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kaigouA long time ago -- uhm, about eighteen months ago, to be closer to accurate -- I had scoped out a WWWY 9... and here it finally is.
When We Were Young 9
rating: PG
pairing: 3/4
warnings: conflict is the focus, but this time, with snark!
"Why, Trowa, you clean up real nice."
The tease was a drawl, and from anyone else, Trowa might've needed just a bare second to remind himself that it wouldn't be good to deck one of Quatre's family. Iria, though, was in her own category. He smiled down at her, then jerked his head towards the nearest chair, where he could sit at eye-level with her rather than lean over, or worse, stare down at her.
"Nice shoes," she added, and laughed.
"You think?" He cast her a sideways smile, and leaned back to stretch out his legs, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I believe I can see my reflection in them."
"At least you're not using them to run around and look up people's skirts." She sipped her champagne, glancing around the ballroom, nodding to a few of her older sisters as they caught her eye.
Trowa waited for all of a half-minute. "I'll bite. Who did that?"
"Who do you think?" Her quick glance in his direction, then off again, was so much like Quatre, it was hard to believe they'd not met until he was fifteen. And her ability to keep a straight face while he sputtered and struggled to keep from spitting expensive champagne all over his lap was just as much a Quatre-trait, too. Perhaps it was a family thing. Iria finally took pity. "Some day you and I shall go for drinks, when I'm in the country and Quatre's busy."
"I'd like that," he said.
"Lovely. Have you ever eaten at--"
"Iria." Sister Number -- either Twenty-Two or Twenty-Three, given she looked about in her forties -- sailed up. Like Quatre and Iria, she had softly curling white-blonde hair, but hers seemed to have gone brassy gold with age. "Did you see Patrick go by here?"
"I don't think so." Iria leaned back, holding her hand out to Trowa, palm up. "Jessimine, have you met Trowa?"
Ah, Trowa realized, Sister Number Nineteen, and she hadn't aged so well. Quick math postulated Jessamine should only be about mid-thirties. But Jessamine just sniffed at him, although at least she looked at him long enough to do that before so patently snubbing him to look for her errant husband. Iria's brows came together, knuckles whitening on the champagne glass. It was for her, Trowa decided, that he had to say something; Iria was trying so hard to be the peacemaker, and make sure that Quatre's first time hosting Eid ul-Adha went smoothly. Still...
"Patrick," he said, musing. It brought Jessamine's attention back to him, sharply, but she smiled, if a bit distantly. "I'm sorry," he said, with a slight bow of his head. "Your family is quite large, and I'm still trying to get everyone straight in my head. Patrick... he's about your height, with red hair?"
"No." Jessamine's expression didn't change. "He's tall, with dark hair."
"Ah, my mistake. It was your third husband that had red hair." Trowa nodded, pleased, as though a mystery had been solved. "In that case, I'm sorry, I didn't see a tall man with dark hair go past."
Jessamine just stared at him. He stared right back, lips curled as he sipped the champagne, but he kept his eyes flat and hard. After another minute, she sniffed again, nodded to Iria, and sailed off. He didn't bother to watch her go.
"Trowa," Iria said, scandalized, but delighted.
"Mmm?" Past her, he could see Quatre breaking free of a covey of older women, all sisters by the looks of them, though there might be a few aunts and nieces hiding in the group. At least Quatre was now tall enough that he wasn't likely to be smothered under all of them, though from the looks they sent his back, a few might have been considering trying it, at least. Trowa caught Iria's hand and kissed it, smiling when she pretended to pop him on the forehead to keep him away. "I believe I must rescue someone." He motioned with his glass, vaguely, in Quatre's direction.
"Oh, dear," Iria sighed. "Do, and don't forget we have a lunch date." Her smile appeared, along with a charming dimple. "I'll bring pictures."
"I look forward to it." Trowa polished off his glass and handed it over to a waiter, meeting Quatre halfway. The lines on his lover's face were pronounced, despite the brilliant smile; the evening was clearly starting to wear on him. "Any chance you were catching me for a breather?" Trowa leaned over to whisper in Quatre's ear, under pretense of being heard over the music playing up on the ballroom's platform. "There's a broom closet with our name on it."
"There's a bedroom with our name on it," Quatre replied, wry. "We're not seventeen. We don't need to--"
"A bedroom?" Trowa started. He'd only just arrived that afternoon, straight off a case, and the hotel had somewhat stiffly informed him that his reservations were for a single room. Not even a suite. He'd used the gym to change and shave, and left his suitcases with the front desk, but in the madness of over two hundred relatives like some bizarre blond-gene experiment, he'd barely seen Quatre, let alone had a chance to mention it. "Does it have a--"
"Loreia," Quatre said, just loudly enough to make it seem like he spoke to be heard, rather than cutting Trowa off. "I'm glad you could make it." He kissed her on both cheeks, then introduced Trowa.
"Pleasure," Trowa said, gravely -- racking his brains. Oh, right, Loreia was two ahead of Iria -- Quatre's parents must have started running out of variants by that time, with the last four daughters all having -ia at the end. That made Loreia... Sister Number Twenty-Seven, he thought. She didn't look much older than Quatre. "You came from the outer ring?"
"Yes, a mad dash," she replied, too busy looking around at her sisters to pay Trowa much attention. Most of her words were for Quatre's benefit, a continuing stream of news about his latest niece and nephew.
A twinset, Trowa thought. He contemplated making a snarky comment about that being a type of women's clothing, but that'd only get him accused of being like Duo. He snagged another glass of champagne instead, and nodded whenever Loreia looked his way, as if he were as intrigued by diapers and children on private shuttles as Quatre was pretending to be. At least Trowa hoped it was pretending. He wasn't sure about children, to be honest. Noisy, hyperactive, and the mere thought of a mini-Duo made Trowa's hair stand on end. Not like the Winner family required any more children. What had Quatre's father intended, to populate an entire colony ring by himself? His self-amusement was interrupted when Quatre put a hand on his elbow, and Trowa returned his attention to the effort of politely greeting yet another sister. It was Sister Number Eleven; she'd been behind him in line at the hotel check-in.
"So you're Trowa Barton," she said, looking him up and down. "No relation, I take it."
He just smiled and shrugged, ignoring the flash of Quatre's frown, before it was smoothed over as Quatre changed the subject. Ambiguous comments were a lot easier to evade, compared to Sister Number Four, who'd expressed disappointment that he couldn't even claim to be a poor relation of the as-wealthy-as-the-Winners Barton family. Not that Sister Number Twenty-Five's reaction was much more enjoyable; she'd lectured Trowa for almost ten minutes on his 'murdering relations' and their determination to stay the top weapons-producing company despite the global arms limitations. When she either missed or ignored his protests, he'd finally just apologized. Satisfied, she'd returned to the buffet, arms linked with Sisters Eighteen and Twenty-Nine.
Another sister joined them, and Quatre bent over to welcome the daughter in tow, all of about five years old. She giggled and whispered to Quatre, who raised her up to his waist and jogged her up and down, then twirled her a little as though dancing. Trowa gave them a smile, then realized Eleven had paused, and the girl's mother was now talking to him. Sister Number... he couldn't remember. They were starting to run together, oiled into one massive Sister Mass by the application of too much champagne after a sixteen-hour trans-space flight.
"Pardon?" He said, bending his head closer, doing his best to appear polite. Quatre might appear to be focused on a pretty thing with bouncing curls, but his gaze was sharp when he'd pivot, foil-pricks along Trowa's skin. It didn't need to be said that Quatre expected him to behave; it was their first hosted holiday, even if Trowa's part in the planning stages had been sketchy, thanks to that Syndicate ring in South America.
"I said, are you participating in the feast?" She smiled, and it looked almost like Quatre's expression when particularly displeased but not about to play his hand. Trowa tensed instinctively, and wished he'd taken Wufei and Heero up on that offer to go get plastered at the Preventer's favorite bar. He wouldn't have to have worn a monkey suit or bowtie, even. Cheap beer was never his thing, but given the present company, he was starting to think he could get into it, if this was his only alternative.
"So I'm told. But that's tomorrow night, correct?"
"Yes, of course," Sister Eleven said.
He racked his brains for her name, then looked over her shoulder to see Quatre mouthing a word at him. Trowa stifled a laugh, and winked at Quatre instead. "Do you have a role in the feast, Coraline?"
She looked startled at the name; if she was like Sister Twenty-One, she probably expected he had no idea who any of them were. "Yes, of course. My daughter is old enough this year to participate. She turned eleven last month."
Loreia said something about her own daughter, and the three turned to watch Quatre gliding out amongst the dancers. The little girl was doing her best to hold a formal dancing position despite being perched on Quatre's hip.
"She and Quatre seem quite taken with each other," Trowa observed.
Loreia sighed. "It's a pity they're related."
He blinked at the implications. "Your daughter is, hmm, five?"
"Four. She'll be five in a few months."
He racked his brains for a suitable conversation topic, that didn't involve potential incest -- let alone with a man who'd made it clear he preferred men over women, let alone with Trowa's man, damn it. He wasn't certain it really counted as a save when two more sisters joined them; the one he recognized as Sister Thirteen had a spouse in tow.
"Coraline, Loreia," the two women gushed, and much cheek-kissing ensued. Trowa tried for a polite smile-exchange with the man, a solidarity of men amongst too many blonde women, but the man barely noticed him. He looked exhausted and baffled; probably even more overwhelmed than Trowa.
Trowa sipped his champagne, and took a discreet step back, as though allowing them privacy. A few more steps, and he could make an escape. He could see Iria talking to someone on the other side of the ballroom -- someone with dark hair, so not a family member. That's what he needed, to meet more spouses; then he could hang out with the rest of the spouses while Sisters One through Twenty-Eight ran around and gossiped and backstabbed. Technically he wasn't a spouse yet, but five years together had to stand for something, and he could only hope the various spouses might be more welcoming when they weren't pinned to the lapel of yet another Winner sister, aunt, or cousin.
"Mister Barton," the older sister said -- that alone marked her as one of the Five Sisters, the first-borns who were just shy of double Quatre's age. At least that made it easier for him; he only needed to call each of them Miz Winner and that sufficed. "Coraline has been given to understand that you're participating in the feast?"
"Mmm." He kept his expression perfectly bland, seeing Quatre returning to the group, niece in hand.
"Ah," Sister Two said, as though she'd just discovered a delightful secret. "You must be representing the needy! Of course."
"It's part of the tradition," Sister Thirteen said to her spouse, who gave her a tight smile and nodded, eyes crinkled in what might have been concentration, but for the set of his shoulders, hunched and tense. Trowa refused to feel bad for the man. If he'd had any sense, he would've thrown himself at Iria instead of What's-Her-Face Number Thirteen; the last two kids in the batch seemed to be the only ones worth their salt, in Trowa's rapidly-solidifying opinion.
But Thirteen wasn't done. "It's barbaric, so we've changed a few things, because it's the thought that counts. We don't actually make the host slaughter the cow -- it's just the representation, you understand -- and then all day tomorrow, the entire thing is roasted. When it's done, our host -- this year, that's our little brother Quatre," she added a laugh, as though she'd known Quatre all her life, "will divide the cow into thirds. One part for the host, one part for relatives, and one part for those in need regardless of race, religion or..." Her voice chilled distinctly on the last word. "Creed."
To his credit, her husband looked disapproving at her tone. She shrugged at him, then turned those large blue eyes on Trowa. "I think it's just wonderful Quatre had someone here to accept that share. Usually we just package it up and send it over to the nearest shelter."
Trowa managed a smile. "I was greatly honored when Quatre asked me to lead the local Preventer's corps in accepting and distributing to the local orphanage on your family's behalf."
There was a half-beat of silence. Thirteen's husband looked startled, then impressed. Thirteen blinked, then frowned. Two and Coraline just stared at him. Loreia's gaze was blank and her brow furrowed, as though still trying to puzzle out the sentence.
Nostrils flaring, Two attempted a save. "Oh, that's right. I believe Iria mentioned you're a Patrol Officer."
He stifled a sigh, knowing that was coming. At least he had little doubt Iria'd said such a thing; she was astute about the sensitivity of titles. He suspected it came from finishing her medical internship three years ahead of her peers, and the grind of being called nurse despite a name tag that said surgeon in charge.
"Oh, my." Thirteen tittered. "We'll have to tell all the younger family members no speeding around the hotel then, now that we have a cop in our midst." She batted her eyelashes at Trowa.
Cathy had warned him that women had a thing for men in uniforms. He made a note of the peculiar look in Thirteen's eye, and resolved to wear his dress uniform not just for the feast role, but for the remainder of the four day event. Eyelash batting might be annoying in some circumstances, but he'd still take it over snide comments.
"Don't you have to have a college degree to be a cop?" Coraline asked Thirteen, in a whisper that wasn't really.
"Except that Trowa is a Special Agent," Quatre cut in, but softened the correction with a smile. He returned his niece to her mother, and came to stand at Trowa's elbow. "The duties and dangers -- and responsibilities -- are far greater."
His tone lost some of its warmth, and Trowa tensed. It'd be hard to say he behaved if he'd inadvertently caused Quatre's protective instincts to coming screaming to the fore. He only had movies and television to go by, but he doubted any but mercenaries would consider 'spilled blood' to be a hallmark of a successful get-together. Then again, Quatre's family was a bit on the mercenary side... still. He'd promised to at least try and get along.
"Most people get it confused," Trowa replied, with a light shrug. "The specifics can be obscure to the outsider." He leaned back to have another sip of champagne, subtly shifting his jacket just enough to pull it open and let reveal the side-arm in the shoulder holster. When he lowered his head, he knew at least Coraline and Sister Two had been paying close attention; Coraline looked distinctly green.
"You've got--that--" Her face was red, and not at all attractive.
When Quatre got angry, Trowa reflected, he got more handsome; clearly the genetics of test-tube babies was limited, because Coraline certainly hadn't inherited her brother's looks. Then again, Trowa admitted, he might be biased, but he did have to admit a bit of respect that she'd even said anything. Most people just got a cowed look and shut up -- until he caught the rest of her words.
"And you brought it here, you warmong--"
"Coraline," Quatre said, curt, but again with a smile. "It's not an option. Special Agent Barton is an officer of the ESUN, and as such is required to be ready to defend the peace at any time."
"No days off," Trowa added, with a wry smile.
He shared a glance with Quatre, who muttered, "don't get me started."
"Are you hungry?" Trowa turned to Quatre. "I can bring you something from the buffet." He was quite certain his lover had lived up to his habits and skipped breakfast and lunch, in the swirl of festivity preparations. And with Sister Two's claws sunk into Quatre's arm, the chances of disengaging Quatre long enough to force-feed him looked unlikely. Trowa caught Coraline's sniff, and didn't give a damn for Winner attitude that only servants do fetching and carrying.
"That'd be lovely, please," Quatre said, gaze softening -- then that gorgeous sky-blue went cool again as he turned to his elder sister.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," Trowa told Sister Thirteen, and her husband. He gave a slight nod to the little girl and her mother, then a wider -- if somewhat cold -- smile to Eleven. "It's good to meet the rest of the feast participants."
"Oh, you're doing something, too?" Sister Thirteen asked Coraline. "You didn't tell me, sweetie."
"Yes, Majoria and I," Coraline said.
"They're accepting the share for the family," Trowa told Thirteen's husband, as if continuing the mini-lesson Thirteen had begun. "While the other agents and I are distributing the food to the orphanages, Coraline and her daughter will be presenting the evening's feast for all the relatives." He did his best to mimic -- without being too obvious -- the cultured tones Une could adapt when forced to mingle with the Parliament. "So often people only give to poor strangers, and forget their poor relatives. It's a kindness in this festivities that I only wish were year-round, to extend hospitality to even the meanest."
He glanced over Thirteen's head to see Quatre giving him just a flash of a startled look; then Quatre took in the utter silence around the group. Trowa didn't wait. He just nodded to Coraline -- busy doing her best impression of an angry carp -- and strode off.
He'd fetch something for Quatre, but perhaps he'd have Iria deliver it. It was time he made the effort to seek out the spouses lurking in the corners and along the edges, and introduce himself. He was becoming resigned to always being an outsider, but at least he'd be an outsider with company.
When We Were Young 9
rating: PG
pairing: 3/4
warnings: conflict is the focus, but this time, with snark!
"Why, Trowa, you clean up real nice."
The tease was a drawl, and from anyone else, Trowa might've needed just a bare second to remind himself that it wouldn't be good to deck one of Quatre's family. Iria, though, was in her own category. He smiled down at her, then jerked his head towards the nearest chair, where he could sit at eye-level with her rather than lean over, or worse, stare down at her.
"Nice shoes," she added, and laughed.
"You think?" He cast her a sideways smile, and leaned back to stretch out his legs, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I believe I can see my reflection in them."
"At least you're not using them to run around and look up people's skirts." She sipped her champagne, glancing around the ballroom, nodding to a few of her older sisters as they caught her eye.
Trowa waited for all of a half-minute. "I'll bite. Who did that?"
"Who do you think?" Her quick glance in his direction, then off again, was so much like Quatre, it was hard to believe they'd not met until he was fifteen. And her ability to keep a straight face while he sputtered and struggled to keep from spitting expensive champagne all over his lap was just as much a Quatre-trait, too. Perhaps it was a family thing. Iria finally took pity. "Some day you and I shall go for drinks, when I'm in the country and Quatre's busy."
"I'd like that," he said.
"Lovely. Have you ever eaten at--"
"Iria." Sister Number -- either Twenty-Two or Twenty-Three, given she looked about in her forties -- sailed up. Like Quatre and Iria, she had softly curling white-blonde hair, but hers seemed to have gone brassy gold with age. "Did you see Patrick go by here?"
"I don't think so." Iria leaned back, holding her hand out to Trowa, palm up. "Jessimine, have you met Trowa?"
Ah, Trowa realized, Sister Number Nineteen, and she hadn't aged so well. Quick math postulated Jessamine should only be about mid-thirties. But Jessamine just sniffed at him, although at least she looked at him long enough to do that before so patently snubbing him to look for her errant husband. Iria's brows came together, knuckles whitening on the champagne glass. It was for her, Trowa decided, that he had to say something; Iria was trying so hard to be the peacemaker, and make sure that Quatre's first time hosting Eid ul-Adha went smoothly. Still...
"Patrick," he said, musing. It brought Jessamine's attention back to him, sharply, but she smiled, if a bit distantly. "I'm sorry," he said, with a slight bow of his head. "Your family is quite large, and I'm still trying to get everyone straight in my head. Patrick... he's about your height, with red hair?"
"No." Jessamine's expression didn't change. "He's tall, with dark hair."
"Ah, my mistake. It was your third husband that had red hair." Trowa nodded, pleased, as though a mystery had been solved. "In that case, I'm sorry, I didn't see a tall man with dark hair go past."
Jessamine just stared at him. He stared right back, lips curled as he sipped the champagne, but he kept his eyes flat and hard. After another minute, she sniffed again, nodded to Iria, and sailed off. He didn't bother to watch her go.
"Trowa," Iria said, scandalized, but delighted.
"Mmm?" Past her, he could see Quatre breaking free of a covey of older women, all sisters by the looks of them, though there might be a few aunts and nieces hiding in the group. At least Quatre was now tall enough that he wasn't likely to be smothered under all of them, though from the looks they sent his back, a few might have been considering trying it, at least. Trowa caught Iria's hand and kissed it, smiling when she pretended to pop him on the forehead to keep him away. "I believe I must rescue someone." He motioned with his glass, vaguely, in Quatre's direction.
"Oh, dear," Iria sighed. "Do, and don't forget we have a lunch date." Her smile appeared, along with a charming dimple. "I'll bring pictures."
"I look forward to it." Trowa polished off his glass and handed it over to a waiter, meeting Quatre halfway. The lines on his lover's face were pronounced, despite the brilliant smile; the evening was clearly starting to wear on him. "Any chance you were catching me for a breather?" Trowa leaned over to whisper in Quatre's ear, under pretense of being heard over the music playing up on the ballroom's platform. "There's a broom closet with our name on it."
"There's a bedroom with our name on it," Quatre replied, wry. "We're not seventeen. We don't need to--"
"A bedroom?" Trowa started. He'd only just arrived that afternoon, straight off a case, and the hotel had somewhat stiffly informed him that his reservations were for a single room. Not even a suite. He'd used the gym to change and shave, and left his suitcases with the front desk, but in the madness of over two hundred relatives like some bizarre blond-gene experiment, he'd barely seen Quatre, let alone had a chance to mention it. "Does it have a--"
"Loreia," Quatre said, just loudly enough to make it seem like he spoke to be heard, rather than cutting Trowa off. "I'm glad you could make it." He kissed her on both cheeks, then introduced Trowa.
"Pleasure," Trowa said, gravely -- racking his brains. Oh, right, Loreia was two ahead of Iria -- Quatre's parents must have started running out of variants by that time, with the last four daughters all having -ia at the end. That made Loreia... Sister Number Twenty-Seven, he thought. She didn't look much older than Quatre. "You came from the outer ring?"
"Yes, a mad dash," she replied, too busy looking around at her sisters to pay Trowa much attention. Most of her words were for Quatre's benefit, a continuing stream of news about his latest niece and nephew.
A twinset, Trowa thought. He contemplated making a snarky comment about that being a type of women's clothing, but that'd only get him accused of being like Duo. He snagged another glass of champagne instead, and nodded whenever Loreia looked his way, as if he were as intrigued by diapers and children on private shuttles as Quatre was pretending to be. At least Trowa hoped it was pretending. He wasn't sure about children, to be honest. Noisy, hyperactive, and the mere thought of a mini-Duo made Trowa's hair stand on end. Not like the Winner family required any more children. What had Quatre's father intended, to populate an entire colony ring by himself? His self-amusement was interrupted when Quatre put a hand on his elbow, and Trowa returned his attention to the effort of politely greeting yet another sister. It was Sister Number Eleven; she'd been behind him in line at the hotel check-in.
"So you're Trowa Barton," she said, looking him up and down. "No relation, I take it."
He just smiled and shrugged, ignoring the flash of Quatre's frown, before it was smoothed over as Quatre changed the subject. Ambiguous comments were a lot easier to evade, compared to Sister Number Four, who'd expressed disappointment that he couldn't even claim to be a poor relation of the as-wealthy-as-the-Winners Barton family. Not that Sister Number Twenty-Five's reaction was much more enjoyable; she'd lectured Trowa for almost ten minutes on his 'murdering relations' and their determination to stay the top weapons-producing company despite the global arms limitations. When she either missed or ignored his protests, he'd finally just apologized. Satisfied, she'd returned to the buffet, arms linked with Sisters Eighteen and Twenty-Nine.
Another sister joined them, and Quatre bent over to welcome the daughter in tow, all of about five years old. She giggled and whispered to Quatre, who raised her up to his waist and jogged her up and down, then twirled her a little as though dancing. Trowa gave them a smile, then realized Eleven had paused, and the girl's mother was now talking to him. Sister Number... he couldn't remember. They were starting to run together, oiled into one massive Sister Mass by the application of too much champagne after a sixteen-hour trans-space flight.
"Pardon?" He said, bending his head closer, doing his best to appear polite. Quatre might appear to be focused on a pretty thing with bouncing curls, but his gaze was sharp when he'd pivot, foil-pricks along Trowa's skin. It didn't need to be said that Quatre expected him to behave; it was their first hosted holiday, even if Trowa's part in the planning stages had been sketchy, thanks to that Syndicate ring in South America.
"I said, are you participating in the feast?" She smiled, and it looked almost like Quatre's expression when particularly displeased but not about to play his hand. Trowa tensed instinctively, and wished he'd taken Wufei and Heero up on that offer to go get plastered at the Preventer's favorite bar. He wouldn't have to have worn a monkey suit or bowtie, even. Cheap beer was never his thing, but given the present company, he was starting to think he could get into it, if this was his only alternative.
"So I'm told. But that's tomorrow night, correct?"
"Yes, of course," Sister Eleven said.
He racked his brains for her name, then looked over her shoulder to see Quatre mouthing a word at him. Trowa stifled a laugh, and winked at Quatre instead. "Do you have a role in the feast, Coraline?"
She looked startled at the name; if she was like Sister Twenty-One, she probably expected he had no idea who any of them were. "Yes, of course. My daughter is old enough this year to participate. She turned eleven last month."
Loreia said something about her own daughter, and the three turned to watch Quatre gliding out amongst the dancers. The little girl was doing her best to hold a formal dancing position despite being perched on Quatre's hip.
"She and Quatre seem quite taken with each other," Trowa observed.
Loreia sighed. "It's a pity they're related."
He blinked at the implications. "Your daughter is, hmm, five?"
"Four. She'll be five in a few months."
He racked his brains for a suitable conversation topic, that didn't involve potential incest -- let alone with a man who'd made it clear he preferred men over women, let alone with Trowa's man, damn it. He wasn't certain it really counted as a save when two more sisters joined them; the one he recognized as Sister Thirteen had a spouse in tow.
"Coraline, Loreia," the two women gushed, and much cheek-kissing ensued. Trowa tried for a polite smile-exchange with the man, a solidarity of men amongst too many blonde women, but the man barely noticed him. He looked exhausted and baffled; probably even more overwhelmed than Trowa.
Trowa sipped his champagne, and took a discreet step back, as though allowing them privacy. A few more steps, and he could make an escape. He could see Iria talking to someone on the other side of the ballroom -- someone with dark hair, so not a family member. That's what he needed, to meet more spouses; then he could hang out with the rest of the spouses while Sisters One through Twenty-Eight ran around and gossiped and backstabbed. Technically he wasn't a spouse yet, but five years together had to stand for something, and he could only hope the various spouses might be more welcoming when they weren't pinned to the lapel of yet another Winner sister, aunt, or cousin.
"Mister Barton," the older sister said -- that alone marked her as one of the Five Sisters, the first-borns who were just shy of double Quatre's age. At least that made it easier for him; he only needed to call each of them Miz Winner and that sufficed. "Coraline has been given to understand that you're participating in the feast?"
"Mmm." He kept his expression perfectly bland, seeing Quatre returning to the group, niece in hand.
"Ah," Sister Two said, as though she'd just discovered a delightful secret. "You must be representing the needy! Of course."
"It's part of the tradition," Sister Thirteen said to her spouse, who gave her a tight smile and nodded, eyes crinkled in what might have been concentration, but for the set of his shoulders, hunched and tense. Trowa refused to feel bad for the man. If he'd had any sense, he would've thrown himself at Iria instead of What's-Her-Face Number Thirteen; the last two kids in the batch seemed to be the only ones worth their salt, in Trowa's rapidly-solidifying opinion.
But Thirteen wasn't done. "It's barbaric, so we've changed a few things, because it's the thought that counts. We don't actually make the host slaughter the cow -- it's just the representation, you understand -- and then all day tomorrow, the entire thing is roasted. When it's done, our host -- this year, that's our little brother Quatre," she added a laugh, as though she'd known Quatre all her life, "will divide the cow into thirds. One part for the host, one part for relatives, and one part for those in need regardless of race, religion or..." Her voice chilled distinctly on the last word. "Creed."
To his credit, her husband looked disapproving at her tone. She shrugged at him, then turned those large blue eyes on Trowa. "I think it's just wonderful Quatre had someone here to accept that share. Usually we just package it up and send it over to the nearest shelter."
Trowa managed a smile. "I was greatly honored when Quatre asked me to lead the local Preventer's corps in accepting and distributing to the local orphanage on your family's behalf."
There was a half-beat of silence. Thirteen's husband looked startled, then impressed. Thirteen blinked, then frowned. Two and Coraline just stared at him. Loreia's gaze was blank and her brow furrowed, as though still trying to puzzle out the sentence.
Nostrils flaring, Two attempted a save. "Oh, that's right. I believe Iria mentioned you're a Patrol Officer."
He stifled a sigh, knowing that was coming. At least he had little doubt Iria'd said such a thing; she was astute about the sensitivity of titles. He suspected it came from finishing her medical internship three years ahead of her peers, and the grind of being called nurse despite a name tag that said surgeon in charge.
"Oh, my." Thirteen tittered. "We'll have to tell all the younger family members no speeding around the hotel then, now that we have a cop in our midst." She batted her eyelashes at Trowa.
Cathy had warned him that women had a thing for men in uniforms. He made a note of the peculiar look in Thirteen's eye, and resolved to wear his dress uniform not just for the feast role, but for the remainder of the four day event. Eyelash batting might be annoying in some circumstances, but he'd still take it over snide comments.
"Don't you have to have a college degree to be a cop?" Coraline asked Thirteen, in a whisper that wasn't really.
"Except that Trowa is a Special Agent," Quatre cut in, but softened the correction with a smile. He returned his niece to her mother, and came to stand at Trowa's elbow. "The duties and dangers -- and responsibilities -- are far greater."
His tone lost some of its warmth, and Trowa tensed. It'd be hard to say he behaved if he'd inadvertently caused Quatre's protective instincts to coming screaming to the fore. He only had movies and television to go by, but he doubted any but mercenaries would consider 'spilled blood' to be a hallmark of a successful get-together. Then again, Quatre's family was a bit on the mercenary side... still. He'd promised to at least try and get along.
"Most people get it confused," Trowa replied, with a light shrug. "The specifics can be obscure to the outsider." He leaned back to have another sip of champagne, subtly shifting his jacket just enough to pull it open and let reveal the side-arm in the shoulder holster. When he lowered his head, he knew at least Coraline and Sister Two had been paying close attention; Coraline looked distinctly green.
"You've got--that--" Her face was red, and not at all attractive.
When Quatre got angry, Trowa reflected, he got more handsome; clearly the genetics of test-tube babies was limited, because Coraline certainly hadn't inherited her brother's looks. Then again, Trowa admitted, he might be biased, but he did have to admit a bit of respect that she'd even said anything. Most people just got a cowed look and shut up -- until he caught the rest of her words.
"And you brought it here, you warmong--"
"Coraline," Quatre said, curt, but again with a smile. "It's not an option. Special Agent Barton is an officer of the ESUN, and as such is required to be ready to defend the peace at any time."
"No days off," Trowa added, with a wry smile.
He shared a glance with Quatre, who muttered, "don't get me started."
"Are you hungry?" Trowa turned to Quatre. "I can bring you something from the buffet." He was quite certain his lover had lived up to his habits and skipped breakfast and lunch, in the swirl of festivity preparations. And with Sister Two's claws sunk into Quatre's arm, the chances of disengaging Quatre long enough to force-feed him looked unlikely. Trowa caught Coraline's sniff, and didn't give a damn for Winner attitude that only servants do fetching and carrying.
"That'd be lovely, please," Quatre said, gaze softening -- then that gorgeous sky-blue went cool again as he turned to his elder sister.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," Trowa told Sister Thirteen, and her husband. He gave a slight nod to the little girl and her mother, then a wider -- if somewhat cold -- smile to Eleven. "It's good to meet the rest of the feast participants."
"Oh, you're doing something, too?" Sister Thirteen asked Coraline. "You didn't tell me, sweetie."
"Yes, Majoria and I," Coraline said.
"They're accepting the share for the family," Trowa told Thirteen's husband, as if continuing the mini-lesson Thirteen had begun. "While the other agents and I are distributing the food to the orphanages, Coraline and her daughter will be presenting the evening's feast for all the relatives." He did his best to mimic -- without being too obvious -- the cultured tones Une could adapt when forced to mingle with the Parliament. "So often people only give to poor strangers, and forget their poor relatives. It's a kindness in this festivities that I only wish were year-round, to extend hospitality to even the meanest."
He glanced over Thirteen's head to see Quatre giving him just a flash of a startled look; then Quatre took in the utter silence around the group. Trowa didn't wait. He just nodded to Coraline -- busy doing her best impression of an angry carp -- and strode off.
He'd fetch something for Quatre, but perhaps he'd have Iria deliver it. It was time he made the effort to seek out the spouses lurking in the corners and along the edges, and introduce himself. He was becoming resigned to always being an outsider, but at least he'd be an outsider with company.
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no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 05:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 05:24 am (UTC)It's really strange, and annoying.
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Date: 10 Jul 2007 07:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 06:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 07:18 am (UTC)I also feel scarily reminded of the last family gathering I attended, even though there's a lot less money and blonde hair and a lot more annoying neighbourhood gossip I don't understand.
:) Great to see some more of your writing!
no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 06:27 pm (UTC)*headdesk*
Please, people, it's not funny to torture the newest member of the family! You'll only wreck things for years to come!
(I honestly don't think that cousin ever forgave me for the attempted conversation on cars. Sigh.)
no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 07:32 am (UTC)Why are there two cuts on the post ?
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Date: 10 Jul 2007 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10 Jul 2007 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 11 Jul 2007 03:00 am (UTC)