When We Were Young 7
31 Dec 2005 08:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigouContinuing. Again, NOT chronological, but viewed as a whole you may eventually be able to tease out which happened first, last, and middle.
rating: PG-13 for mild cussing
pairing: 3+4
warning: arguments, crankiness
unbeta'd; will be catching any grammar/spelling issues before posting at GWA, but no major changes otherwise. (IOW: Natea, go for it!) Also, written for Okaasan, who is still dying without Windsor's pr0n. Windsor, wake up! Save Okaasan!
----
Trowa rubbed his forehead and thought of sixteen ways to kill Duo. Without Duo's assistance presenting the new training material guidelines to the Preventers' Board, Trowa was going to have to go it alone, and he wasn't entirely certain what Duo's notes meant. Someone set a cup of coffee down at the edge of Trowa's desk; he noticed enough that it was his mug, and he accepted it gratefully without even looking up. He couldn't really blame Duo for taking the day off, however bad the timing, and despite their frequent differences, Trowa could sense whatever had Duo so upset really had little to do with Quatre coming down with bronchitis. All of them had been shaken by the news that their scientists' immuno-boosters were wearing off, and that they might have to start lining up for annual flu shots with the rest of the world, but Trowa had expected Heero to take the adjustment the hardest. Instead, Duo had turned completely pale at the news -- not, in fact, now that Trowa considered it, at the news of their immune system degradation, but at Quatre's illness -- and soon after had left work, and hadn't returned. Then Heero had come in late the following morning, muttering something about a hangover to end all hangovers.
Damn it, now he was woolgathering. He didn't have time to do that; the meeting was at four, and it was already eleven. Between now and then, he had five other meetings. He could probably send a proxy to three of them, sit the first for an hour, meet with his proxy to review the other meetings, then catch the last hour of the second one, even if that didn't give him time for lunch. Five hours, and five three-hour meetings. Une was definitely trying to kill him, and he was going to kill Duo for not being there to share the suffering, even if it did seem like Duo was having an issue. He could have issues, but not on Trowa's time.
"Captain Barton," Wufei's grave voice announced himself.
Too formal by far to just be stopping by, and Trowa looked up with a frown. "Make it quick. And is Dave out in the hallway?"
"He's down by Yuy's." Wufei stepped into Trowa's office, momentarily blocking view of whomever was behind him. "I've escorted a visitor up to see you."
"A visitor? I don't--" Trowa's mouth fell open at the sight of Eliza, dressed in her work skirt and plain black shoes, but with a bright pink windbreaker that advertised the local women's billiards association. He motioned her to have a seat, but first things first; he glanced at Wufei with a nod. "Thanks. Could you send Dave this way?"
"Will do." Wufei gave Eliza a quick smile -- he knew her from his visits to their place, after all. As he left, Trowa could hear Wufei's sharp bark carrying over the burble of voices in the hallway. If Trowa wanted someone's attention, all he had to do was have Wufei or Heero do the calling. People always jumped at those men's strong tones.
"Mr. Barton, I mean, Captain," Eliza said. She didn't sit down. "I'm sorry to barge in on your work, but I couldn't get through the switchboard and your cell isn't answering. You need to come home."
"Quatre." Trowa set down his mug. "Is everything--"
"He's okay, really!" Eliza smiled, but she seemed frightened and almost near tears; the unhappiness looked completely wrong on her normally cheerful and easygoing features. "But...he won't go back to bed."
"Excuse me? When I left, he was sleeping." Quatre had complained bitterly when the doctor prescribed bed rest for two weeks, but he'd seemed to give in and had barely stirred when Trowa had left that morning. Trowa had given Montgomery the day off, since the most Quatre would need was tea every now and then, and a small sandwich at lunch. He certainly wouldn't be up for more than that.
"Yes, sir, but he got up about twenty minutes after you left. It might've been sooner, but I went to take him tea at twenty after, and his bed was empty. I found him in the study reviewing work papers." She had started wringing her hands. "I asked him if he were heading back to bed, and he said he would, in a little bit. An hour after that, I checked again, and he was on a conference call." She added in a soft whisper, "and he keeps coughing..."
Trowa stared down at the papers across his desk. He really, really did not need this right now. Dave appeared in the doorway, expression curious, and Trowa made a snap decision. He stood, scooping up notes for the first three meetings. "Dave, you're my proxy for AHT at eleven-thirty, IS at twelve hundred, and CMT at thirteen-thirty. Leave your notes on my desk, and make sure they're legible this time. I'll meet with you at fourteen hundred to catch up."
"Sure thing, Captain. You going to the GAA cross-department meeting at noon, then?"
"Oh, shit." Trowa had completely forgotten that one. "Is Beth going?"
"I think so."
"Good. Tell her she speaks for our department, and to keep her mouth shut and make absolutely no promises that we'll do anything." Trowa gathered up his coat, and threw his favorite red scarf around his neck, catching Eliza by the elbow and ushering her from the office. Over his shoulder he told Dave, "and if she can delegate off to someone else anything we're tasked, her next lunch is on me."
Dave pretended to pout. "Hey, what if I manage that at the CMT?"
"Bring me proof, and you'll get lunch." Trowa held up his badge. "I know a great cafeteria down stairs. Eliza, this way." He hit the button at the elevator, ignoring Dave's protested squawks down the hallway, and led Eliza back down to the main lobby, where he signed her out. "Did you take a cab?"
"Yes, sir. I called Mary in two hours early, and she couldn't get Mr. Winner to go to bed, either." She chewed her lower lip, and drew her coat a bit tighter around herself, hunched as if expecting Trowa to yell at her. "We don't want to make him angry, but...this morning he sounded almost fine, but when I left he was coughing so badly he could barely breathe. Mary wanted to call an ambulance, but I said we should find you first." She flushed, and smiled nervously. "I mean, you're his fiance. You should know."
"And I do appreciate that." Trowa wondered what kinds of call Quatre had been making; he often paced his way through phone meetings. Quatre saw no reason to sit still if he wasn't meeting face-to-face; he said pacing helped him think. He did not need to be pacing with bronchitis, early pneumonia, and a hundred-something degree temperature. "Damn it," Trowa muttered, and opened his wallet, handing Eliza a fifty. "Here. That should cover the cab costs, and get yourself some lunch." He recalled something Relena had said once, and smiled down at the petite girl. "With chocolate cake for dessert, my orders."
"But..."
"That's for putting up with your boss." Trowa waved her away, and threw a leg over his motorcycle, gunning up the engine before pulling on his helmet. "Go on. Take an extra-long lunch. I suspect you've more than earned it." She waved as she got into the cab, and Trowa turned the bike towards home. Six blocks wasn't far, but the day had been too pretty to miss a chance to ride; riding was certainly faster than trying to jog the mile and a half home. Five minutes later he was stepping into the ostentatious foyer and dropping his keys on that horrendous blond-wood table Quatre liked so much. He threw his coat and scarf on the chair, for once not bothering to hang any of it up, and strode down the main hallway until he came to Quatre's study door. Listening for a moment, he gritted his teeth; Quatre was currently lecturing someone.
Trowa pushed the door open, and Quatre broke off halfway through a word, then caught himself. "Carlson, hold on." He hit the mute button, leaning over the desk, and gave Trowa a puzzled look. "Is something wrong? Did something happen at work?" His eyes went wide. "Was there an accident?"
"No." Trowa strolled forward, hands in his pockets. "It looks like you're cruising for one, though. You're supposed to be in bed."
"How did you know I wasn't?"
"I had a little bird come to visit." Trowa reached out, placing his hand over the button. "You have twenty seconds to say your goodbyes and get off the phone."
Quatre's expression darkened. "Don't you tell me that. I'm in the middle of a meeting. I'll be done--"
"You were supposed to have Michael cancel all your meetings."
"He did, but this was an unexpected--"
"How'd you hear about it?"
"He called me and told me."
"I see." Trowa made a note to give Michael a call. Apparently the phrasing of Mister Winner is ill, cancel all meetings, give his regrets for any social engagements, and do not call him nor fax him nor email him with any work-related news had not been clear enough. Just what Trowa needed, another task, and this one to get it through a too-helpful assistant's thick skull that do-not-contact included smoke signals and drum calls. And homing pigeons.
Quatre exhaled noisily, which turned into a sudden bout of coughing. He doubled over the desk, face red from the effort, a dry hacking bark like the sound of sandpaper and wet rags at the same time. Struggling upright again, a muscle flickered in Quatre's jaw as he stared at Trowa's hand, still on the phone. "Take your hand away. This is important--"
"Ten seconds."
"Trowa!"
"I'm not kidding. You're sick. You should be in bed. If you do not rest, you may end up with double pneumonia, and then you will be in the hospital, and believe me, the nurses will not be fixing your favorite cookies as a bribe to get you to behave. They will strip you down and tie you to the bed and leave you there."
Quatre's mouth fell open.
Trowa smirked. "Five seconds."
"Fine, fine, move your damn hand." He hit the hold button. "Carlson-- yes. Yes. I have to go. Cancel that meeting this afternoon. Reschedule it for to--" Quatre glanced at Trowa, and grimaced. "Stall them. At least a week. There's no way we can go into a decision like that without all the facts, and I don't care what they're offering. Yes, I know. Send me the files and I'll look them over--" Quatre put his hand over the speaker, muffling it, and hissed, "I can do that in bed!"
"Hmph."
He scowled and finished up the conversation, disconnecting before he slowly sank down into the chair, looking around with a weary sigh. "I'm off the conference call. I promise I'll just read, then, okay?"
"In bed."
Quatre's look was both wheedling and oddly seductive, despite the slight croaking edge to his voice. "Are you going to stay there with me?"
Trowa arched a single eyebrow.
"You're no fun." Quatre waved him away, dismissively. "Sorry you ran all the way here from work. I don't know what Mary or Eliza told you, but I'm not going overboard. I am taking it easy--"
"Easy means in bed, sleeping."
"I was bored." Now Quatre just sounded petulant.
"I heard you were up and in your office within twenty minutes of me leaving," Trowa noted. "I thought it took longer for you to get bored. In fact, on weekends you've been known to sleep in until nine."
"I have work to do."
"You have resting to do."
"Later."
"Now."
"I'm not going to argue with you!" Quatre's raised voice ended in a fist pounded on the desk as he bent over in the chair, caught in another vicious fit of coughing. Trowa folded his arms; he figured the coughing was demonstration enough of Quatre's stupidity. After a moment, Quatre sat up straighter, wiping his mouth with long, delicate fingers, and he drew a folder toward him as he pulled his robe tighter and squared his shoulders. "You should get back to work. I'm sorry you came over here for nothing, but--"
"You shouldn't get back to work." Trowa didn't fight the rising tide of annoyance. He'd put up with all sorts of shit from Quatre's family in the previous two months, an increased work load that Une insisted was proof of her faith in him, a team that was half-rookies and half-former Alliance officers and getting everyone to work together had been somewhere on the level of getting an elephant to walk a tightrope, and he really did not need Quatre ending up in the hospital, too. Trowa could only take so much. He caught the edge of the folder and slamming it shut, then yanked it away from Quatre. "You are going back to bed, now."
Quatre took a deep breath, clenching his fists as another coughing fit loomed. "Trowa, I'm warning you--"
"Your doctor warned you, too. Bed. NOW."
"No."
Trowa shook his head. "This is not up for negotiation."
"Everything's negotiable," Quatre replied, and suddenly he sounded rather bitter. He pulled away when Trowa made a grab for him, and Trowa snorted, coming around the desk to catch Quatre's arm and yank him to his feet. "Trowa--"
"Shut up. Bed. I don't have time for this," Trowa growled. "You're being a child!"
"I don't have time to be a child!" Quatre struggled against Trowa's hold, squinting as if the lights hurt, and he began coughing again, then his breath caught, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he sank like a ton of rocks in Trowa's instinctive grab.
"Shit, Quatre--" Trowa took a second to calm himself, then checked Quatre's vital signs, realizing quickly that between the fever and the sudden rise, Quatre's blood pressure must've spiked.
It wasn't the most graceful move Trowa had ever done, but somehow he supported Quatre with one hand, twisted, pulled Quatre toward him, and the next thing he knew, he had all two hundred pounds of Quatre leaning against his back. Fumbling for Quatre's legs, he bent, shifted their weights forward, and came upright. Quatre moaned, then coughed against his neck, and Trowa staggered for a step before gaining his balance. At the study door, he kicked with one foot to open the door wider, took a deep breath, and carried Quatre down the hallway to the small elevator. It was supposed to be mostly for transporting awkward furniture or a lot of luggage, but the two of them wouldn't hit its maximum weight. He hoped. It was a tight squeeze, but he punched the doors closed, and they covered the thirty feet between floors with a soft whisper of machinery and the loud rasp of Quatre's labored breathing.
Halfway down the hallway, Quatre stirred, then struggled, and Trowa nearly fell when Quatre pulled his weight back. But he let go instead, and Quatre tumbled to the floor, as Trowa fell forward onto his knees.
"Damn you, I was working," Quatre muttered, and curled over, coughing with one hand over his mouth.
"You can't do this," Trowa said, hands fisting in the carpet. "You're only going to make yourself sicker. If that's what you want, fine, I won't stop you, but I'm not helping you." He took a deep breath. "And I won't be here while you do it, either. If anything happens to you, it'd be the end of me, too. Can't you see that?" He pounded with a fist on the fine woven carpet, vaguely aware his fist was smashing a ruby-red lily pattern. "You're sick, really sick, and you need to rest. If you went into the hospital and left me here... Damn it, Quatre, I've watched you lie there without moving before, and I don't want to go through that again!"
Quatre's only answer was a soft muffled coughing, though it sounded like he was trying hard to stifle it. Too watery and thick, it grated Trowa's nerves; it sounded too much like seven years ago, that painful progress of helping Quatre from the dying Barge and back to the Peacemillion. Those long moments of listening to the bloody catch in Quatre's breathing as Trowa piloted Heavyarms, carrying Sandrock, holding Quatre against his heart, and every cough brought it all back again, and he just couldn't breathe, he felt panic slipping up behind him, and why the hell wouldn't Quatre just take care of himself? Why did he have to--
"Trowa," Quatre whispered, and Trowa turned to see Quatre on his side, curled up, one hand reaching for Trowa's ankle. "I'm sorry. I want to get well for you, and I promise you, it'll never be as bad as it was. No holes in me yet, right?" He smiled, weakly; Trowa couldn't return the expression. "But I have to get back to work. I can't leave it for two weeks."
"You don't have a choice."
"I have to!"
"No, you don't!"
Quatre let go of Trowa's ankle, fingers curling into a fist, and he glowered, blue eyes dark in the hallway's soft lighting. "If you couldn't be at work for two weeks, you'd be beside yourself worrying about whether things are destructing--"
"No, I wouldn't," Trowa snapped, and he continued to brace himself on all fours. He feared if he got up, he'd start walking, say fuck this shit and walk out that door, and he wouldn't come back. So much goddamn shit, all the time, and now this. He couldn't take any more. Not one more single thing. "That's why I've got Heero and Wufei as my back-ups."
"Well, I'm not that lucky! I don't have a Heero or a Wufei," Quatre retorted, bristling.
"You have twenty-nine sisters, of whom seventeen are involved with the business to some capacity." Trowa knew every single one of them by name, now; with the exception of Jasmine, the rest had made it perfectly clear to him just where he stood when it came to their interest, the business, the family, the wealth, and Quatre: at the very end of the damn line. "Call one of them! They love the business so much, let them fuckin' run it. You've got bronchitis, or did you miss that memo?"
"I didn't! I don't want to call them," Quatre protested; he closed his eyes, face crumpling as he curled in on himself. "I don't want to. I don't want them to..." He grew quiet, and the hallway was silent but for his rasping breaths. Then, after a long pause, he stirred, saying so softly Trowa had to strain to make out the words: "What if they realize they don't need me?"
"What?" Trowa sat back on his heels, turning to face Quatre. "They wouldn't. You run the place."
"I tell people what to do," Quatre whispered into his hands. "Anyone can do that. I read reports, I listen to what the board says to do, I argue to try something else, they say no, and I agree to do what they say. A trained monkey could do my job. Shit, I only got my job because I was the one child of my father's born with a damned dick."
"Quatre," Trowa began, and then stopped. He didn't know what to say.
"I can run a business, but I don't have a college degree, so no one else would hire me. I can build a Gundam, but that's not exactly something you put on your resume for finding an engineering job. I can't handle the physical requirements for Preventers, damn fuckin' war injuries, and I can't even cook, so my other options are waiter and street person." Quatre lowered his hands to reveal terrified blue eyes. "I can't be sick, Trowa, I can't. What if they have someone else do my job and after two weeks or three weeks they figure out that person can do it so much better? This is the only thing I know how to do, that I can do. Just be my father's son. That's it."
"That's not it." Trowa shook his head. "You forgot orchestra violinist."
"Oh, that just brings in the cash," Quatre muttered, looking disgusted. "I mean a real job."
"That's a real job. So's waiting tables, or being a trapeze artist, or working as an administrator in Preventers which, in the throes of your self-pitying fever, you are conveniently forgetting does not require a college degree nor passing the physical requirements. Hell, even Heero had trouble with some of those." Trowa snorted; every annual exam, Heero made a point of reminding Duo at least six times, as well. Trowa came to his knees, and pulled gently at Quatre's arm to get him to sit up. "Come on, bed."
"Trowa, no, I told you already--"
"And I'm telling you that you have a choice. You can go down to your study," Trowa replied, in a flat voice, "and you can do whatever you think you need to keep your job that I'm telling you isn't at risk. Or you can go get in bed, and you can keep this relationship which I'm telling you now is at risk."
Quatre's eyebrows went up, and he gave Trowa a shocked look.
"I have put up with your sisters, your lawyers, your real estate agent, your building's superintendent, your accountants, your servants, even your fucking courier," Trowa listed, "for three fucking months, and I am in no mood to deal with this, too. You either get in bed, and I'll be here when my workday is done, or you go to work, and I'll be sleeping somewhere else. I'm not going to stand here and watch you work yourself into the ground, but if I can't stop you, I'm not going to stay here and do nothing. I'll just leave. I'd hate it, I won't lie, but I need a lover who respects his own limits, and you've hit yours." He couldn't look at Quatre, but stared at the green vines in the carpet, following them as they wound around the crimson lilies.
"Trowa." Quatre sighed deeply, but that catch in his throat halfway through signaled a coughing fit, and he flailed as he coughed, the spasms wracking his entire body -- until Trowa caught his hands and raised him up, supporting him while he coughed helplessly. When he finally caught his breath, he leaned against Trowa, hands clutching Trowa's shirt tightly. "I don't want to lose my job."
"If you do, we have my salary."
Quatre laughed, softly, but didn't say anything. "You do have better benefits, at least."
"And you'll get to use them once we're legal," Trowa pointed out. He refrained from pointing out all the other things circumscribed that he wouldn't be getting once they were married, but he could leave that for another time. First, he needed to get Quatre to bed.
And after two weeks, if Quatre stayed there, maybe the 'getting to bed' part could have something better at the end than just a cup of tea and a few cookies. But that would do, and Trowa kissed Quatre on the forehead and left with a heavy heart. Eliza met him in the foyer; she was just coming up from her apartment, and he paused in the act of putting on his scarf to let her know she had a smear of chocolate at the edge of her mouth. She flushed, wiped her mouth, and gave him a shy grin.
"Is he going to be okay?" She glanced up the stairs, then back at Trowa.
"He should be." Trowa fished out Heero's business card from his pocket, flipped it over, and wrote Duo's private cell on the back. "And if he gets out of bed for any reason other than the bathroom, and is out of bed for more than five minutes, call this number. That's--"
"Mister Maxwell," Eliza breathed, holding the card reverently. "Oh, I couldn't call him."
"Yes, you could. Boss's fiance's orders," Trowa replied. "Tell him to get his ass here on the double, because it'll be his turn to get Quatre back in bed. He's off work today, he can do it." He threw his red scarf around his neck, picked up his helmet and keys, and gave her a quick, teasing grin. "If you do have to call him, you can quote me on that. Just tell him, Trowa says get your candy ass over here and get your friend back into bed."
Eliza's eyes went wide, and she stared down at the card for a second before smiling happily. "Yes, sir!"
rating: PG-13 for mild cussing
pairing: 3+4
warning: arguments, crankiness
unbeta'd; will be catching any grammar/spelling issues before posting at GWA, but no major changes otherwise. (IOW: Natea, go for it!) Also, written for Okaasan, who is still dying without Windsor's pr0n. Windsor, wake up! Save Okaasan!
----
Trowa rubbed his forehead and thought of sixteen ways to kill Duo. Without Duo's assistance presenting the new training material guidelines to the Preventers' Board, Trowa was going to have to go it alone, and he wasn't entirely certain what Duo's notes meant. Someone set a cup of coffee down at the edge of Trowa's desk; he noticed enough that it was his mug, and he accepted it gratefully without even looking up. He couldn't really blame Duo for taking the day off, however bad the timing, and despite their frequent differences, Trowa could sense whatever had Duo so upset really had little to do with Quatre coming down with bronchitis. All of them had been shaken by the news that their scientists' immuno-boosters were wearing off, and that they might have to start lining up for annual flu shots with the rest of the world, but Trowa had expected Heero to take the adjustment the hardest. Instead, Duo had turned completely pale at the news -- not, in fact, now that Trowa considered it, at the news of their immune system degradation, but at Quatre's illness -- and soon after had left work, and hadn't returned. Then Heero had come in late the following morning, muttering something about a hangover to end all hangovers.
Damn it, now he was woolgathering. He didn't have time to do that; the meeting was at four, and it was already eleven. Between now and then, he had five other meetings. He could probably send a proxy to three of them, sit the first for an hour, meet with his proxy to review the other meetings, then catch the last hour of the second one, even if that didn't give him time for lunch. Five hours, and five three-hour meetings. Une was definitely trying to kill him, and he was going to kill Duo for not being there to share the suffering, even if it did seem like Duo was having an issue. He could have issues, but not on Trowa's time.
"Captain Barton," Wufei's grave voice announced himself.
Too formal by far to just be stopping by, and Trowa looked up with a frown. "Make it quick. And is Dave out in the hallway?"
"He's down by Yuy's." Wufei stepped into Trowa's office, momentarily blocking view of whomever was behind him. "I've escorted a visitor up to see you."
"A visitor? I don't--" Trowa's mouth fell open at the sight of Eliza, dressed in her work skirt and plain black shoes, but with a bright pink windbreaker that advertised the local women's billiards association. He motioned her to have a seat, but first things first; he glanced at Wufei with a nod. "Thanks. Could you send Dave this way?"
"Will do." Wufei gave Eliza a quick smile -- he knew her from his visits to their place, after all. As he left, Trowa could hear Wufei's sharp bark carrying over the burble of voices in the hallway. If Trowa wanted someone's attention, all he had to do was have Wufei or Heero do the calling. People always jumped at those men's strong tones.
"Mr. Barton, I mean, Captain," Eliza said. She didn't sit down. "I'm sorry to barge in on your work, but I couldn't get through the switchboard and your cell isn't answering. You need to come home."
"Quatre." Trowa set down his mug. "Is everything--"
"He's okay, really!" Eliza smiled, but she seemed frightened and almost near tears; the unhappiness looked completely wrong on her normally cheerful and easygoing features. "But...he won't go back to bed."
"Excuse me? When I left, he was sleeping." Quatre had complained bitterly when the doctor prescribed bed rest for two weeks, but he'd seemed to give in and had barely stirred when Trowa had left that morning. Trowa had given Montgomery the day off, since the most Quatre would need was tea every now and then, and a small sandwich at lunch. He certainly wouldn't be up for more than that.
"Yes, sir, but he got up about twenty minutes after you left. It might've been sooner, but I went to take him tea at twenty after, and his bed was empty. I found him in the study reviewing work papers." She had started wringing her hands. "I asked him if he were heading back to bed, and he said he would, in a little bit. An hour after that, I checked again, and he was on a conference call." She added in a soft whisper, "and he keeps coughing..."
Trowa stared down at the papers across his desk. He really, really did not need this right now. Dave appeared in the doorway, expression curious, and Trowa made a snap decision. He stood, scooping up notes for the first three meetings. "Dave, you're my proxy for AHT at eleven-thirty, IS at twelve hundred, and CMT at thirteen-thirty. Leave your notes on my desk, and make sure they're legible this time. I'll meet with you at fourteen hundred to catch up."
"Sure thing, Captain. You going to the GAA cross-department meeting at noon, then?"
"Oh, shit." Trowa had completely forgotten that one. "Is Beth going?"
"I think so."
"Good. Tell her she speaks for our department, and to keep her mouth shut and make absolutely no promises that we'll do anything." Trowa gathered up his coat, and threw his favorite red scarf around his neck, catching Eliza by the elbow and ushering her from the office. Over his shoulder he told Dave, "and if she can delegate off to someone else anything we're tasked, her next lunch is on me."
Dave pretended to pout. "Hey, what if I manage that at the CMT?"
"Bring me proof, and you'll get lunch." Trowa held up his badge. "I know a great cafeteria down stairs. Eliza, this way." He hit the button at the elevator, ignoring Dave's protested squawks down the hallway, and led Eliza back down to the main lobby, where he signed her out. "Did you take a cab?"
"Yes, sir. I called Mary in two hours early, and she couldn't get Mr. Winner to go to bed, either." She chewed her lower lip, and drew her coat a bit tighter around herself, hunched as if expecting Trowa to yell at her. "We don't want to make him angry, but...this morning he sounded almost fine, but when I left he was coughing so badly he could barely breathe. Mary wanted to call an ambulance, but I said we should find you first." She flushed, and smiled nervously. "I mean, you're his fiance. You should know."
"And I do appreciate that." Trowa wondered what kinds of call Quatre had been making; he often paced his way through phone meetings. Quatre saw no reason to sit still if he wasn't meeting face-to-face; he said pacing helped him think. He did not need to be pacing with bronchitis, early pneumonia, and a hundred-something degree temperature. "Damn it," Trowa muttered, and opened his wallet, handing Eliza a fifty. "Here. That should cover the cab costs, and get yourself some lunch." He recalled something Relena had said once, and smiled down at the petite girl. "With chocolate cake for dessert, my orders."
"But..."
"That's for putting up with your boss." Trowa waved her away, and threw a leg over his motorcycle, gunning up the engine before pulling on his helmet. "Go on. Take an extra-long lunch. I suspect you've more than earned it." She waved as she got into the cab, and Trowa turned the bike towards home. Six blocks wasn't far, but the day had been too pretty to miss a chance to ride; riding was certainly faster than trying to jog the mile and a half home. Five minutes later he was stepping into the ostentatious foyer and dropping his keys on that horrendous blond-wood table Quatre liked so much. He threw his coat and scarf on the chair, for once not bothering to hang any of it up, and strode down the main hallway until he came to Quatre's study door. Listening for a moment, he gritted his teeth; Quatre was currently lecturing someone.
Trowa pushed the door open, and Quatre broke off halfway through a word, then caught himself. "Carlson, hold on." He hit the mute button, leaning over the desk, and gave Trowa a puzzled look. "Is something wrong? Did something happen at work?" His eyes went wide. "Was there an accident?"
"No." Trowa strolled forward, hands in his pockets. "It looks like you're cruising for one, though. You're supposed to be in bed."
"How did you know I wasn't?"
"I had a little bird come to visit." Trowa reached out, placing his hand over the button. "You have twenty seconds to say your goodbyes and get off the phone."
Quatre's expression darkened. "Don't you tell me that. I'm in the middle of a meeting. I'll be done--"
"You were supposed to have Michael cancel all your meetings."
"He did, but this was an unexpected--"
"How'd you hear about it?"
"He called me and told me."
"I see." Trowa made a note to give Michael a call. Apparently the phrasing of Mister Winner is ill, cancel all meetings, give his regrets for any social engagements, and do not call him nor fax him nor email him with any work-related news had not been clear enough. Just what Trowa needed, another task, and this one to get it through a too-helpful assistant's thick skull that do-not-contact included smoke signals and drum calls. And homing pigeons.
Quatre exhaled noisily, which turned into a sudden bout of coughing. He doubled over the desk, face red from the effort, a dry hacking bark like the sound of sandpaper and wet rags at the same time. Struggling upright again, a muscle flickered in Quatre's jaw as he stared at Trowa's hand, still on the phone. "Take your hand away. This is important--"
"Ten seconds."
"Trowa!"
"I'm not kidding. You're sick. You should be in bed. If you do not rest, you may end up with double pneumonia, and then you will be in the hospital, and believe me, the nurses will not be fixing your favorite cookies as a bribe to get you to behave. They will strip you down and tie you to the bed and leave you there."
Quatre's mouth fell open.
Trowa smirked. "Five seconds."
"Fine, fine, move your damn hand." He hit the hold button. "Carlson-- yes. Yes. I have to go. Cancel that meeting this afternoon. Reschedule it for to--" Quatre glanced at Trowa, and grimaced. "Stall them. At least a week. There's no way we can go into a decision like that without all the facts, and I don't care what they're offering. Yes, I know. Send me the files and I'll look them over--" Quatre put his hand over the speaker, muffling it, and hissed, "I can do that in bed!"
"Hmph."
He scowled and finished up the conversation, disconnecting before he slowly sank down into the chair, looking around with a weary sigh. "I'm off the conference call. I promise I'll just read, then, okay?"
"In bed."
Quatre's look was both wheedling and oddly seductive, despite the slight croaking edge to his voice. "Are you going to stay there with me?"
Trowa arched a single eyebrow.
"You're no fun." Quatre waved him away, dismissively. "Sorry you ran all the way here from work. I don't know what Mary or Eliza told you, but I'm not going overboard. I am taking it easy--"
"Easy means in bed, sleeping."
"I was bored." Now Quatre just sounded petulant.
"I heard you were up and in your office within twenty minutes of me leaving," Trowa noted. "I thought it took longer for you to get bored. In fact, on weekends you've been known to sleep in until nine."
"I have work to do."
"You have resting to do."
"Later."
"Now."
"I'm not going to argue with you!" Quatre's raised voice ended in a fist pounded on the desk as he bent over in the chair, caught in another vicious fit of coughing. Trowa folded his arms; he figured the coughing was demonstration enough of Quatre's stupidity. After a moment, Quatre sat up straighter, wiping his mouth with long, delicate fingers, and he drew a folder toward him as he pulled his robe tighter and squared his shoulders. "You should get back to work. I'm sorry you came over here for nothing, but--"
"You shouldn't get back to work." Trowa didn't fight the rising tide of annoyance. He'd put up with all sorts of shit from Quatre's family in the previous two months, an increased work load that Une insisted was proof of her faith in him, a team that was half-rookies and half-former Alliance officers and getting everyone to work together had been somewhere on the level of getting an elephant to walk a tightrope, and he really did not need Quatre ending up in the hospital, too. Trowa could only take so much. He caught the edge of the folder and slamming it shut, then yanked it away from Quatre. "You are going back to bed, now."
Quatre took a deep breath, clenching his fists as another coughing fit loomed. "Trowa, I'm warning you--"
"Your doctor warned you, too. Bed. NOW."
"No."
Trowa shook his head. "This is not up for negotiation."
"Everything's negotiable," Quatre replied, and suddenly he sounded rather bitter. He pulled away when Trowa made a grab for him, and Trowa snorted, coming around the desk to catch Quatre's arm and yank him to his feet. "Trowa--"
"Shut up. Bed. I don't have time for this," Trowa growled. "You're being a child!"
"I don't have time to be a child!" Quatre struggled against Trowa's hold, squinting as if the lights hurt, and he began coughing again, then his breath caught, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he sank like a ton of rocks in Trowa's instinctive grab.
"Shit, Quatre--" Trowa took a second to calm himself, then checked Quatre's vital signs, realizing quickly that between the fever and the sudden rise, Quatre's blood pressure must've spiked.
It wasn't the most graceful move Trowa had ever done, but somehow he supported Quatre with one hand, twisted, pulled Quatre toward him, and the next thing he knew, he had all two hundred pounds of Quatre leaning against his back. Fumbling for Quatre's legs, he bent, shifted their weights forward, and came upright. Quatre moaned, then coughed against his neck, and Trowa staggered for a step before gaining his balance. At the study door, he kicked with one foot to open the door wider, took a deep breath, and carried Quatre down the hallway to the small elevator. It was supposed to be mostly for transporting awkward furniture or a lot of luggage, but the two of them wouldn't hit its maximum weight. He hoped. It was a tight squeeze, but he punched the doors closed, and they covered the thirty feet between floors with a soft whisper of machinery and the loud rasp of Quatre's labored breathing.
Halfway down the hallway, Quatre stirred, then struggled, and Trowa nearly fell when Quatre pulled his weight back. But he let go instead, and Quatre tumbled to the floor, as Trowa fell forward onto his knees.
"Damn you, I was working," Quatre muttered, and curled over, coughing with one hand over his mouth.
"You can't do this," Trowa said, hands fisting in the carpet. "You're only going to make yourself sicker. If that's what you want, fine, I won't stop you, but I'm not helping you." He took a deep breath. "And I won't be here while you do it, either. If anything happens to you, it'd be the end of me, too. Can't you see that?" He pounded with a fist on the fine woven carpet, vaguely aware his fist was smashing a ruby-red lily pattern. "You're sick, really sick, and you need to rest. If you went into the hospital and left me here... Damn it, Quatre, I've watched you lie there without moving before, and I don't want to go through that again!"
Quatre's only answer was a soft muffled coughing, though it sounded like he was trying hard to stifle it. Too watery and thick, it grated Trowa's nerves; it sounded too much like seven years ago, that painful progress of helping Quatre from the dying Barge and back to the Peacemillion. Those long moments of listening to the bloody catch in Quatre's breathing as Trowa piloted Heavyarms, carrying Sandrock, holding Quatre against his heart, and every cough brought it all back again, and he just couldn't breathe, he felt panic slipping up behind him, and why the hell wouldn't Quatre just take care of himself? Why did he have to--
"Trowa," Quatre whispered, and Trowa turned to see Quatre on his side, curled up, one hand reaching for Trowa's ankle. "I'm sorry. I want to get well for you, and I promise you, it'll never be as bad as it was. No holes in me yet, right?" He smiled, weakly; Trowa couldn't return the expression. "But I have to get back to work. I can't leave it for two weeks."
"You don't have a choice."
"I have to!"
"No, you don't!"
Quatre let go of Trowa's ankle, fingers curling into a fist, and he glowered, blue eyes dark in the hallway's soft lighting. "If you couldn't be at work for two weeks, you'd be beside yourself worrying about whether things are destructing--"
"No, I wouldn't," Trowa snapped, and he continued to brace himself on all fours. He feared if he got up, he'd start walking, say fuck this shit and walk out that door, and he wouldn't come back. So much goddamn shit, all the time, and now this. He couldn't take any more. Not one more single thing. "That's why I've got Heero and Wufei as my back-ups."
"Well, I'm not that lucky! I don't have a Heero or a Wufei," Quatre retorted, bristling.
"You have twenty-nine sisters, of whom seventeen are involved with the business to some capacity." Trowa knew every single one of them by name, now; with the exception of Jasmine, the rest had made it perfectly clear to him just where he stood when it came to their interest, the business, the family, the wealth, and Quatre: at the very end of the damn line. "Call one of them! They love the business so much, let them fuckin' run it. You've got bronchitis, or did you miss that memo?"
"I didn't! I don't want to call them," Quatre protested; he closed his eyes, face crumpling as he curled in on himself. "I don't want to. I don't want them to..." He grew quiet, and the hallway was silent but for his rasping breaths. Then, after a long pause, he stirred, saying so softly Trowa had to strain to make out the words: "What if they realize they don't need me?"
"What?" Trowa sat back on his heels, turning to face Quatre. "They wouldn't. You run the place."
"I tell people what to do," Quatre whispered into his hands. "Anyone can do that. I read reports, I listen to what the board says to do, I argue to try something else, they say no, and I agree to do what they say. A trained monkey could do my job. Shit, I only got my job because I was the one child of my father's born with a damned dick."
"Quatre," Trowa began, and then stopped. He didn't know what to say.
"I can run a business, but I don't have a college degree, so no one else would hire me. I can build a Gundam, but that's not exactly something you put on your resume for finding an engineering job. I can't handle the physical requirements for Preventers, damn fuckin' war injuries, and I can't even cook, so my other options are waiter and street person." Quatre lowered his hands to reveal terrified blue eyes. "I can't be sick, Trowa, I can't. What if they have someone else do my job and after two weeks or three weeks they figure out that person can do it so much better? This is the only thing I know how to do, that I can do. Just be my father's son. That's it."
"That's not it." Trowa shook his head. "You forgot orchestra violinist."
"Oh, that just brings in the cash," Quatre muttered, looking disgusted. "I mean a real job."
"That's a real job. So's waiting tables, or being a trapeze artist, or working as an administrator in Preventers which, in the throes of your self-pitying fever, you are conveniently forgetting does not require a college degree nor passing the physical requirements. Hell, even Heero had trouble with some of those." Trowa snorted; every annual exam, Heero made a point of reminding Duo at least six times, as well. Trowa came to his knees, and pulled gently at Quatre's arm to get him to sit up. "Come on, bed."
"Trowa, no, I told you already--"
"And I'm telling you that you have a choice. You can go down to your study," Trowa replied, in a flat voice, "and you can do whatever you think you need to keep your job that I'm telling you isn't at risk. Or you can go get in bed, and you can keep this relationship which I'm telling you now is at risk."
Quatre's eyebrows went up, and he gave Trowa a shocked look.
"I have put up with your sisters, your lawyers, your real estate agent, your building's superintendent, your accountants, your servants, even your fucking courier," Trowa listed, "for three fucking months, and I am in no mood to deal with this, too. You either get in bed, and I'll be here when my workday is done, or you go to work, and I'll be sleeping somewhere else. I'm not going to stand here and watch you work yourself into the ground, but if I can't stop you, I'm not going to stay here and do nothing. I'll just leave. I'd hate it, I won't lie, but I need a lover who respects his own limits, and you've hit yours." He couldn't look at Quatre, but stared at the green vines in the carpet, following them as they wound around the crimson lilies.
"Trowa." Quatre sighed deeply, but that catch in his throat halfway through signaled a coughing fit, and he flailed as he coughed, the spasms wracking his entire body -- until Trowa caught his hands and raised him up, supporting him while he coughed helplessly. When he finally caught his breath, he leaned against Trowa, hands clutching Trowa's shirt tightly. "I don't want to lose my job."
"If you do, we have my salary."
Quatre laughed, softly, but didn't say anything. "You do have better benefits, at least."
"And you'll get to use them once we're legal," Trowa pointed out. He refrained from pointing out all the other things circumscribed that he wouldn't be getting once they were married, but he could leave that for another time. First, he needed to get Quatre to bed.
And after two weeks, if Quatre stayed there, maybe the 'getting to bed' part could have something better at the end than just a cup of tea and a few cookies. But that would do, and Trowa kissed Quatre on the forehead and left with a heavy heart. Eliza met him in the foyer; she was just coming up from her apartment, and he paused in the act of putting on his scarf to let her know she had a smear of chocolate at the edge of her mouth. She flushed, wiped her mouth, and gave him a shy grin.
"Is he going to be okay?" She glanced up the stairs, then back at Trowa.
"He should be." Trowa fished out Heero's business card from his pocket, flipped it over, and wrote Duo's private cell on the back. "And if he gets out of bed for any reason other than the bathroom, and is out of bed for more than five minutes, call this number. That's--"
"Mister Maxwell," Eliza breathed, holding the card reverently. "Oh, I couldn't call him."
"Yes, you could. Boss's fiance's orders," Trowa replied. "Tell him to get his ass here on the double, because it'll be his turn to get Quatre back in bed. He's off work today, he can do it." He threw his red scarf around his neck, picked up his helmet and keys, and gave her a quick, teasing grin. "If you do have to call him, you can quote me on that. Just tell him, Trowa says get your candy ass over here and get your friend back into bed."
Eliza's eyes went wide, and she stared down at the card for a second before smiling happily. "Yes, sir!"
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 1 Jan 2006 02:52 am (UTC)*coughs for good measure*
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Date: 1 Jan 2006 04:22 am (UTC)Hmm.
Wait, wait, any minute now. I'm sure I'll think of someone.
Uhm.
Hmm.
I'll get back to you on that.
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Date: 1 Jan 2006 03:12 am (UTC)Interesting take on Quatre's workaholic tendency too - the idea that it could be because he was scared that his sisters would think they didn't need him never crossed my mind, but when you explained it, it makes sense.
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Date: 1 Jan 2006 04:24 am (UTC)I've always thought that would make for some deep insecurities about just how safe his position really is.
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Date: 1 Jan 2006 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 1 Jan 2006 04:26 am (UTC)See my response to Triv, above. I'd retype in different words just for you, but I just smashed my thumb doing the last level of shelves, and now I just want to sit here and feel sorry for myself for a few minutes.
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Date: 2 Jan 2006 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2 Jan 2006 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 13 Jan 2006 12:44 pm (UTC)I LOVE Eliza. The girl rocks!
And y'know what? For all their insecurities... when I read this, I just keep finding myself thinking "this is what I think is a stable relationship". For some reason.
I love your work. And I kind of want Eliza to get a chance to talk to Duo, even if Quatre doesn't get out of bed. Poor girl deserves it. :D
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Date: 14 Jan 2006 01:26 am (UTC)Heh, Eliza and Duo, hunh. Mebbe in some other Coda, or maybe a Sweeter Than. We'll see!