About a quarter of the way down the interstate, when Wu Fei had gained a substantial lead, the interior video screen clicked on to reveal Duo's widely grinning face and a pair of manevolently glinting violet eyes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we present to you Chang Wu Fei, hurtling towards greatness!" he snickered. "Either that or a jelly donut. But in the end, who will win, the greatness or the jelly donut? That is, indeed, the question!"
"Maxwell!" the Chinese pilot snapped, flicking his eyes briefly to the screen embedded within the dashboard. "What do you think you're trying to accomplish?"
"Oh, just seeing how you were doing before I kick your ass," Duo replied in a casual tone, visibly propping up his feet as he reclined in the bucket seat of the Mustang.
Wu Fei glowered, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. "I've never seen such dishonorable tactics," he muttered. "Using the automatic pilot is against the rules, and you know it."
"Heeeey, relax, 'Fei, I'm not using the auto-pilot," responded the American easily, cocking a thumb towards his left. "Trowa's driving."
The Chinese boy's eyes widened in a mix of shock and anger. "He's what?"
Duo leaned closer to the video feed and gave a mocking wink towards the interior of the other vehicle. "You never said we couldn't switch off drivers, 'Fei. Mere technicality. Don't worry, I'll make sure to snag the driver's seat right before we leave you in the dust."
"But --" Wu Fei sputtered. "You didn't pull to the side of the road! How did you and Barton manage to switch places without --"
"Don't ask," interjected a rather white-faced Quatre, poking his head between the two front seats. "It's better that you don't know. I'm still trying to forget..." The blond Arab boy shuddered.
"But anyway, Shinigami is over and outta here!" Duo remarked with a sly grin. "By the way, Wu-Man, look to your left .... now!"
As Duo spoke, the screen flickered to blackness, and Wu Fei pulled his concentration from the road to gaze out the driver's side window. Sailing past them in the opposite lane was a black Mustang, indeed driven by Trowa. From the passenger window, Duo smirked and thumbed his nose at Wu Fei and Heero's car.
"Pull over," Heero muttered between his teeth, watching the other car tear off into the distance.
"No!" Wu Fei cried, his eyes narrowing in frustration. "I will not let Maxwell get the better of me."
A soft click resounded in his ears, and from his peripheral vision Wu Fei saw the barrel of Heero's gun leveled at his temple. "That wasn't a request. Your driving is inefficient and sloppy. You will let me take the wheel if you have any desire to succeed in this mission."
---
As the black car soared down the highway, Duo could barely make out the blurred words on the rest stop sign, the letters melding into a blur of blue and white. His brow furrowed slightly as he managed to distinguish, among other advertisements on the sign, the telling letters: "CINN-"
"Cinnabon!" the braided pilot exclaimed happily, violet eyes sparkling as he whipped his head towards the driver. "Only half a mile to the rest area! Let's stop!"
"No," was the immediate response from Trowa, gaze never straying from the road.
"Come on! We're in the lead! A quick break for Cinnabon won't kill us!"
Trowa closed his eyes for a brief second, and merely shook his head as, with only a quick glance in the rearview mirror, glided the car into the next lane over.
"Five minutes, that's all I'm asking! Five minutes, and we'll be in cinnamony, sugary heaven! This is Cinnabon we're talking about here!"
The other pilot rested a single hand on the wheel, the other settling on the gear-shift, and he turned to fix Duo with a silent, even stare.
"What?" Duo snorted, rolling his eyes. "What's the problem here? You pull over into the rest stop, I run in, I obtain baked pastry bliss, and we're on our way with hardly any break in our lead. I'll get you a Cinnabon, too, if you want one! You know you do."
A single visible green eye narrowed, steadily holding the American's gaze. A twinge of dread crept into Duo's mind as he realized Trowa wasn't turning back to look at the road. Nor did he look like he was willing to anytime soon.
"Uh, Trowa? We're going at least 110 mph, probably more, on a crowded highway. Don't you think it's about time you started watching the road again?"
Trowa said nothing, but merely locked his eyes with Duo's, while in the back seat Quatre covered his face with a hand and braced against an impending impact.
"You're drifting into the next lane over. Quit giving me the evil eye already and watch the road!" Unconsciously, Duo wrapped his fingers around the handle of the passenger door, what he'd long ago dubbed the 'Oh-Shit Bar.'
Without a word, Trowa just continued to glare. Duo could hear a flurry of honks from the cars in the path of the Mustang as it drifted steadily towards the middle concrete divider.
"Argh!" the American finally cried. "Okay, okay! No more talk about Cinnabon! It's already forgotten! Out of my mind, out of my thoughts forever! No more cinnamony goodness for Shinigami! Now will you start watching the damn road again?"
The corners of Trowa's lips twitched up in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, and he returned his concentration to the road, straightening the car into the proper lane with the faintest twist of the wheel.
Duo slouched in the bucket seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he muttered to himself. "Sheesh. I just wanted a Cinnabon. Didn't have to go and kill us over it. Can you believe this guy? Suicidal over a damn cinnamon bun! Hrmph."
From the back seat, Quatre's indignant - and slightly rattled -- voice could be heard drifting to the front. "Duo, how could you even think of food at a time like this?"