him. Those deep blue eyes met mine and for an instant I saw a regret that matched my own swirling there. But then... Wing had been the first thing Heero Yuy ever loved. Followed quickly by the blonde bimbette.

I mentally slapped my inner bitch, who promptly stuck his swishy little tongue out at me. [Cute,] I told him silently. [You shouldn't talk shit about her. It isn't Relena's fault Heero wanted her and not me. After all, she has the right equipment. I don't.]

"What brings to my humble abode, Senor Yuy?" I asked as I sat down opposite him. "Dekim manage to raise himself from the dead? Kushrenada get reincarnated while I wasn't looking?"

I shoved a piece of omeletty goodness into my mouth and chewed, waiting for my taciturn friend to get his act together. When nothing was forthcoming, I looked up, just in time to see Heero down the rest of his mimosa then pour himself another. Thankfully for my breakfast companion, I'd already swallowed, since my lower jaw was somewhere around my knees right about then.

Now alcohol consumption may be commonplace for you or I, but Heero Yuy does not drink. Let me repeat that. Does. Not. Drink. Carefully placing my fork on my plate, I studied my best friend closely.

Puffy, bloodshot eyes? Nope. Bloating? Nope. Inebriation after two watered-down mimosas? Yeppers. I think it was safe to say that Heero hadn't resorted to alcoholism since the last time I'd seen him. So the million-credit question was... what the hell had happened that would bring him all the way from the Sanq kingdom's palace halls to my lowly San Diego hovel... then make him decide that drunken revelry before 10 AM is a good idea.

"Heero?" I spoke tentatively, waiting to get blasted. "Um... you got something you need to say, buddy? "'Cause if you don't, that's fine, I'm just sayin' that if you do, I'm-,"

"She told me to leave," he slurred unsteadily.


Another refill. Deep gulp.

"Relena. She told me to leave Sanq and not come back. Ever."

[part 2] [back to Ravengirl's fic]