This piece is dedicated to DaMoyre, who never fails to help me out of a bind, or provide support, feedback, and general encouragement.

It's good to have friends. People who'll stick with you through thick and thin, those you can count on when times get rough... fire, flood, famine, war... they're there for you.

Everyone needs someone you can go to when you're in a bad way. For a friendly ear, a shoulder to cry on, help with a loved one...

My baby's sick again.

I don't have all the expertise I need to help her, but I know who I can turn to in my desperate hour.

"I need a lift," Trowa says.

"Sure," I reply, quickly dumping my jacket next to my helmet before helping Trowa lift and pull my cycle onto the base of a hydraulic lift.

We're in a small part of the Preventers massive auto workshop. The place should have its own zip code, but that's not surprising given how many staff and specialist vehicles are on our illustrious organisation's payroll. And they all need maintenance, right? This is where all those cool optional bells and whistles get fitted too, like bulletproof windshields and titanium doors.

And where urgent life-threatening repairs are carried out.

There are a few mechanics around, but it's a weekend, so there's not as many. I've been here plenty of times before to mess around. Engineering stuff is pretty rewarding, though having to rebuild my Gundam so many times -- once because a certain pilot who shall remain Japanese fleeced Deathscythe for parts to his own... not that I'm still bitter or anything -- turned me off mechanics as a full-time career prospect for the future.

But I still hang around and tinker with vehicles; Trowa's helped me with my motorcycle many times, and of late I've been assisting him to whip his P.0.S. Chevy into some decent shape.

The guys down here are great, too -- salt of the earth grease monkeys who never for one minute treat any of us differently because we were operating Mobile Suits at the grand old age of 15.

It happens, sometimes; get introduced to someone new and they go to shake your hand... then they find out your name. Sometimes there's a hesitant pause, or a flash of fear in their eyes. Twice I've had people steadfastly refuse to shake my hand, and once a guy tried to clock me. Suffice to say, he was transferred to another Preventers branch soon after.

I don't hold a grudge, though. He probably had a valid reason, and I can't change the past.

Mostly, though, the overriding emotion I deal with is wariness... Wariness until people get to know me better. Then they either like me, or they don't, and there's no middle ground. This is what Heero tells me, at least.

Though he's not exactly the most reliable source, having bounced between the two camps *far* too many times to count.

But the mechanics are good people, and don't mind sharing the facilities as long as we keep everything in order. They even make concessions for desperate emergencies.

Trowa and I gingerly get my vintage almost-completely-restored Triumph T-Bird onto the hydraulic lift, and Trowa clamps the wheels in place. The lift rises with an uncomfortably loud whir and I wince.

She is a thing of beauty, my cycle; all black and chrome, save for the band of yellow on the chassis where her badge is.

And right now, she's not doing so good. If that's not an emergency, I don't know what is.

Trowa walks around my baby slowly, running his hand along her frame. He scrutinises Widowmaker with a practiced eye, tugging in some areas looking for anything loose.

That's the thing about Trowa. I called him on the way back from my ride to tell him I'm in a bit of a bind, and he drops everything to come help me. He even gets changed into his mechanic clothes and workboots just in case it gets messy.

Considering nothing is ever simple, it's bound to. With that, I roll up the short sleeves of my black tee.

"What happened?" He asks.

"I was just going for a country joyride, but every time I got a little speed up, she started to fucking rattle."

Trowa frowns. "When exactly does it become apparent?"

It's my turn to frown. I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember what I read on the rpm dial. "Between 2000 and 3000 revs, give or take," I recall.

"Again?"

"*Again*."

"Hmm."

It's stupid, but I feel I'm like putting a child on a stretcher in front of the doctor at the hospital while he tries to diagnose what's wrong. Is this how all parents feel?

"Any ideas as to where it might be coming from?" he asks me.

I should know this. It's not like I'm mechanically challenged, by any means. I guess I just tended to specialise in things bigger and badder than my T-Bird. Trowa's the right person to ask, though. He doesn't have one now, but he rides motorcycles too, though he tends to favour sport bikes over cruisers.

"The alternator, I think? It was hard to tell."

Trowa wipes his hands on the back of his pants and gives me a nod. "It's a starting point." He scans the room and spies a painted orange gurney packed with tools and other stuff on it. He gestures towards it.

"I'll need the trolley," he says, grabbing a tall stool to sit next to the lift.

I flick him a lazy salute. "Yes, *sir*," and run over to the trolley. One of the mechanics says 'hi' as I do, I give him a quick wave and high-tail it back to my bike with the tools. Trowa's eyes don't leave Widowmaker.

"Your salute was really sloppy," he tells me matter-of-factly.

"That's 'cause you're not my superior," I answer smarmily.

He raises an eyebrow a little, and very pointedly takes his hands away from Widowmaker, crossing arms over his chest. Now that's just unfair.

"Fine, fine, I give." I hold my palms up in defeat. "You're very superior and awesome and clearly the best looking and most talented guy in work wear in this room canyoupleasehelpme?"

The corners of his lips curl a little, and he uncrosses his arms. "I notice *you're* not wearing work wear," he dangles the statement.

He really is far too aware of my verbal trickery nowadays. I give a rather self-effacing grin. "Caught that one, did you?"

Trowa shakes his head briefly before turning his attention back to my cycle. I move to stand next to him, behind the tool trolley.

He puts his right hand on the alternator, fingers running over the large bolts. His left stretches out towards me, palm up. "Torx wrench, please."

"What size?" How embarrassing, I can disassemble and reassemble my Gundam in the space of a day, but I've forgotten what size bolts are on my own alternator. Hope the other mechanics didn't hear me.

"T35."

I fix the right head on the wrench and place it in his palm. The situation feels rather reminiscent of something... It's terrible, but I can't pass up the opportunity. "Here you go, Doctor Barton."

"Thank you, Nurse Maxwell," he responds without missing a beat.

I laugh. "You are a smartass."

"Takes one to know one," he grunts as he strains to undo the bolts.

They're really on tight, and it's a tough job to try and get them undone. His biceps bulge out a little with the strain and his face is a grimace as he attempts to turn the wrench. Hell, if Trowa the Ripped can't get it undone with his muscles, I'd stand a snowflake's chance in hell of doing it.

Trowa stops and wipes the light sheen of sweat from his forehead. "They're too tight. Pass me some lubricant?"

I gasp, picking up a can of WD-40. "Why Doctor...!"

He plucks the can out of my hand. "I knew you couldn't resist that lowbrow set-up."

I shrug helplessly. "It's part of my inherent charm!"

He doesn't reply, instead spraying the bolts liberally with the lubricant and tossing the can back to me. Once again, he affixes the Torx wrench to that stubborn-ass bolt. It's still a strain for him, but now it shows a bit more give with each push of the handle.

"So," Trowa grunts, getting the bolt off in its entirety. "Why did you call your bike that?" He flicks his head towards the body of my bike, where 'The Widowmaker' is painted in a white, fancy script.

Trowa hands me the bolt as I ponder my answer. "It's from a cartoon I saw a while back," I say as I clean the bolt with a rag. "Old pre-colony one by the name of 'Pecos Bill'. Widowmaker was the title character's horse."

I look over at him and Trowa seems a little interested. "What's the story about?" he asks as he begins on the second of three bolts.

There's another stool close by, and I wheel it over so I can sit next to the lift. "Well, it's a bit of an old folktale... Bill was a boy raised by coyotes in the American West. When he was young, he rescued a foal from some vultures -- that's Widowmaker, by the way -- and they became the best of friends. They did everything together, until Bill met a girl."

I rub some grease that was on the alternator bolt between my fingers. Trowa grunts again and the second bolt comes off. He hands it to me gently.

"What happened next?" he asks curiously.

"Widowmaker got jealous that his best friend was being taken away, but Bill never realised. He promised Sue she could ride Widowmaker on their wedding day... and it all went pear-shaped from there."

There's no more noise and I look up. Trowa's staring at me expectantly, hands frozen on the wrench. "Then what?"

I smile a little. I guess it doesn't matter how old you are, everyone loves to hear a story.

"Sue was wearing a bustle--" Trowa cocks his head to the side, almost like a dog, waiting for an explanation. "It's like this metal frame-thing under a woman's dress that makes it stick out at the back."

Trowa tries the third bolt. "Wouldn't that just make her look like... she had a big rear?"

I laugh a little. "I do not know the ways and means of women's fashion through the ages. Anyway, Widowmaker bucked so hard that she soared into the sky. When she came back down, the bustle kept bouncing her back into the air like some kind of trampoline. Bill tried to lasso her down, but Widowmaker sabotaged him... and she flew up to the moon never to return."

"Sad," he comments. The third bolt comes off with another noise of effort from Trowa. He hands it to me looking thoughtful. "So what happened to Bill and Widowmaker?"

I shrug. "Bill was heartbroken. He and Widowmaker left town."

"I don't know if that makes sense to me. Why would he stay with Widowmaker?" Trowa looks genuinely puzzled, putting the wrench down on the trolley.

I scratch my head. "For one, he didn't know what Widowmaker did. Secondly... I don't know. Widowmaker was still his most loyal friend. What he did for Bill -- however right or wrong -- was out of love."

Trowa puts his hands around the alternator gently. "So the question now is -- can you give me a hand with this? -- why did you name your bike after the horse?"

I move forward to stand next to Trowa. Four hands are better than two, I guess. We gently extricate the alternator together. "It just seemed like a good name. Widowmaker was a best friend. That's what I want, that's what she is to me."

I feel momentarily anxious for admitting to Trowa that my ride is my best friend, but he doesn't say anything about it. He probably didn't hear me properly.

The alternator comes out smoothly. Trowa's got a good grip on it so I let go and sit back down. He handles it really carefully, like it's something precious. Good thing too, it is.

"I'm still surprised at the name," he tells me, turning the alternator over in his hands. "I thought you might've name it... er." He can't quite bring himself to say the name.

"'Deathscythe'?" I supply quietly.

Trowa's teeth press into his bottom lip. "Yeah."

"Well, apart from being woefully unoriginal..." I laugh, but for only a few seconds. The bottom of my tee shirt is just begging for me to fiddle with it, and I do. It's not the first time I've been asked this question, but the first time I've been asked by a person who deserves the real answer, considering our history and all that.

"It's pretty simple, really," I say, going for a casual tone. "There was only one Deathscythe. Well... technically, two. But the principle's the same." Trowa's stopped fiddling with the alternator, and he just stands there watching me. A short, hard sigh escapes my lips like a jet of air. "That Gundam was my best friend, and I lost her."

"Duo--"

I interrupt him. I'm going somewhere with this. "It's not something to dwell on, Tro. It was war, and it's in the past."

I have the strangest urge to spin around on the stool, so I do. Everything becomes a nice colourful blur, punctuated every revolution by a skinny green blur, which is Trowa. There's an abrupt stop though, when Trowa's foot plants on the bottom of the stool, halting my spinning pretty fast. Guess he's determined to get the rest out of me.

I look up at Widowmaker so I don't have to make eye contact with him. "Thing is, I did consider naming her after my Gundam, but it didn't feel right. Apart from being, I dunno, disrespectful to the people who died, if anything happened--" I stop there. It's too stupid to say out loud, and it's *definitely* completely irrational.

I can sense his steadfast gaze, but still can't quite bring myself to meet his eyes. S'funny, time's gone by, but it's still difficult to talk about sometimes. Especially to Trowa.

"If anything happened to your bike, it would be like losing Deathscythe again," he finishes in a gentle voice.

I blink slowly and look at him. "That's-" my throat is unexpectedly husky, so I clear it. Ugh. Phlegm. "That's exactly right."

I never spoke about that, I thought people might make fun of me, or not comprehend. The first time someone asked me this question I told the truth, but the reply I got was odd. 'It's just a name,' they had said. But to me, it's *not* just a name.

Looking into Trowa's face, though, I know he knows exactly what I'm talking about. His eyes are really warm, and it makes me feel better.

"That was a remarkably astute observation," I say, my smile coming back.

"I'm perceptive like that," he says, going back to look at the alternator.

"Modest, too," I put in.

"I can prove it," he tells me, holding out the alternator and pointing to a little part. I get off the stool to take a closer look. He points to a particular bolt. "See there's a little gap under the bolt?" I nod. There's about 2mm of clearance underneath it. "It's allowing your drive spyder to float on the spline. My guess is that has worn away at the dished washer, which has broken apart and fallen into the casing--" He shakes the alternator and it rattles, "--like so."

I tap an index finger against my lips and sit back down. "Okay... is it repairable?"

"I don't see why not," he shrugs. "Get the broken pieces out, a new dished washer is no trouble, and Rudy--" Trowa gestures to the mechanic I waved to earlier, who's on the other side of the workshop, "--can make another washer out of stainless steel which should take care of the gap, and subsequently, the rattle."

I look up at him and it's kind of hard not to be incredibly impressed. "You are a *god* amongst mechanics everywhere."

"You can call me 'Trowa'," he says generously.

That's when I completely lose it.

I throw my head back and start laughing so hard, because it's funny, and I'm relieved, and I just feel a lot *better* and before I even realise it I've leaned out too far and I'm falling backwards off my stool, arms and legs going everywhere.

I see Trowa step forward, but his hands aren't free to reach out and snag my shirt. My back hits the floor moments later and I'm nicely winded.

Ow, ow, and for a third fucking time, *ow*.

I'm lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling still laughing like a loon -- mind you, it hurts a lot more now -- when Trowa's head pops into my field of vision. He's on a funny angle, gravity making his hair look weird, and has a smile he's trying to conceal. Failing miserably at it, I might add.

"Are you hurt?"

"Naw, but my pride sure could use mouth-to-mouth." My spine is killing me, but it's a *funny* kind of ache, I suppose.

"How about a hand instead?" His head disappears from my sight to be replaced by two strong hands, calloused palms up. I reach for them and groan and curse profusely as he pulls me to my feet, placing a steadying arm around my shoulders.

"Thanks, man," I say and rub the back of my head. I conked it a little, but no harm done. Trowa's eyes don't miss a trick, his gaze flicking to my cracked cranium. "And don't worry, it's a tiny bump on the noggin. No need to get the quacks involved."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assures me, dusting some crap off the back of my shirt.

We lapse into silence for a few moments. Trowa clears his throat and picks Widowmaker's alternator up from where it was safely placed on the trolley. "I can get started on this right now so you can have your best friend back."

So he *did* hear. I give him a cautious smile, though. What he said sounds stupid, but he's not making fun of me. "Sounds good," I reply.

"I'll talk to Rudy about what I need," he says, backing away towards the other mechanics, "then maybe a couple of beers are in order?"

"Excellent suggestion, although shouldn't I be getting *you* a beer?" I gesture to my cycle.

"No," he shrugs. "Seeing you fall over is payment enough."

"Ha ha, Funny man. That's right, give alcohol to the guy with the concussion; very smart."

"I thought you said you were fine!" he scoffs.

"I was, until you had absolutely no sympathy whatsoever."

Trowa rolls his eyes and shakes his head a little. He looks at me for a second before turning around to walk in a forward-fashion as is popular nowadays.

I rub an invisible blemish on Widowmaker's polished body with the hem of my shirt, and stroke her fondly. She's an excellent companion, and has been better to me than I've probably deserved.

I don't know how I'm going to tell her I've found a new -- human -- best friend.