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kaigou[Someone out there is to blame for this, I just know it.]
As We Grow Old I
Quatre's Days
rating: PG-13 for language
pairing: 3/4
(warning? only that this is a long one...)
...being yet another bad day in the life -- though more accurately, this is an entire collection in and of itself. It just occured to me, is all, that the Other Half goes through plenty as well.
Quatre rolled over and squinted at the clock. Two-seventeen in the morning; it clicked to eighteen as he watched. He rolled back over again, grabbing Trowa's half of the blankets and carrying with them, but the act held none of its usual comfort of swaddling himself up like a man-sized caterpillar gone into hibernation. Finally he threw back the covers, grabbed his dressing gown, and went in search of something to drink.
Three-forty-nine, and the front door didn't open. Nor were messages waiting for him on his voicemail. No email. Not even smoke signals. Quatre stood on the apartment's veranda, looked out across Brussel's skyline, and sipped his scotch. He could make one drink last nearly thirty minutes, if he worked at it, but watching the cars forty floors below wasn't exactly entrancing entertainment. He'd had no idea the streets could get that quiet, compared to the morning's rush hour. And no lone beam split the dark streets, a motorcycle's headlamp carving through the darkness to let him know Trowa had finished the case and was on his way home to safety.
Four-twenty-one.
Quatre went back to bed, and woke up to a hangover... and an empty bed.
Day two was a sullen and distracted affair. He broke down at lunch, and called into the family line. The Contact Agent promised to get back to him with any news. No word for three hours, and Quatre headed into the marketing meeting with a churning feeling in his gut. But his assistant knew to break the meeting if there was word of -- or better yet, from -- Trowa. The meeting came and went, and he returned to his office to find Michael had been away from his desk, and the agent had been redirected to the assistant for one of Quatre's sub-directors. Message dutifully noted, with few details -- unlike Michael's kind of message; the man knew Quatre didn't like vague, and knew to grill as thoroughly, as for as long as, he could get away with.
Quatre stared at the message, disbelieving its succinctness. "Situation unchanged."
Eight years at WEI. That day was the sixth time that he'd lost his temper at work.
There was one benefit to having a large corner office, with thick walls and two or three fine woven carpets spread across the floor: the room felt hushed the rest of the time, but positively a sound booth for anyone feeling the sudden urge to shout in frustration and fury. Michael, to his credit -- and likely trained given he'd been there for times three, four, and five -- waited it out. When Quatre came to a stop facing the huge granite-topped desk, panting hard, he caught sight of Michael standing not far from the door, appearing to brush a fleck of dust off his jacket with a bored expression. It made Quatre feel petty for blaming Michael -- which was probably the purpose behind the otherwise rude gesture.
"Quatre," Michael said, and that, too, was unusual. "I can rearrange your meeting for four-thirty to tomorrow, and--"
"That won't be necessary." Quatre's inflection sounded flat to his own ears. He wondered how it sounded to Michael.
"It may be useful, nonetheless. That team only arrived an hour ago. With the traffic on the Forty-Fifth Street bridge picking up, they won't be in the best shape." It hid in Micheal's words, but years of working with the man had Quatre picking out the meaning easily: and neither are you. "I doubt they'd mind, and you could--"
"I'm not taking the afternoon off," Quatre ground out, and rounded the desk to half-spin and land in his chair. The seat pivoted back in a smooth motion and he sprawled, staring up at the ceiling. "I go home, and I'll--I'll--" He waved a hand. "Never mind."
"His last trip lasted two weeks," Michael reminded him, quietly. Again, so much unsaid: this reaction is overboard.
"That was not this one." Just as much unsaid came back in Quatre's tone; Michael didn't, and never would have, the clearance to know of Trowa's work. Hell, there were some things Trowa'd done in the past few years that he couldn't even tell Quatre. At least he'd checked in, when he could, though his calls came at odd hours, and were always blocked; the times he couldn't check in, the Contact Agent alert the families of any news: earlier end, later return, extended mission. Nothing too specific, just enough that families could plan -- or cancel -- around what was often the unexpected.
The final call, of course, was always from Trowa, telling Quatre he was on his way home. That wasn't just Trowa's policy, that was Preventers' policy. The stress was bad enough, for families; there was nothing to gain from denying agents the chance to tell their families, themselves, that the mission was complete.
It was just the waiting part that killed Quatre, every single time. Five days before, Trowa had left, promising he'd call in when he could; he'd been ambiguous about the destination and purpose, but that didn't necessarily indicate a security level. Early on in Trowa's career, they'd learned it was easier to leave out most details; that meant the truly dangerous missions didn't stand out for being large blanks. But five days, and not a word, and the Contact Agent's sole message amounts to situation unchanged -- from what? What was the point of telling someone, "the weather's the same," if you bloody well didn't know what the weather had been in the first place? Quatre had to stifle the sudden urge to run a global 'net search for all unnatural disasters and terrorist attacks.
"Sir?"
Quatre shook his head, and swiveled the chair to stare out at the blue sky. "Contact the visiting team. If they're truly that exhausted, tell them we can reschedule for a seven a.m. meeting, but that's their only option. The ten o'clock was hell to get organized, and I'm not moving it."
"Yes, sir." Michael paused at the door. "Shall I call the Contact Agent again, for you?"
"No." Quatre tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. If the team wanted to go ahead and meet, he'd have only a half-hour to get himself out of Worried Husband Mode and back into Hardass Director Mode. "It'll do." Just before the door swished fully shut, he murmured, "thanks, Michael."
"Sure thing, boss," Michael whispered, and pulled the door closed.
A long deep breath, and Quatre rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Most of the time, three or four days of radio silence didn't bother him, too much. He was busy enough in his daily work that once or twice, despite a warning coming-home call, he'd gone right back into work and forgotten it completely -- only to feel rather guilty six or nine hours later to find himself buried in a book or movie and interrupted by Trowa stumbling through the door, unshaven and exhausted. At least he'd had the self-control to bite back on the instinctive "what? you're home already?" reaction. Hardly what anyone would want to hear right through the door.
His fingers itched to pick up the phone and call Relena, but he'd sworn to himself a long time ago that he'd never put her in that position. It was questionable enough, in the eyes of many, that the two had retained their friendship for so long. The consumate businessman, and the lifelong politician; the last thing either needed was even a whisper that Quatre had asked her to bend ears and get him word of his wayward husband. No, not wayward, just... dedicated. Driven. Purposeful. Skilled. Deadly.
And... if -- Quatre didn't want to say the word, even think it, so in his head, he scratched out the unvoiced word and replaced it with hurt -- anything were to happen, for too many of the missions, Quatre would never know the specifics. Could never know. Hell, Relena probably wouldn't even know. Une might, and Noin. Neither woman would ever tell him, no more than they'd tell anyone else.
He'd get a personal visit, of course, in dress uniform, with the regretful news: accidents happen. It would never be 'in the line of fire' let alone a designation of friendly or unfriendly. There would never be enough to identify where, or when, or how. And, too, it was a good chance that the only body coming home to him wouldn't even be in a body bag. They'd deliver him an urn, already cremated: if injuries or cause of death raised questions, that could be as good as blaring out all the details with a bullhorn.
The phone rang. Quatre didn't even look, just fumbled for it with a hand.
"Sir, I have Agent Chang on line two for you." Michael paused. "Also, the team will meet with you at 7, tomorrow morning. I'm ordering breakfast."
"Thanks. Okay." Quatre frowned, then, abruptly nervous that Michael might have forgotten the standing instructions and used Wufei's name or title on the phone line. Before he could ask, the call was patched over. "Hello?"
"Hello." Wufei sounded drained, voice slurred. "Checking in."
"You alright?"
Wufei snorted.
"I'll rephrase. Are you in one piece?"
"Passably so."
Quatre rolled his eyes. Wufei could be bleeding out his eyes and have one leg falling off, and he'd insist it was nothing. At least Heero wouldn't insist it was nothing; Heero would state flatly every injury, and then look at you like you'd grown two heads if you so much as implied that this was reason for him to sit down, maybe get something to patch that big gaping hole in his chest. Sometimes Quatre wondered how Duo put up with it -- oh, right, Duo put up with it because more often than not, it was his team coming out as Heero's went in.
"Stop worrying."
The defensive reaction was automatic. "I'm not." He even tried for a little bit of smile in his voice. "But it's still good to hear you're alive."
"Yes, well." The semi-coherent grunt could have been disbelief in the truth of Quatre's good cheer; it could have been subtle disagreement as to the team's status as alive. Another long pause, and Wufei added, "Not everyone's clear. We rendez-vous in four days."
Which could only mean Trowa's team remained. The most Quatre had ever gathered, Trowa's team was either first in, or last out; it was common knowledge that the Preventers allowed no team to do both on the same mission. So he must be doing clean-up -- escorting the prisoners, or ferrying the smuggled goods to a destruction depot, or just taking a more roundabout departure pattern with his team to throw any trackers off the earlier departures. Quatre's extensive reading, personal experience, and just plain imagination could come up with a lot of scenarios. But all of them -- with a great deal of steadfast energy put into it -- ended with Trowa returning home safe and sound.
Quatre checked the phone's readout, out of habit. "Two-twenty," he reminded Wufei. "Thanks for letting me know."
"Of course." Wufei hung up without further word.
Late that night, Quatre lay across the bed on his side, staring at Trowa's side of the room. Years before, after Trowa moved in with him, Quatre had returned from a business trip to find Trowa sleeping on Quatre's side of the bed. He'd tried it in return when Trowa was away, to see if he could sleep better, and he did. Strange, how those things worked. It was nothing so romantic as inhaling Trowa's scent; as an agent often doing infiltration, Trowa's shampoo, soap, and detergent were all neutral, non-remarkable brands with little to no distinctive smell, and he never wore cologne. The man himself barely had a natural scent except the temporary accumulation from a day in the garage or at the range: motor oil, solvent, cordite, gun oil. No, it was the simpler act of being in Trowa's space, keeping it warm for him.
Two more nights, and Quatre stopped sleeping. He lay awake, staring at the windows, willing Trowa to come home in one piece, come home sane, come home healthy, come home.
Just come home.
The first few missions that required Trowa say nothing, Quatre had begun noting discrepancies, catching the tiniest of overheard comments, paying attention to subtle remarks and gestures, and put a few things together. He knew from his own experience with technologies that not all call-tracing systems were equal; Preventers' system probably rivaled the Winner internal tracing system, though WEI had only ever used it -- or so his sister in charge of security insisted -- to prevent and apprehend corporate thieves. Still, those top-of-the-line systems still required at least fifty seconds to track down a source, assuming the destination was known. Double the time if the call was intercepted via short-wave, like a cell phone. Quatre had naturally researched the technology further, justifying it as part of his need to be assured of his lover's safety and therefore of no importance to mention to Trowa directly. The smaller the country, the less resources, the more likely the available technology would require a full minute, two minutes, three minutes.
So Wufei disconnecting shy of three minutes meant he was in a location where the opposing forces were either a less-developed country or less-powerful syndicate. The only other allowance for more than two minutes would be when caller and callee were both in deserted or rural areas, with little risk of nearby ears. Quatre knew his internal lines at WEI qualified, at least to the extent that they were as unimpeachable -- if not more so -- than the secure Preventer lines. While he refused on principle to hit the 'net for global or colonial hotspots, at least he could narrow the field down to the third-world areas, most likely. Then again, those areas were the kind most prone to sudden, extreme violence and upheaval.
Sometimes, a little bit of knowledge, he knew, was dangerous. But he hurt no others with this closely-held awareness, only himself.
Three nights passed, two days. He said nothing when Michael surreptitiously rearranged his entire schedule, leaving Quatre with nothing more strenuous than staying in his office all day and catching up on the emails that piled up on a regular basis. He'd nod off over his keyboard, then jerk himself awake, back from the brink of a nightmare in which Wufei and Duo presented him with a little metal box labeled "No Name Known."
Always the same nightmare, pushing Quatre to the edge of screaming: but I did know him, and I had my own name for him, and this is not him.
If he had to come bolt upright in half-terror from the image and half-relief at escaping into awakeness, at least he didn't have to do it where anyone else could see.
Nine days since Trowa had walked out the door, beat-up duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Same as every time, Quatre woke at the phone ringing, but only enough to determine whether Trowa was staying in bed or getting up. Trowa had murmured something, then packed with all the efficiency of years of practice in living -- Trowa called it 'light', Quatre called it 'with little' -- but the end result was the same. There was never reason to delay, and thus Quatre never had excuse to keep Trowa for a second longer. He even, sometimes, prided himself on letting Trowa go with only a quick kiss -- not even a jinxing 'good luck' or 'stay safe' or 'come home'. Some of the other agents complained bitterly when team-mates held them up because spouses or lovers wanted to indulge in long, drawn-out goodbyes. Quatre wasn't like those spouses. He respected Trowa's work, he admired it, and he knew it was of paramount importance in assuring the world's safety continued.
Except that sometimes, he really really hated it, too.
Yes, he was proud and pleased when Trowa had been promoted from General Agent to Special Agent -- or, in more colloquial terms, from First Lieutenant to Captain, given the ESUN's insistence on designating everyone and everything with standard GS-levels and military-styled titles. And when Trowa had come home with news he was up for another promotion, to Major -- or Special-Agent-in-Charge, if using the Preventers' Special Operations Division terms -- Quatre had been thrilled.
He didn't give a damn about the whispers swirling around him at social functions that it wasn't proper for men so young to advance so fast. Duo, Wufei, and Heero had all come up for promotion within a month, plus or minus, of Trowa, and Quatre's businessmen peers were often Old Alliance boys, who made a point of remembering fondly, and pointedly, the days in which no Gundam Pilots would sweep every contest. No-name, no-family, no-breeding boys, they'd mutter; their words never bothered Quatre. Trowa's ability to do just that was only one of the reasons Quatre loved him.
Quatre sighed and rolled over to his other side, mind awake and running in loops. It felt like a flashback to Zero; these long nights were the only time he ever suspected the program's hum had never truly left his brain. Peculiar, he reflected, and not for the first time. Of the five, only he had surviving family, and only he had chosen some career other than Preventers. Granted, his family's money had stymied Une's original plan to strong-arm them all into signing up as Good Examples of pugilist teenagers brought to heel -- and when he didn't go down, the other four had an easier time of evading Une long enough for them to each join on their own terms.
But still, sometimes it felt... lonely. When the five got together, he was often relieved if Hilde or Relena could join them, or Sally, or anyone, because if left to his own with the other pilots, he knew there was a great deal they couldn't say in his presence. Oh, they could -- he retained his clearance, thanks to strong-arming Une right back, now that he had a few more years and knowledge right back at her -- but they wouldn't. It wasn't his world. He might rule the board room, but they remained on the battlefield.
"Damn it," he whispered to the empty room, and got up again. He'd at least managed three or four hours of sleep the first few nights, but five nights running now, he'd slept not a wink. Half of it was his own fault, too, torn between wanting to find someone, anyone, who could tell him what was going on, give him concrete details, so at least if there was risk, Quatre would know, as though this might alleviate the danger.
It was only in the darkest hours of the morning that Quatre could, or would, admit the truth of the other half: an impulsive, angry wish to wrap up everything of Trowa's and pitch it off the balcony.
He stood over the bar, knuckles whitening as he clenched the bottle of scotch, and wished he had a suitable target when he threw it -- and he would, he always did, at least once on those missions in which he was left in the dark, for days on end. He wanted to head out to whatever third-world backwater or stunted-tech colony housed Trowa, collar his husband securely, and drag him back to their apartment. He wanted to shake Trowa until the self-destructive, hard-headed idiocy broke off and left a Trowa he knew had to be under there, one who'd stop throwing sulky fits at any mention of money, who gracefully accepted that Quatre had plenty and wanted to share, and would stop haring off on crazy-ass super-secret missions that could get him killed, and instead stay home and be safe!
Quatre leaned over, pressed his forehead into the bar's cool surface. Why, oh, why, he bemoaned -- an old refrain, by then, but with as much power as any stupid pop song's repetitive inane hook -- why, oh, why. Why did he have to fall for someone so bull-headed? Why did he have to fall for someone who got all defensive and petulant at the merest hint of Quatre 'spending' more money on Trowa than Trowa had to spend on Quatre? Whatever happened to the tradition that one-half could be the money-maker and the other half could be, well, not?
At least then, Trowa would be safe. Not out there in some unknown place, bound and determined to prove to himself -- and everyone else -- that he wasn't beholden to Quatre, that he made his own way, that he was independent and self-sufficient, and the whole time Quatre half-wanted to applaud the sentiment, having felt it himself enough times as a teenager. And the other half of the time, Quatre just wanted to beat Trowa's head in for it. The truth was, Quatre wanted Trowa to be beholden, he wanted Trowa to rely on him.
During the day, if anyone might've asked -- and he sometimes found himself braced, waiting for someone to do so, if only to justify the hours he'd spent turning it over in his head -- then he would say, I want Trowa to rely on me, because that's what couples do. They count on each other, trust each other to watch their backs. He would never deign to fight Trowa's battles for him, but if Trowa went down, Quatre would not hesitate to finish it on Trowa's behalf. That, Quatre assured himself, is the proper way to feel about a spouse, a lover, a best friend, to want that person to look to him for strength, for assurance.
But at night, when the apartment was too silent and the streets too far below and the scotch bottle shattered across the kitchen's tiled floor, then he had to admit it was because he wanted Trowa to need him. Just him. To not require the experience of counting coup on death, but to set that aside, to let Quatre be the one who gave his life purpose. To let Quatre be his purpose. It was sick, and unhealthy, and selfish, and Quatre hated himself for it, but there it was. A man so lethal, so self-contained, so impervious as Trowa, so strong and steadfast and devious and deep and -- truly, sadly, frustratingly unknowable -- that a man like that would ever, could ever, see Quatre as his strength...
Then, perhaps, Quatre wouldn't spend the dark hours alone with the undeniable truth: that Trowa gained something from being separate that Quatre could not give him when together. That Quatre was, in the end, still the rich boy in the penthouse miles above the earth and far from the madding crowds, delicate and cut-off and undirtied and ignorant.
Sometimes when Trowa would come home from a mission, Quatre would be tempted to call in late to work, blow off a meeting, just to stay in bed and watch Trowa sleep... he never could. And that, really, was due to Trowa, who'd come awake in that borderline-paranoia, post-mission edginess at being watched, and chide Quatre about not going to work. "You have that meeting coming up," and he always knew at least the basics of whatever project currently absorbed Quatre's days, "and I know it's important." Then he'd smile, that sleepy comfortable half-smile, eyes still closed, and murmur into the pillow, "I'll be here when you get home." And he always was.
Quatre would feel the tension shimmering under his skin at those words: it's important. No, he wanted to shout, it's not. It's a bunch of bloody fools sitting around and debating numbers that don't matter to anyone but them, and redesigning systems and products in so many phases only a fool would miss that it's all just so we can push papers and reports and spreadsheets from desk to desk, a massive game of business chairs where we all know as long as we keep pretending we're doing something important that no one will notice we've achieved so very little. It's a world of thunder, not lightning; board rooms are impressive, they're striking, they rumble and growl and make the world shake as stocks rise and fall and rise again.
But Trowa's world was one of lightning strikes, silence until the finger of God rents the darkness in a brilliant flash, afterwards leaving the battlefield burned into an observer's retinas -- that was important. That was saving lives, preventing war, halting injustice, freeing the imprisoned, be it countries or ideas or even a single soul. Maybe once Quatre had stood at Trowa's shoulders when it came to doing anything important -- at that, Trowa had stood as Quatre's wingman -- but that day had been a long time past.
Turning, Quatre leaned against the bar and slid down the polished surface until he landed on the floor, staring out across the butler's pantry, the bar, the kitchen. It was the best spot to sit, he'd found; he could see the veranda doors, the front door, and the back servants' entry all from this one juncture. And when the phone rang -- as it did, then -- he was not only within a short reach for it, but he'd finally perfected the art of launching himself to his feet without catching his head on the underside of the bar. That twisting move had taken some practice.
"Hello?" Quatre's voice sounded thick in his ears, courtesy the last of the scotch. Either it was Trowa, or it was Une, and the crackling pause over international -- or colonial -- lines was just a half-second too long for his heart. "Hello?"
"Hey." Trowa sounded dead on his feet. "Hey. Catching flight in..." Deep breath, a gathering of will: forcing himself to stay awake, aware. "Thirty minutes. ETA is fourteen hours."
"Okay." Quatre wanted to hang on the line, but it was no more respectable to delay Trowa's return than it was to delay his departure. Therefore he opened his mouth a little wider while speaking, a faux-yawn. "Stay safe, and I'll see you then."
"Sorry I woke you."
"I'm glad you did." Quatre added a smile to his voice, but kept his words low, bending over so his mouth was half against his arm, as though he spoke with a pillow pressed against his face. The times Trowa's mission-end calls came at night, they had the same conversation, but neither changed it. For Quatre, it was ritual. He stretched out the last word, as though drifting off. "Love you."
"You, too," Trowa said, warmth rumbling his voice into something intimate, and then he disconnected.
Quatre stared at the phone for a long moment, then stood up straight, wide-awake. First, he called in to his sister Jessamine, and left her a message that he wouldn't be at the meeting at ten; she could call Julia and Quatre's sub-director would have all the details Jessamine needed. Then Quatre left a message with Michael, with news he'd be taking the day off, head's up about Jessamine, and a full list of various things Quatre needed done or delayed until day-after-next. Hanging up, Quatre did a quick survey of the apartment, room by room; the scotch bottles were bagged and put away, the broken glass -- and anything caught in the crossfire -- was swept up and pitched.
At an hour and counting since Trowa's call, Quatre rang up Mary's night-time number, pleased as always when his former cook's answering service dutifully took down Quatre's entire shopping list, including replacement alcohol and -- this time -- only one low-ball and two tumblers. Mary, or one of her sub-contractors, would be by in the morning to clean out and restock the fridge, fill up the bar, create a simple but delicious meal and set it aside with directions for later cooking, probably do the dishes, mop, and -- despite his protests the first few times -- if he didn't show his face by then, Mary or her surrogate would often bring out the vacuum cleaner, then tackle the bathroom and the laundry. One time they'd even done all the windows, and since then he'd left double the tip, in sheer gratitude.
Anything else? He always planned an actual list, but never wrote it out, preferring to leave no -- well, not evidence, since that would imply wrong-doing. He preferred to tell himself that it would only worry Trowa, and distract him, and the battlefield was the last place one needed that, as Quatre well knew. So he racked his mental list, and in the last half-hour or so of coherent thought, he practically upended his entire briefcase onto the living room's coffee table, stacking and arranging print-outs he'd read at least twice in the first day of Trowa's absence -- but that wasn't what mattered.
Only then did he shower, a long hot twenty minutes to relax himself, towel off and drop into bed. The clock said five-twenty-eight, and he counted the hours, then set the alarm to wake him two hours before Trowa got in. It wasn't quite as quick as his head hitting the pillow -- first he had to review his tasks, and make sure nothing was left undone -- and only then could he relax, knowing Trowa had boarded a shuttle or plane or train or boat, and would soon be walking through that door.
Five years of the pattern, and despite the crazy sleep schedule -- or lack of it -- the previous nine days, the eight hours of sleep was enough to take off the edge. Quatre hit the alarm, got dressed in his post-work clothes of old jeans and a sweatshirt, and walked out of the bedroom into an apartment that sparkled. He grinned at the little thank-you note written on the envelope he'd used to leave a tip, before dropping it into the shredder in his office, along with all the receipts he could gather for the pizza, chinese food, and various junk food he'd intermittantly, and half-heartedly, eaten while Trowa was gone. He checked the dinner's directions, set the timer, and started the roast to cooking; he messed up the towels in the bathroom, just a little, and balled up some tissue to throw in the trash so it didn't look quite so empty.
When the door finally opened to reveal Trowa sagging against the frame, Quatre had been sprawled across the sofa with a boring brief in his hand, but mostly staring at the clock. He sat up, calling out a hello, sorted and stacked the brief in with the others, clearing off the sofa he'd only just covered with papers twenty minutes before.
"Hey," he said, brushing off his hands and taking Trowa's duffel bag from him. "That everything?"
"As usual." Trowa smiled, leaned into him, pressing his forehead against Quatre's, and relaxed further when Quatre put an arm around him. Trowa barely moved when Quatre angled himself to put out a bare foot and catch the door with his toes, swinging it shut without letting go of Trowa. "Sorry," Trowa said, avoiding anything more than a chaste kiss. "Not showered in too long. I must reek." He smiled again, softening the lines cut deep around his mouth, between his brows. "I want my toothbrush."
"Yeah." Some people didn't kiss upon waking up; Trowa didn't kiss right after missions. Quatre doubted it was from hygiene so much as something intangible, like bringing home mission dirt and spreading it about. "I'll run you a bath. Come on."
Trowa groaned, and kept his arm around Quatre's shoulders, feet dragging just a little down the hall to their bedroom. "Really hot?" His words slurred; bent over, his head nestled in the crook of Quatre's neck and shoulder.
"Unless you'd prefer really cold," Quatre replied; Trowa just chuckled hoarsely.
It happened every time, as soon as he crossed the threshold; he'd explained once to Quatre that he could stay alert and focused but the second he knew he was home, truly home, the adrenaline was gone in a flash and he had nothing left. That meant Quatre never met him at the door with breaking news, good or bad, and it meant guiding Trowa towards the bed or Quatre would find Trowa slumped over the dresser, sound asleep, for not having made it far enough before passing out. In the bedroom, Trowa sagged on the bed's corner while Quatre ran the bath, and then left him to the task of undressing and slipping into the bath. Trowa made a point of sloshing water at regular intervals, just waving his hands through the water; it kept Quatre from checking on him every ten seconds to make sure he'd not fallen asleep.
Eventually Quatre could hear the tub draining, and waited a few minutes before checking to make sure Trowa had made it all the way to the bed. Then, for the first time in over a week, he watched the news, followed by a bit of a favorite television program, and felt comfortable and content. After two hours, he went to rouse Trowa.
"Dinner's ready," he whispered. "Come on, get up."
"Nunh." Trowa buried his face in the pillow.
Quatre laughed and lay down on the bed, on top of Trowa, and stretched his arms out alongside Trowa's, catching Trowa's fingers under the pillow. "Come on," he cajoled, and licked Trowa's bare shoulder. "Only way to kick the jet lag is get back on the local clock."
"Nunh." This time, Trowa's grunt came with an accompanying thrust up of his hips. One brilliant green eye opened, looked at Quatre; Trowa did it again.
"Hey!" Quatre made a show of levering himself up, off Trowa. "You have to eat dinner before you get dessert."
Trowa made a face, rolled over onto his back, and pulled Quatre back down for a long kiss. He lightened the kiss to a long press of their lips, shifted to hold his forehead to Quatre's for several breaths, eyes closed, and then kissed him again, deep, searching, finding. Quatre sighed as Trowa dropped his head back onto the pillow, then tensed at the realization Trowa was giving him a strangely intent look.
"What?" Quatre started to pull away, but stopped when Trowa snaked out his arm and caught Quatre by the wrist. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I think." Trowa didn't let go. "Are you okay?"
"What?" Only one way to deal with that: Quatre laughed, but mixed in a bit of puzzlement. "I'm not the one who rode home on autopilot."
Trowa didn't rise to the teasing. "Wufei said..." He glanced away, a line flickering between his brows; Quatre made sure to hold still, purposefully keeping his muscles relaxed, easy, his expression open. Trowa pursed his lips, and tilted his head back to stare up at Quatre. "Are you sure you're okay? It can't be easy, when I'm...when you don't know what's going on."
"Well," Quatre said, slowly, dragging it out, like the idea was old enough that it held little interest for him, other than surprise at being mentioned. The subtle lightening of Trowa's hold on his wrist told him the attempt had been successful. "I'm not saying it's fun, but what you do matters. You're good at it, and I know you'll come home in one piece." The rest, or die trying, went unsaid.
"Yes, but it seems--"
"Seems what?" Quatre intentionally ignored that he'd just interrupted Trowa to question Trowa's words, but neither did he let Trowa keep going. He leaned forward, kissing Trowa again, even more passionately, then pulled back right at the point he knew Trowa was on the brink of melting. "I knew what you do when I asked you to move in, I knew when I asked you to marry me, and I haven't forgotten. I know how much it matters to you."
Trowa's frown went from slight to pronounced. "I'm not asking about me. I'm asking whether you're--"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Quatre rolled his eyes for good measure, but matched it with quick laughter, a joke to mask the gravity. "What, do you really want me to tell you that you can't do it anymore?" He kissed Trowa lightly on the nose. "I'd never do that. Yes, fine, I worry," he huffed, when Trowa didn't meet his eye. Quatre caught Trowa's chin and turned his face back up, and kissed him again, this time, slower and longer. He licked Trowa's lower lip once as he broke off the kiss, catching it between his teeth to pull a little before letting go. Trowa's eyes were glazed when Quatre raised his head. "But it's not like I'm curled up in a ball in the corner unable to move while you're gone, y'know. I have a pretty good idea of what you're usually up against, and I know you can handle it."
Trowa smiled, then, the shy, tentative smile he got sometimes when he knew a compliment was genuine -- and deserved -- despite some part of him struggling to accept that it might be true. He shrugged, a soft roll of his shoulders, and looked away, whispering, "I just... I don't want you to be..."
"Trowa," Quatre said, letting his tone shade into exasperated. Time to shift from teasing, into a bit of defensiveness, Quatre noted, and it took no more than that to alter his expression and muscle tension properly. Trowa's face immediately became a touch apologetic, but Quatre had to play ignorant, just a little, to make the point. "If I were the kind of person who didn't believe you could do your job, I'd be the kind of person who'd want to wrap you in layers of cotton and keep you in a shoebox so you'd never get hurt."
He got a snort for his words, but with a slight curl of the lip that indicated a tiny bit of amusement amongst the disdain.
"Get over it," Quatre said, "and that's an order. I'm not that kind of person."
Trowa's smile grew, if abashed. "I know. That's..." He arched upwards to kiss Quatre again, and shifted until his hand rested in Quatre's, threading their fingers together. "That's why..." He looked down, then up again, and with another kiss, said what he rarely said out loud: it was what made him love Quatre so much.
That was fine, Quatre knew. After all, Trowa was back home, where he belonged, and safe, and now Quatre had a chance to prove all over again that he would never truss Trowa in blankets and lock him away from danger. Quatre mumbled something about the roast, hoped he'd set the oven down to warm, and peeled away the blanket between them, opening to Trowa's seeking hands and wet mouth, flesh firm and real against his body.
Trowa was home, and that was all that mattered.
[Consider this FINAL since the overall content won't change, but I may do minor revisions if I find spelling/grammar/other mistakes when/as I reread.]
As We Grow Old I
Quatre's Days
rating: PG-13 for language
pairing: 3/4
(warning? only that this is a long one...)
...being yet another bad day in the life -- though more accurately, this is an entire collection in and of itself. It just occured to me, is all, that the Other Half goes through plenty as well.
Quatre rolled over and squinted at the clock. Two-seventeen in the morning; it clicked to eighteen as he watched. He rolled back over again, grabbing Trowa's half of the blankets and carrying with them, but the act held none of its usual comfort of swaddling himself up like a man-sized caterpillar gone into hibernation. Finally he threw back the covers, grabbed his dressing gown, and went in search of something to drink.
Three-forty-nine, and the front door didn't open. Nor were messages waiting for him on his voicemail. No email. Not even smoke signals. Quatre stood on the apartment's veranda, looked out across Brussel's skyline, and sipped his scotch. He could make one drink last nearly thirty minutes, if he worked at it, but watching the cars forty floors below wasn't exactly entrancing entertainment. He'd had no idea the streets could get that quiet, compared to the morning's rush hour. And no lone beam split the dark streets, a motorcycle's headlamp carving through the darkness to let him know Trowa had finished the case and was on his way home to safety.
Four-twenty-one.
Quatre went back to bed, and woke up to a hangover... and an empty bed.
Day two was a sullen and distracted affair. He broke down at lunch, and called into the family line. The Contact Agent promised to get back to him with any news. No word for three hours, and Quatre headed into the marketing meeting with a churning feeling in his gut. But his assistant knew to break the meeting if there was word of -- or better yet, from -- Trowa. The meeting came and went, and he returned to his office to find Michael had been away from his desk, and the agent had been redirected to the assistant for one of Quatre's sub-directors. Message dutifully noted, with few details -- unlike Michael's kind of message; the man knew Quatre didn't like vague, and knew to grill as thoroughly, as for as long as, he could get away with.
Quatre stared at the message, disbelieving its succinctness. "Situation unchanged."
Eight years at WEI. That day was the sixth time that he'd lost his temper at work.
There was one benefit to having a large corner office, with thick walls and two or three fine woven carpets spread across the floor: the room felt hushed the rest of the time, but positively a sound booth for anyone feeling the sudden urge to shout in frustration and fury. Michael, to his credit -- and likely trained given he'd been there for times three, four, and five -- waited it out. When Quatre came to a stop facing the huge granite-topped desk, panting hard, he caught sight of Michael standing not far from the door, appearing to brush a fleck of dust off his jacket with a bored expression. It made Quatre feel petty for blaming Michael -- which was probably the purpose behind the otherwise rude gesture.
"Quatre," Michael said, and that, too, was unusual. "I can rearrange your meeting for four-thirty to tomorrow, and--"
"That won't be necessary." Quatre's inflection sounded flat to his own ears. He wondered how it sounded to Michael.
"It may be useful, nonetheless. That team only arrived an hour ago. With the traffic on the Forty-Fifth Street bridge picking up, they won't be in the best shape." It hid in Micheal's words, but years of working with the man had Quatre picking out the meaning easily: and neither are you. "I doubt they'd mind, and you could--"
"I'm not taking the afternoon off," Quatre ground out, and rounded the desk to half-spin and land in his chair. The seat pivoted back in a smooth motion and he sprawled, staring up at the ceiling. "I go home, and I'll--I'll--" He waved a hand. "Never mind."
"His last trip lasted two weeks," Michael reminded him, quietly. Again, so much unsaid: this reaction is overboard.
"That was not this one." Just as much unsaid came back in Quatre's tone; Michael didn't, and never would have, the clearance to know of Trowa's work. Hell, there were some things Trowa'd done in the past few years that he couldn't even tell Quatre. At least he'd checked in, when he could, though his calls came at odd hours, and were always blocked; the times he couldn't check in, the Contact Agent alert the families of any news: earlier end, later return, extended mission. Nothing too specific, just enough that families could plan -- or cancel -- around what was often the unexpected.
The final call, of course, was always from Trowa, telling Quatre he was on his way home. That wasn't just Trowa's policy, that was Preventers' policy. The stress was bad enough, for families; there was nothing to gain from denying agents the chance to tell their families, themselves, that the mission was complete.
It was just the waiting part that killed Quatre, every single time. Five days before, Trowa had left, promising he'd call in when he could; he'd been ambiguous about the destination and purpose, but that didn't necessarily indicate a security level. Early on in Trowa's career, they'd learned it was easier to leave out most details; that meant the truly dangerous missions didn't stand out for being large blanks. But five days, and not a word, and the Contact Agent's sole message amounts to situation unchanged -- from what? What was the point of telling someone, "the weather's the same," if you bloody well didn't know what the weather had been in the first place? Quatre had to stifle the sudden urge to run a global 'net search for all unnatural disasters and terrorist attacks.
"Sir?"
Quatre shook his head, and swiveled the chair to stare out at the blue sky. "Contact the visiting team. If they're truly that exhausted, tell them we can reschedule for a seven a.m. meeting, but that's their only option. The ten o'clock was hell to get organized, and I'm not moving it."
"Yes, sir." Michael paused at the door. "Shall I call the Contact Agent again, for you?"
"No." Quatre tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. If the team wanted to go ahead and meet, he'd have only a half-hour to get himself out of Worried Husband Mode and back into Hardass Director Mode. "It'll do." Just before the door swished fully shut, he murmured, "thanks, Michael."
"Sure thing, boss," Michael whispered, and pulled the door closed.
A long deep breath, and Quatre rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Most of the time, three or four days of radio silence didn't bother him, too much. He was busy enough in his daily work that once or twice, despite a warning coming-home call, he'd gone right back into work and forgotten it completely -- only to feel rather guilty six or nine hours later to find himself buried in a book or movie and interrupted by Trowa stumbling through the door, unshaven and exhausted. At least he'd had the self-control to bite back on the instinctive "what? you're home already?" reaction. Hardly what anyone would want to hear right through the door.
His fingers itched to pick up the phone and call Relena, but he'd sworn to himself a long time ago that he'd never put her in that position. It was questionable enough, in the eyes of many, that the two had retained their friendship for so long. The consumate businessman, and the lifelong politician; the last thing either needed was even a whisper that Quatre had asked her to bend ears and get him word of his wayward husband. No, not wayward, just... dedicated. Driven. Purposeful. Skilled. Deadly.
And... if -- Quatre didn't want to say the word, even think it, so in his head, he scratched out the unvoiced word and replaced it with hurt -- anything were to happen, for too many of the missions, Quatre would never know the specifics. Could never know. Hell, Relena probably wouldn't even know. Une might, and Noin. Neither woman would ever tell him, no more than they'd tell anyone else.
He'd get a personal visit, of course, in dress uniform, with the regretful news: accidents happen. It would never be 'in the line of fire' let alone a designation of friendly or unfriendly. There would never be enough to identify where, or when, or how. And, too, it was a good chance that the only body coming home to him wouldn't even be in a body bag. They'd deliver him an urn, already cremated: if injuries or cause of death raised questions, that could be as good as blaring out all the details with a bullhorn.
The phone rang. Quatre didn't even look, just fumbled for it with a hand.
"Sir, I have Agent Chang on line two for you." Michael paused. "Also, the team will meet with you at 7, tomorrow morning. I'm ordering breakfast."
"Thanks. Okay." Quatre frowned, then, abruptly nervous that Michael might have forgotten the standing instructions and used Wufei's name or title on the phone line. Before he could ask, the call was patched over. "Hello?"
"Hello." Wufei sounded drained, voice slurred. "Checking in."
"You alright?"
Wufei snorted.
"I'll rephrase. Are you in one piece?"
"Passably so."
Quatre rolled his eyes. Wufei could be bleeding out his eyes and have one leg falling off, and he'd insist it was nothing. At least Heero wouldn't insist it was nothing; Heero would state flatly every injury, and then look at you like you'd grown two heads if you so much as implied that this was reason for him to sit down, maybe get something to patch that big gaping hole in his chest. Sometimes Quatre wondered how Duo put up with it -- oh, right, Duo put up with it because more often than not, it was his team coming out as Heero's went in.
"Stop worrying."
The defensive reaction was automatic. "I'm not." He even tried for a little bit of smile in his voice. "But it's still good to hear you're alive."
"Yes, well." The semi-coherent grunt could have been disbelief in the truth of Quatre's good cheer; it could have been subtle disagreement as to the team's status as alive. Another long pause, and Wufei added, "Not everyone's clear. We rendez-vous in four days."
Which could only mean Trowa's team remained. The most Quatre had ever gathered, Trowa's team was either first in, or last out; it was common knowledge that the Preventers allowed no team to do both on the same mission. So he must be doing clean-up -- escorting the prisoners, or ferrying the smuggled goods to a destruction depot, or just taking a more roundabout departure pattern with his team to throw any trackers off the earlier departures. Quatre's extensive reading, personal experience, and just plain imagination could come up with a lot of scenarios. But all of them -- with a great deal of steadfast energy put into it -- ended with Trowa returning home safe and sound.
Quatre checked the phone's readout, out of habit. "Two-twenty," he reminded Wufei. "Thanks for letting me know."
"Of course." Wufei hung up without further word.
Late that night, Quatre lay across the bed on his side, staring at Trowa's side of the room. Years before, after Trowa moved in with him, Quatre had returned from a business trip to find Trowa sleeping on Quatre's side of the bed. He'd tried it in return when Trowa was away, to see if he could sleep better, and he did. Strange, how those things worked. It was nothing so romantic as inhaling Trowa's scent; as an agent often doing infiltration, Trowa's shampoo, soap, and detergent were all neutral, non-remarkable brands with little to no distinctive smell, and he never wore cologne. The man himself barely had a natural scent except the temporary accumulation from a day in the garage or at the range: motor oil, solvent, cordite, gun oil. No, it was the simpler act of being in Trowa's space, keeping it warm for him.
Two more nights, and Quatre stopped sleeping. He lay awake, staring at the windows, willing Trowa to come home in one piece, come home sane, come home healthy, come home.
Just come home.
The first few missions that required Trowa say nothing, Quatre had begun noting discrepancies, catching the tiniest of overheard comments, paying attention to subtle remarks and gestures, and put a few things together. He knew from his own experience with technologies that not all call-tracing systems were equal; Preventers' system probably rivaled the Winner internal tracing system, though WEI had only ever used it -- or so his sister in charge of security insisted -- to prevent and apprehend corporate thieves. Still, those top-of-the-line systems still required at least fifty seconds to track down a source, assuming the destination was known. Double the time if the call was intercepted via short-wave, like a cell phone. Quatre had naturally researched the technology further, justifying it as part of his need to be assured of his lover's safety and therefore of no importance to mention to Trowa directly. The smaller the country, the less resources, the more likely the available technology would require a full minute, two minutes, three minutes.
So Wufei disconnecting shy of three minutes meant he was in a location where the opposing forces were either a less-developed country or less-powerful syndicate. The only other allowance for more than two minutes would be when caller and callee were both in deserted or rural areas, with little risk of nearby ears. Quatre knew his internal lines at WEI qualified, at least to the extent that they were as unimpeachable -- if not more so -- than the secure Preventer lines. While he refused on principle to hit the 'net for global or colonial hotspots, at least he could narrow the field down to the third-world areas, most likely. Then again, those areas were the kind most prone to sudden, extreme violence and upheaval.
Sometimes, a little bit of knowledge, he knew, was dangerous. But he hurt no others with this closely-held awareness, only himself.
Three nights passed, two days. He said nothing when Michael surreptitiously rearranged his entire schedule, leaving Quatre with nothing more strenuous than staying in his office all day and catching up on the emails that piled up on a regular basis. He'd nod off over his keyboard, then jerk himself awake, back from the brink of a nightmare in which Wufei and Duo presented him with a little metal box labeled "No Name Known."
Always the same nightmare, pushing Quatre to the edge of screaming: but I did know him, and I had my own name for him, and this is not him.
If he had to come bolt upright in half-terror from the image and half-relief at escaping into awakeness, at least he didn't have to do it where anyone else could see.
Nine days since Trowa had walked out the door, beat-up duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Same as every time, Quatre woke at the phone ringing, but only enough to determine whether Trowa was staying in bed or getting up. Trowa had murmured something, then packed with all the efficiency of years of practice in living -- Trowa called it 'light', Quatre called it 'with little' -- but the end result was the same. There was never reason to delay, and thus Quatre never had excuse to keep Trowa for a second longer. He even, sometimes, prided himself on letting Trowa go with only a quick kiss -- not even a jinxing 'good luck' or 'stay safe' or 'come home'. Some of the other agents complained bitterly when team-mates held them up because spouses or lovers wanted to indulge in long, drawn-out goodbyes. Quatre wasn't like those spouses. He respected Trowa's work, he admired it, and he knew it was of paramount importance in assuring the world's safety continued.
Except that sometimes, he really really hated it, too.
Yes, he was proud and pleased when Trowa had been promoted from General Agent to Special Agent -- or, in more colloquial terms, from First Lieutenant to Captain, given the ESUN's insistence on designating everyone and everything with standard GS-levels and military-styled titles. And when Trowa had come home with news he was up for another promotion, to Major -- or Special-Agent-in-Charge, if using the Preventers' Special Operations Division terms -- Quatre had been thrilled.
He didn't give a damn about the whispers swirling around him at social functions that it wasn't proper for men so young to advance so fast. Duo, Wufei, and Heero had all come up for promotion within a month, plus or minus, of Trowa, and Quatre's businessmen peers were often Old Alliance boys, who made a point of remembering fondly, and pointedly, the days in which no Gundam Pilots would sweep every contest. No-name, no-family, no-breeding boys, they'd mutter; their words never bothered Quatre. Trowa's ability to do just that was only one of the reasons Quatre loved him.
Quatre sighed and rolled over to his other side, mind awake and running in loops. It felt like a flashback to Zero; these long nights were the only time he ever suspected the program's hum had never truly left his brain. Peculiar, he reflected, and not for the first time. Of the five, only he had surviving family, and only he had chosen some career other than Preventers. Granted, his family's money had stymied Une's original plan to strong-arm them all into signing up as Good Examples of pugilist teenagers brought to heel -- and when he didn't go down, the other four had an easier time of evading Une long enough for them to each join on their own terms.
But still, sometimes it felt... lonely. When the five got together, he was often relieved if Hilde or Relena could join them, or Sally, or anyone, because if left to his own with the other pilots, he knew there was a great deal they couldn't say in his presence. Oh, they could -- he retained his clearance, thanks to strong-arming Une right back, now that he had a few more years and knowledge right back at her -- but they wouldn't. It wasn't his world. He might rule the board room, but they remained on the battlefield.
"Damn it," he whispered to the empty room, and got up again. He'd at least managed three or four hours of sleep the first few nights, but five nights running now, he'd slept not a wink. Half of it was his own fault, too, torn between wanting to find someone, anyone, who could tell him what was going on, give him concrete details, so at least if there was risk, Quatre would know, as though this might alleviate the danger.
It was only in the darkest hours of the morning that Quatre could, or would, admit the truth of the other half: an impulsive, angry wish to wrap up everything of Trowa's and pitch it off the balcony.
He stood over the bar, knuckles whitening as he clenched the bottle of scotch, and wished he had a suitable target when he threw it -- and he would, he always did, at least once on those missions in which he was left in the dark, for days on end. He wanted to head out to whatever third-world backwater or stunted-tech colony housed Trowa, collar his husband securely, and drag him back to their apartment. He wanted to shake Trowa until the self-destructive, hard-headed idiocy broke off and left a Trowa he knew had to be under there, one who'd stop throwing sulky fits at any mention of money, who gracefully accepted that Quatre had plenty and wanted to share, and would stop haring off on crazy-ass super-secret missions that could get him killed, and instead stay home and be safe!
Quatre leaned over, pressed his forehead into the bar's cool surface. Why, oh, why, he bemoaned -- an old refrain, by then, but with as much power as any stupid pop song's repetitive inane hook -- why, oh, why. Why did he have to fall for someone so bull-headed? Why did he have to fall for someone who got all defensive and petulant at the merest hint of Quatre 'spending' more money on Trowa than Trowa had to spend on Quatre? Whatever happened to the tradition that one-half could be the money-maker and the other half could be, well, not?
At least then, Trowa would be safe. Not out there in some unknown place, bound and determined to prove to himself -- and everyone else -- that he wasn't beholden to Quatre, that he made his own way, that he was independent and self-sufficient, and the whole time Quatre half-wanted to applaud the sentiment, having felt it himself enough times as a teenager. And the other half of the time, Quatre just wanted to beat Trowa's head in for it. The truth was, Quatre wanted Trowa to be beholden, he wanted Trowa to rely on him.
During the day, if anyone might've asked -- and he sometimes found himself braced, waiting for someone to do so, if only to justify the hours he'd spent turning it over in his head -- then he would say, I want Trowa to rely on me, because that's what couples do. They count on each other, trust each other to watch their backs. He would never deign to fight Trowa's battles for him, but if Trowa went down, Quatre would not hesitate to finish it on Trowa's behalf. That, Quatre assured himself, is the proper way to feel about a spouse, a lover, a best friend, to want that person to look to him for strength, for assurance.
But at night, when the apartment was too silent and the streets too far below and the scotch bottle shattered across the kitchen's tiled floor, then he had to admit it was because he wanted Trowa to need him. Just him. To not require the experience of counting coup on death, but to set that aside, to let Quatre be the one who gave his life purpose. To let Quatre be his purpose. It was sick, and unhealthy, and selfish, and Quatre hated himself for it, but there it was. A man so lethal, so self-contained, so impervious as Trowa, so strong and steadfast and devious and deep and -- truly, sadly, frustratingly unknowable -- that a man like that would ever, could ever, see Quatre as his strength...
Then, perhaps, Quatre wouldn't spend the dark hours alone with the undeniable truth: that Trowa gained something from being separate that Quatre could not give him when together. That Quatre was, in the end, still the rich boy in the penthouse miles above the earth and far from the madding crowds, delicate and cut-off and undirtied and ignorant.
Sometimes when Trowa would come home from a mission, Quatre would be tempted to call in late to work, blow off a meeting, just to stay in bed and watch Trowa sleep... he never could. And that, really, was due to Trowa, who'd come awake in that borderline-paranoia, post-mission edginess at being watched, and chide Quatre about not going to work. "You have that meeting coming up," and he always knew at least the basics of whatever project currently absorbed Quatre's days, "and I know it's important." Then he'd smile, that sleepy comfortable half-smile, eyes still closed, and murmur into the pillow, "I'll be here when you get home." And he always was.
Quatre would feel the tension shimmering under his skin at those words: it's important. No, he wanted to shout, it's not. It's a bunch of bloody fools sitting around and debating numbers that don't matter to anyone but them, and redesigning systems and products in so many phases only a fool would miss that it's all just so we can push papers and reports and spreadsheets from desk to desk, a massive game of business chairs where we all know as long as we keep pretending we're doing something important that no one will notice we've achieved so very little. It's a world of thunder, not lightning; board rooms are impressive, they're striking, they rumble and growl and make the world shake as stocks rise and fall and rise again.
But Trowa's world was one of lightning strikes, silence until the finger of God rents the darkness in a brilliant flash, afterwards leaving the battlefield burned into an observer's retinas -- that was important. That was saving lives, preventing war, halting injustice, freeing the imprisoned, be it countries or ideas or even a single soul. Maybe once Quatre had stood at Trowa's shoulders when it came to doing anything important -- at that, Trowa had stood as Quatre's wingman -- but that day had been a long time past.
Turning, Quatre leaned against the bar and slid down the polished surface until he landed on the floor, staring out across the butler's pantry, the bar, the kitchen. It was the best spot to sit, he'd found; he could see the veranda doors, the front door, and the back servants' entry all from this one juncture. And when the phone rang -- as it did, then -- he was not only within a short reach for it, but he'd finally perfected the art of launching himself to his feet without catching his head on the underside of the bar. That twisting move had taken some practice.
"Hello?" Quatre's voice sounded thick in his ears, courtesy the last of the scotch. Either it was Trowa, or it was Une, and the crackling pause over international -- or colonial -- lines was just a half-second too long for his heart. "Hello?"
"Hey." Trowa sounded dead on his feet. "Hey. Catching flight in..." Deep breath, a gathering of will: forcing himself to stay awake, aware. "Thirty minutes. ETA is fourteen hours."
"Okay." Quatre wanted to hang on the line, but it was no more respectable to delay Trowa's return than it was to delay his departure. Therefore he opened his mouth a little wider while speaking, a faux-yawn. "Stay safe, and I'll see you then."
"Sorry I woke you."
"I'm glad you did." Quatre added a smile to his voice, but kept his words low, bending over so his mouth was half against his arm, as though he spoke with a pillow pressed against his face. The times Trowa's mission-end calls came at night, they had the same conversation, but neither changed it. For Quatre, it was ritual. He stretched out the last word, as though drifting off. "Love you."
"You, too," Trowa said, warmth rumbling his voice into something intimate, and then he disconnected.
Quatre stared at the phone for a long moment, then stood up straight, wide-awake. First, he called in to his sister Jessamine, and left her a message that he wouldn't be at the meeting at ten; she could call Julia and Quatre's sub-director would have all the details Jessamine needed. Then Quatre left a message with Michael, with news he'd be taking the day off, head's up about Jessamine, and a full list of various things Quatre needed done or delayed until day-after-next. Hanging up, Quatre did a quick survey of the apartment, room by room; the scotch bottles were bagged and put away, the broken glass -- and anything caught in the crossfire -- was swept up and pitched.
At an hour and counting since Trowa's call, Quatre rang up Mary's night-time number, pleased as always when his former cook's answering service dutifully took down Quatre's entire shopping list, including replacement alcohol and -- this time -- only one low-ball and two tumblers. Mary, or one of her sub-contractors, would be by in the morning to clean out and restock the fridge, fill up the bar, create a simple but delicious meal and set it aside with directions for later cooking, probably do the dishes, mop, and -- despite his protests the first few times -- if he didn't show his face by then, Mary or her surrogate would often bring out the vacuum cleaner, then tackle the bathroom and the laundry. One time they'd even done all the windows, and since then he'd left double the tip, in sheer gratitude.
Anything else? He always planned an actual list, but never wrote it out, preferring to leave no -- well, not evidence, since that would imply wrong-doing. He preferred to tell himself that it would only worry Trowa, and distract him, and the battlefield was the last place one needed that, as Quatre well knew. So he racked his mental list, and in the last half-hour or so of coherent thought, he practically upended his entire briefcase onto the living room's coffee table, stacking and arranging print-outs he'd read at least twice in the first day of Trowa's absence -- but that wasn't what mattered.
Only then did he shower, a long hot twenty minutes to relax himself, towel off and drop into bed. The clock said five-twenty-eight, and he counted the hours, then set the alarm to wake him two hours before Trowa got in. It wasn't quite as quick as his head hitting the pillow -- first he had to review his tasks, and make sure nothing was left undone -- and only then could he relax, knowing Trowa had boarded a shuttle or plane or train or boat, and would soon be walking through that door.
Five years of the pattern, and despite the crazy sleep schedule -- or lack of it -- the previous nine days, the eight hours of sleep was enough to take off the edge. Quatre hit the alarm, got dressed in his post-work clothes of old jeans and a sweatshirt, and walked out of the bedroom into an apartment that sparkled. He grinned at the little thank-you note written on the envelope he'd used to leave a tip, before dropping it into the shredder in his office, along with all the receipts he could gather for the pizza, chinese food, and various junk food he'd intermittantly, and half-heartedly, eaten while Trowa was gone. He checked the dinner's directions, set the timer, and started the roast to cooking; he messed up the towels in the bathroom, just a little, and balled up some tissue to throw in the trash so it didn't look quite so empty.
When the door finally opened to reveal Trowa sagging against the frame, Quatre had been sprawled across the sofa with a boring brief in his hand, but mostly staring at the clock. He sat up, calling out a hello, sorted and stacked the brief in with the others, clearing off the sofa he'd only just covered with papers twenty minutes before.
"Hey," he said, brushing off his hands and taking Trowa's duffel bag from him. "That everything?"
"As usual." Trowa smiled, leaned into him, pressing his forehead against Quatre's, and relaxed further when Quatre put an arm around him. Trowa barely moved when Quatre angled himself to put out a bare foot and catch the door with his toes, swinging it shut without letting go of Trowa. "Sorry," Trowa said, avoiding anything more than a chaste kiss. "Not showered in too long. I must reek." He smiled again, softening the lines cut deep around his mouth, between his brows. "I want my toothbrush."
"Yeah." Some people didn't kiss upon waking up; Trowa didn't kiss right after missions. Quatre doubted it was from hygiene so much as something intangible, like bringing home mission dirt and spreading it about. "I'll run you a bath. Come on."
Trowa groaned, and kept his arm around Quatre's shoulders, feet dragging just a little down the hall to their bedroom. "Really hot?" His words slurred; bent over, his head nestled in the crook of Quatre's neck and shoulder.
"Unless you'd prefer really cold," Quatre replied; Trowa just chuckled hoarsely.
It happened every time, as soon as he crossed the threshold; he'd explained once to Quatre that he could stay alert and focused but the second he knew he was home, truly home, the adrenaline was gone in a flash and he had nothing left. That meant Quatre never met him at the door with breaking news, good or bad, and it meant guiding Trowa towards the bed or Quatre would find Trowa slumped over the dresser, sound asleep, for not having made it far enough before passing out. In the bedroom, Trowa sagged on the bed's corner while Quatre ran the bath, and then left him to the task of undressing and slipping into the bath. Trowa made a point of sloshing water at regular intervals, just waving his hands through the water; it kept Quatre from checking on him every ten seconds to make sure he'd not fallen asleep.
Eventually Quatre could hear the tub draining, and waited a few minutes before checking to make sure Trowa had made it all the way to the bed. Then, for the first time in over a week, he watched the news, followed by a bit of a favorite television program, and felt comfortable and content. After two hours, he went to rouse Trowa.
"Dinner's ready," he whispered. "Come on, get up."
"Nunh." Trowa buried his face in the pillow.
Quatre laughed and lay down on the bed, on top of Trowa, and stretched his arms out alongside Trowa's, catching Trowa's fingers under the pillow. "Come on," he cajoled, and licked Trowa's bare shoulder. "Only way to kick the jet lag is get back on the local clock."
"Nunh." This time, Trowa's grunt came with an accompanying thrust up of his hips. One brilliant green eye opened, looked at Quatre; Trowa did it again.
"Hey!" Quatre made a show of levering himself up, off Trowa. "You have to eat dinner before you get dessert."
Trowa made a face, rolled over onto his back, and pulled Quatre back down for a long kiss. He lightened the kiss to a long press of their lips, shifted to hold his forehead to Quatre's for several breaths, eyes closed, and then kissed him again, deep, searching, finding. Quatre sighed as Trowa dropped his head back onto the pillow, then tensed at the realization Trowa was giving him a strangely intent look.
"What?" Quatre started to pull away, but stopped when Trowa snaked out his arm and caught Quatre by the wrist. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I think." Trowa didn't let go. "Are you okay?"
"What?" Only one way to deal with that: Quatre laughed, but mixed in a bit of puzzlement. "I'm not the one who rode home on autopilot."
Trowa didn't rise to the teasing. "Wufei said..." He glanced away, a line flickering between his brows; Quatre made sure to hold still, purposefully keeping his muscles relaxed, easy, his expression open. Trowa pursed his lips, and tilted his head back to stare up at Quatre. "Are you sure you're okay? It can't be easy, when I'm...when you don't know what's going on."
"Well," Quatre said, slowly, dragging it out, like the idea was old enough that it held little interest for him, other than surprise at being mentioned. The subtle lightening of Trowa's hold on his wrist told him the attempt had been successful. "I'm not saying it's fun, but what you do matters. You're good at it, and I know you'll come home in one piece." The rest, or die trying, went unsaid.
"Yes, but it seems--"
"Seems what?" Quatre intentionally ignored that he'd just interrupted Trowa to question Trowa's words, but neither did he let Trowa keep going. He leaned forward, kissing Trowa again, even more passionately, then pulled back right at the point he knew Trowa was on the brink of melting. "I knew what you do when I asked you to move in, I knew when I asked you to marry me, and I haven't forgotten. I know how much it matters to you."
Trowa's frown went from slight to pronounced. "I'm not asking about me. I'm asking whether you're--"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Quatre rolled his eyes for good measure, but matched it with quick laughter, a joke to mask the gravity. "What, do you really want me to tell you that you can't do it anymore?" He kissed Trowa lightly on the nose. "I'd never do that. Yes, fine, I worry," he huffed, when Trowa didn't meet his eye. Quatre caught Trowa's chin and turned his face back up, and kissed him again, this time, slower and longer. He licked Trowa's lower lip once as he broke off the kiss, catching it between his teeth to pull a little before letting go. Trowa's eyes were glazed when Quatre raised his head. "But it's not like I'm curled up in a ball in the corner unable to move while you're gone, y'know. I have a pretty good idea of what you're usually up against, and I know you can handle it."
Trowa smiled, then, the shy, tentative smile he got sometimes when he knew a compliment was genuine -- and deserved -- despite some part of him struggling to accept that it might be true. He shrugged, a soft roll of his shoulders, and looked away, whispering, "I just... I don't want you to be..."
"Trowa," Quatre said, letting his tone shade into exasperated. Time to shift from teasing, into a bit of defensiveness, Quatre noted, and it took no more than that to alter his expression and muscle tension properly. Trowa's face immediately became a touch apologetic, but Quatre had to play ignorant, just a little, to make the point. "If I were the kind of person who didn't believe you could do your job, I'd be the kind of person who'd want to wrap you in layers of cotton and keep you in a shoebox so you'd never get hurt."
He got a snort for his words, but with a slight curl of the lip that indicated a tiny bit of amusement amongst the disdain.
"Get over it," Quatre said, "and that's an order. I'm not that kind of person."
Trowa's smile grew, if abashed. "I know. That's..." He arched upwards to kiss Quatre again, and shifted until his hand rested in Quatre's, threading their fingers together. "That's why..." He looked down, then up again, and with another kiss, said what he rarely said out loud: it was what made him love Quatre so much.
That was fine, Quatre knew. After all, Trowa was back home, where he belonged, and safe, and now Quatre had a chance to prove all over again that he would never truss Trowa in blankets and lock him away from danger. Quatre mumbled something about the roast, hoped he'd set the oven down to warm, and peeled away the blanket between them, opening to Trowa's seeking hands and wet mouth, flesh firm and real against his body.
Trowa was home, and that was all that mattered.
[Consider this FINAL since the overall content won't change, but I may do minor revisions if I find spelling/grammar/other mistakes when/as I reread.]
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 11 Jul 2007 08:16 am (UTC)I'll try harder on the next one.no subject
Date: 11 Jul 2007 03:53 pm (UTC)Do your dastardly best--I shall never stop reading! Mwahaha!
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 07:43 am (UTC)Hm, I thought it was war injuries that kept Quatre out of the Preventers? That was in an earlier part. I actually like that he's not in the Preventers after the war, the others protect the peace, but he's responsible for thousands of jobs and rebuilding -- the prosper part in peace and prosper.
Anyway, this is a wonderful AU and I'm glad to see you writing in it again.
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 08:11 am (UTC)Hrm, there's an idea.
As for the glasses, I doubt most folks would really notice. Anything less than truly unique crystal patterns -- or printed mugs -- are the kind of unobtrusive items that fill our existence but otherwise go by without remark.
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 07:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 11 Jul 2007 08:08 am (UTC)should beis the next one -- is for you 'n Raletha, so here's hoping you don't mind a bit of conflicted humorous drunken sex, compared to guilty worrying angst.Uhm, because if you won't write the smut, damn it, someone has to.
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 08:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 11 Jul 2007 08:21 am (UTC)Instead, they're introduced as a couple, stay a couple, and never even argue. (The few writers who allowed conflict between the two -- and perhaps even moreso when the two aren't the story's main focus -- are ones who remain among my favorites.)
I guess I hit this point where I wanted to see all the ways in which a couple like this would struggle, and might even be touch-and-go in ways few other couples would ever experience. A few times I think I've come up with mostly extrapolation (like Quatre's 'sleeping' with Duo, and Trowa's obsession with multipurpose items). Trowa's sensitivity to Quatre's wealth is possibly canon (if taken half from his canon reactions and half from Duo's, to be honest), but this one, I think, is possibly the closest to a genuine canon-based character trait.
Wasn't it Duo who said that Quatre would feel guilty about the lack of oxygen in space? Always the worrier, and always the one willing to stand up and fight even if he first had to fight everyone else to make sure they remain seated. Seems to me, that's a personality that would have especial difficulties with a stray cat like Trowa.
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Date: 11 Jul 2007 01:56 pm (UTC)I especially liked Quatre's sense of disconnection from the other four, his consciousness of it, and his cynicism about the business world: the thunder and lightening metaphor.
Fabulous. ♥
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Date: 12 Jul 2007 05:00 am (UTC)I agree that this Trowa does need this Quatre -- and perhaps it's just that I know what we admire most in another person is often what we feel ourselves to be lacking, and -- in that of-course kind of way -- is often what the other might say we have in spades.
I'd been considering a SES3, which would sort of be Trowa's half of this one, but now I'm waffling. Not sure I can top this one, from the looks of things. *ponders*
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Date: 12 Jul 2007 05:17 pm (UTC)Nice to see these wrap ups. I've definitely been wanting something for Tetractys, if you are so inclined.
Hmm, I think a re-read of your body of work is in order.
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Date: 17 Jul 2007 01:55 am (UTC)Yes, I did a timeline post & then switched it over to private while I edited it repeatedly. If I can/may/have energy, I may resend or repost all the chapters, this time with a few of the discontinuity edited out, and time-headers added in. We'll see.