[gw fic] Angels Over Coffee

[thistlerose]

Angels Over Coffee

Fandom: Gundam Wing
Rating: PG-13
Ships: Trowa/Quatre, Zechs/Noin, Duo/Hilde
Summary: Cathy has some choice words for her brother's new boyfriend and Zechs grovels...sort of.
A/N: One of the many sequels to Misguided Angels. This one was the best, in my opinion. Approx. 9,500 words.



PART ONE

mid-morning, Monday

Quatre woke slowly, vaguely aware that his life had altered irrevocably and dramatically in some way, but sleepily certain that this alteration was a good thing. Streamers of sunlight spilled through the window above the bed in which he lay, warming his face. He yawned and stretched-and started in confusion when his hand came in contact with something soft that moved and mumbled something that wasn't quite English. Quatre tilted his head, saw Trowa asleep beside him, his face turned toward his on the pillow-and smiled as he remembered where he was.

Images came swimming back to him from the previous night, although he was still not quite awake enough to make much sense of them. He remembered a terrible feeling of unhappiness, but that seemed very long ago and unimportant in light of the pure joy that suffused him now. He had gone to sleep and woken up in Trowa's bed; how could he EVER have been unhappy? Something nagged at his mind like a hint of autumn stirring the perfect summer air, but the sight of the boy beside him, the memory of kissing and holding and promises of love banished that particular worry far to the back of his mind. He reached over and brushed aside the tangled brown locks that fell over Trowa's eyes. The long, dark lashes twitched and he stirred slightly, but Quatre willed him back to sleep silently, and after a moment he sank back into deep sleep. Quatre sighed gratefully. His fingertips lingered over Trowa's cheek, but he did not touch him. He did not want him to wake just yet. He needed to think.

His increasing wakefulness brought concerns creeping back to him, concerns he'd been too tired, too sublimely happy, or too drunk (or perhaps all three), to give thought to, last night.

Was he gay, now? He didn't FEEL any different from exactly a week ago, when he'd fancied himself attracted to Miss Noin. But then, it was probably something one did not simply become over night. Kissing Trowa hadn't made him anything he hadn't already been; it had only made him realize what most of his friends had suspected all along. But-and this was the part he truly did not understand-Trowa was the ONLY person he had ever kissed, the only person he had EVER felt this strongly for, man or woman. He wondered...would he feel the same had Trowa been a woman? It was an odd thought, but he found himself pondering it for several long minutes. He loved Trowa physically as well as mentally and emotionally, but was it because he was Trowa or because he was a man? He tried to imagine Trowa's thoughts and mannerisms in Miss Noin's body...and had a very hard time with the mental image. This was something he should talk to Trowa about, he decided. Perhaps his friend felt the same confusion. It occurred to him he knew so little about Trowa's past and deepest thoughts.

There was no question that their friendship would never be the same again. Were they even still friends, he wondered, or had they evolved into something new? Were they lovers, now? Last night had been relatively chaste, but if they were not lovers, what else were they? He rolled the word ‘boyfriends' over in his mind, but it just didn't seem to fit. Literally speaking, anyway, lover meant simply ‘one who loves.' Lovers, then. “My lover,” he tried, propping himself up on his elbow so he could gaze down at Trowa's sleeping face. It was a beautiful thought, one that sent little thrills of excitement tingling up and down his body. Could they still be best friends if they were in fact lovers, or did this mean that Duo had now been graduated to best friend status? He decided that too was a matter that could wait until later. It was all quite puzzling and he'd had too little sleep to do any deep thinking. It was far easier, and far pleasanter, to lie there in bed and let himself be mesmerized by Trowa's peaceful, steady breathing. The warm summer sunlight brought out highlights in Trowa's hair as deeply golden as the ring on Quatre's finger.

Instead of calming him, however, watching Trowa while he slept made Quatre worry all the more. He felt oddly protective, as though he stood guard over something fragile and precious, something that could easily be lost. But then, he thought sadly, perhaps there was truth to that. Last night he had discovered a facet to Trowa he had never known to exist before, one that was playful and tender and smiled as readily as any young man who had never known real grief. He held the memory of that smile in his heart like a delightful secret only he knew. He had come so close to never discovering it at all. If the date had gone according to plan, or if he hadn't turned at the exact wrong moment to see Sally kiss Trowa, they might never have had this morning at all. He shivered at the thought.

Almost as though he sensed Quatre's troubled thoughts, Trowa frowned in his sleep, his lips parted around a small, half-plaintive sound that Quatre almost did not hear, close as he was. He bent forward anxiously, pained that there was still a place into which Trowa could retreat that Quatre could not follow him to and protect him there, as well.

Suddenly he wanted Trowa to wake up, wanted to see those beautiful, shadowy green eyes turned up to him, and that slow, deep smile that never failed to make his heart flutter. He pressed his lips softly to Trowa's-and was nearly thrown off the bed when Trowa started violently, scattering pillows and blankets as he scrambled to his knees.

“I'm sorry!” he cried, gripping Trowa's shoulders, as much to steady Trowa as himself. For a moment Trowa simply looked at him without recognition, his pupils so dilated Quatre doubted he could see anything, his breath coming out in quick, halting little gasps. “Hey,” Quatre said gently, still clutching Trowa's trembling shoulder with one hand and touching his cheek with the other. “It's me, Trowa,” he said, anxiously.

Gradually Trowa's eyes focused on him and his breathing slowed. “Q-Quatre?” he stammered.

“It's me,” he said again, giving his shoulder a steadying squeeze. His own heart was pounding rapidly, but he fought to keep his voice calm.

“Quatre,” Trowa said again, in his normal voice, and Quatre relaxed.

“Did you have a nightmare?” he asked, soothingly.

Trowa touched a hand to his brow, then shook his head. “I don't remember.”

“You looked like you might have,” Quatre said. “You were frowning in your sleep and you-cried out, a little.”

“I never remember my dreams.” His gaze wandered from Quatre's face to the scattered bedding. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

“I'm sorry I woke you up. I shouldn't have done that.”

“It's okay.” He sank back. Quatre grabbed the pillows and put them behind his back. He sighed appreciatively. “You're sweet.”

“So you DO remember last night.”

“Of course.” He smiled, and Quatre's heart skipped several beats. “Did you think I wouldn't?”

Quatre shrugged. “For a second you seemed surprised to see me. But I guess that's because you just woke up. I forgot where I was for a minute when I first woke up, too. Even though I was dreaming about you.”

“I was in your dream?” He turned his cheek into the pillow and regarded Quatre with one sleepy eye. “What was I doing?”

“I don't remember,” Quatre lied, blushing.

Trowa closed his eyes, making it impossible for Quatre to tell whether he believed him or not. “What time is it?” he asked.

“I don't know. Later.”

Trowa, without opening his eyes, said with mild amusement, “Later. Thanks.”

Quatre flipped Trowa's long bangs playfully. “Don't be a grouch.”

Trowa caught his hand. “I'll be a grouch if I want,” he grumped, then pressed a kiss into Quatre's palm. “You're cheerful enough for both of us.”

In response Quatre kissed his mouth.

“Mmff. Quatre-don't,” he protested, pushing him away. “My breath stinks,” he said sheepishly, covering his mouth with his hand.

“My breath stinks, too,” Quatre whispered, grinning. He kissed Trowa's hand.

“Quatre, it's too early. Is this something I'll have to put up with every morning?”

Quatre nodded cheerily. “Uh-huh. Want me to bring you breakfast?”

Trowa groaned and pulled the blankets up over his head.

“Hmm.” Quatre regarded the unmoving mound under the blankets, a few messy strands of autumn-brown hair peeking up onto the pillow. “I guess you want to go back to sleep.”

For response he got a muffled, “G'way.”

“Can I get breakfast? Or lunch-or whatever?”

The mound nodded.

“Can I-er, borrow a toothbrush?”

Nod.

Quatre sighed. His deeper questions would have to wait until later to be answered. He patted the mound fondly, whispered, “Don't forget I'm in love with you,” and slid off the bed. He was halfway across the floor when he heard a muffled, “Ah'm in wuv wid you, too.”

“Afternoon, sunshine,” Cathy sang when he emerged. She was seated at the table in the tiny kitchen, absently pouring sugar into the steaming cup before her. “Coffee? Oh, relax, I don't bite,” she said with a laugh as he began to retreat back into Trowa's room. “Sleeping Beauty's still out? Good, I want to talk to you.” She waved at him to take the chair opposite hers.

“Uhhh...” Quatre bit his lip. “Sure. But could you tell me where I could find a...?”

“That way, sugar,” Cathy said, pointing.

Quatre nodded his thanks and shuffled off in the direction she had indicated.

When he returned from the bathroom a place had been set for him. He sat down, and stared at the rather Spartan spread before him. There was a plate full of golden-brown pancakes, a pitcher of orange juice, a bowl of fruit, a bowl of strawberries, a mug of steaming coffee, milk, sugar, jam, and not much more. As a soldier he was used to roughing it, but when he was home or visiting his sisters, he was accustomed to something a bit more sumptuous.

“You pick the pitcher up and pour it into the glass,” Cathy said helpfully, over the rim of her coffee mug.

Wordlessly Quatre reached for the orange juice and did as she instructed.

“Not quite what you're used to,” Cathy surmised, fixing him with a shrewd lavender eye. He flushed, embarrassed. “Try the strawberries,” she said, pushing them at him. “I'll bet you never had anything so good.”

“I thought you said you wouldn't make breakfast,” Quatre said as he picked a few large, ruby-red strawberries and put them on his plate.

“This isn't breakfast; it's lunch.” She shrugged. “Besides, he can't cook. I didn't want you two to starve.”

“You're really good to him.”

“He's all I have.” She looked away for a moment, her eyes focusing on some middle distance over Quatre's shoulder. The silence became awkward. Quatre turned his coffee mug in his hands. He had always felt nervous around Cathy, even when he and Trowa had just been friends. She was so protective of Trowa-and he was glad, because the more people who wanted to protect his Trowa, the better-but Quatre always had the impression that she disapproved of him in any capacity. He couldn't blame her, he thought glumly. He was the one who had almost killed Trowa and had caused his amnesia.

Finally, because the silence was torturing him and because he really wanted to know what she thought of his relationship with her brother, he said, “You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes focused back on him. “I'm just trying to figure out how to start this. I don't want to make it sound-mean or obnoxious or anything. I guess I don't really have the right to pry...”

“I think you do,” he said, putting down his mug and looking at her. At her questioning look his gaze drooped and he said, trying not to sound too grieved, “I think he loves you more than me.”

“That's not true,” she said. “No way is that true. I have NEVER seen him smile the way he did when he came home this morning. He looked REALLY happy.” She tucked her knees up to her chest and wrapped one arm around her legs. “He also never said he loved me, before. YOU did that, not me. I just fix his ties and make his breakfast.”

“You protect him better than I do.” The pancakes looked exceedingly enticing. His stomach growled, but he didn't want to indulge his appetite until he and Cathy had things sorted out between them.

“Well...” Cathy played with one frayed end of her light cotton sweater. “I guess I have less to worry about in this world than you do. If I only have to do my job at the circus-and watch the neighbors' kids a few days a week-and make sure he doesn't get himself killed, you'd THINK I'd be able to handle all that, right?”

“I think you do an amazing job,” Quatre said honestly. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before saying in a soft voice, “I think I know what you're getting at, and I can understand why you feel that way about me. If it weren't for me, Trowa would never have been hurt, that time. I would give ANYTHING to undo what I did, but I can't. And...I don't want you to think I'm with him because I'm trying to make it up to him, for what I did. I would do that anyway, but I'm with him because I really, really love him.”

Cathy's mouth hung open a little, and her eyes were wide, as though she had not expected so impassioned a declaration. Quatre stared back at her frankly. He WANTED her approval. He really was grateful for all she had done for his lover.

“Hmmm,” she said, finally. “That sort of was what I wanted to talk to you about, but not quite. It's just-“ She looked behind her, suddenly, then turned back to face him, a little sheepish. “I wanted to make sure. You're positive he's still out cold? Good. I swear, he's so quiet he could just sneak up on you and you'd never hear. You'll tell me if he's behind me?” Quatre nodded. “The thing is-“ She sighed and laid her hands, palms up, on the table. “I love him, too. Not the way you do!” she assured him, smiling at a little as he started. “Trust me! Ooh, that's a weird thought.” She shook her head. “I love him like a brother. I mean, technically he's NOT my brother, but in a way that almost makes him MORE special to me, you know?” He didn't. “Well,” she began to explain, then interrupted herself when she caught sight of his still-empty plate. “Eat those pancakes before they get cold!” She began shoveling pancakes onto his plate. He protested politely, but the wonderful aroma had been tantalizing his nose since he sat down and he was secretly glad at her insistence. Once he picked up his knife and fork Cathy sat back in her chair. “Sorry,” she said, “I'm just like that. Maternal. I'd probably drive any kids I ever had completely nuts.”

He ate a few bites to please her, but the pancakes were so good he couldn't restrain himself and was soon wolfing down piece after piece. He said around a mouthful, “Theesh are amashing.” Cathy beamed.

“What I mean is,” she went on while he ate, “I think lonely people are just drawn to one another. I HATE it that he can't remember his family at all. At least I have that much.”

“I'm sorry,” Quatre said, putting down his knife and fork. “Trowa told me your parents were killed in the war. How old were you?”

“I was five,” she said. “My baby brother was three.”

“I didn't know you had a brother!”

“I never told Trowa. I don't ever want him to think he's filling someone's place.” Quatre nodded. Trowa probably WOULD think that. “The thing is,” she went on, “I never found out what happened to my younger brother, Triton. I knew my parents died. The Manager and his wife found me with them. But they never found my brother. So for years I used to fantasize that he would turn up someday and we'd be reunited. I stayed with the circus because they traveled so much. I thought there'd be more of a chance of running into Triton. But I never did.” She picked up an apple from the bowl on the table and turned it over in her hands absently. “I never really gave up hope-until Trowa turned up at the circus, three years ago. That was when I realized I had to let go. If Triton was still alive, chances were someone else took him in and was taking care of him all this time. At least, that's what I hoped. If I ever ran into him, I probably wouldn't recognize him. In the mean time, here was this other boy who needed me to be his sister. I'm not religious, Quatre, but I'm so grateful to whoever or whatever made him choose my circus. I DON'T think of Trowa as a substitute for the brother I lost. It's more like...like someone's giving me a second chance. And I'm NOT going to mess this one up.”

“You couldn't have done anything; you were only five,” Quatre said gently, touched that she was so open with him. He did some rapid calculations in his head. “Have you ever thought he might really be your brother Triton?” It gave him a curious twinge to think Trowa might learn his real name.

She looked down at the apple in her hand, reached for her knife, and began to pare it. “Of course I thought about it when I first met him. If he's the same age as you are, then he'd be Triton's exact age if he was alive. I thought about having a blood test done. But I changed my mind. I don't really want to know. I would have to tell Trowa what the test was for, and then if it turned out he WASN'T my brother... It would sort of be like looking a gift horse in the mouth, don't you think? Anyway, now you see why I'm so ridiculously protective of him?” Quatre nodded solemnly. “He's so important to me. I'm stupid, Quatre. I'm not like Sally Po or Lucrezia Noin, or you Gundam pilots. I can't see wars in terms of armies and battles. I only see the individual people who get hurt. I HATE wars. All I really want is peace, and I could never see why that was something you had to fight for. I hate what the war did to my Trowa, and I was SO angry with you for making him go back to fight.” She glanced at the knife with which she was paring the apple. “This is the wrong knife for this,” she commented to herself and got up to get a sharper one.

Quatre waited until she had sat down again and was chipping at the apple with the new knife before he said, “You're not stupid, Miss Catherine. If more people thought like you maybe there wouldn't be any wars at all. I used to think like that, too. I hated war, and I guess I never really stopped, but after fighting for so long the individual faces sort of blurred into armies. I didn't realize how far I had gotten from the way I'd started until I hurt Trowa. I'd just lost my father and my sister Iria, and I was just so ANGRY at everyone. I was crazy. I wanted to stop the war and I thought the only way to do it was to destroy everything in sight.” He massaged his temples. “I really think I would have kept on destroying things if Trowa hadn't gotten in my way. I didn't MEAN to shoot him. I was trying to destroy the Colony, and then Heero got in the way, and then Trowa got in Heero's way...” He groaned and looked so stricken that Cathy left off her paring for a moment and gave him a worried look. “Once I saw what I had done, though, everything became clear again. But it was too late. Allah, I'm SO sorry. After that...I couldn't look at another soldier without seeing Trowa's face. He really saved my soul. The strange thing is, he never got angry with me for what I did. I was so sure he would, after he got his memories back, but...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“He never talked to me about that,” Cathy said softly. “I don't know how he really feels, but I'm sure he doesn't blame you. I don't even think I do, anymore.”

Quatre looked up at her, turquoise eyes wide and questioning.

Cathy began to pare the apple again. “I believe you when you say you didn't mean to hurt him. And I can't get over the way he was smiling this morning. He's just crazy about you. When I first met him he had this dead look in his eyes that I swear gave me nightmares. There wasn't anything I could do to reach him. You see-he won't talk to me about what he remembers from his past, but I think someone, or several someones, might have hurt him. I don't know how or who, or why any sane person would ever want to hurt Trowa. But this morning he was just so...alive. That's all YOU, honey. That's why if you ever hurt him again, I'll kill you.” The knife sliced a big chunk off the apple meaningfully.

Quatre gulped. “But I thought-”

Her eyes flashed sternly. “Quatre, I HAVE noticed that you're both GUYS.”

He flushed. “So?”

“So-Quatre, I told you I'm stupid, but I'm not so stupid I don't know how unfair the world can be. I know that what the law allows society doesn't always uphold. I know there are some really mean, stupid people out there. And even I've heard of Winner Enterprises, before I even met you. You're famous all over the place and people are not going to leave you alone.”

“I don't care what people think or say,” Quatre said darkly.

“Right now you don't, because no one has said anything, yet. But Quatre-you're listed in trashy ladies' magazines as one of the Colonies' most eligible bachelors!”

“I am?” He was rather amazed.

“YES. So you see, people already care about what you do. And they're going to care about THIS. And I don't want Trowa dragged into some scandal. HE wouldn't want that.”

“It wouldn't be a scandal; I LOVE him.”

“Keep your voice down. Quatre, I KNOW. But the thing is-see, I AM going to sound mean and obnoxious, after all. Quatre, you're one of the richest people in the Colonies-”

“Not really; my sisters control my finances right now. Until I turn twenty-one.”

“That's what I mean. You have so many people looking out for you: your sisters, your-guardians, whatever you call them-”

“The Maguanacs.”

“Right. Are they really going to let you get involved with, well, some nameless circus performer?”

“Miss Catherine,” he said sternly, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself, “it's MY choice. It's not even a choice, really. I'm not with a guy because I want to be rebellious or experiment or whatever before I settle down with some heiress. That's never going to happen. I'm with a guy because that's what he happens to be.”

“Quatre, the two of you are only eighteen.”

“Wars make people grow up fast. This is how I feel. Miss Catherine, I KNOW you're worried about what will happen when people find out. But PLEASE trust me in this. I would NEVER let anyone hurt Trowa, and I really don't think my sisters or the Maguanacs would object once they know how important he is to me. And even if they do-” He shrugged. “If they do, I don't care.”

“Quatre, you can't mean that.”

He looked stubborn for a moment. Then his expression softened. “No, I don't. I mean no, I really would care. I'd be so unhappy if my sisters couldn't accept what I'm doing. But...he's more important to me. I've NEVER felt for anyone what I feel for him. He's...everything to me. And if I ever did anything to hurt him-not that I ever would-then you'd be right to kill me.” He met her gaze levelly. She looked surprised. “Miss Catherine...I would want you to.”

Just then the bedroom door creaked open and a disheveled brown head peeked into the kitchen. “Hi,” Trowa mumbled, looking blearily from one fierce face to the other.

“Quatre,” Cathy said, her voice dripping with sugar, “PLEASE call me Cathy.” Quatre read in her eyes her acceptance of his offer. He glanced up at Trowa.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a smile.

“Eh?”

“Oh, go wash up,” Cathy said in a mock-stern voice. “I'll reheat the coffee.”

Trowa blinked at her again, then lurched across the kitchen in the direction of the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, looking slightly more awake, Cathy had cleared her own dishes away and replaced them with a clean plate and a fresh cup of steaming coffee. “There's cream and sugar,” she said, pointing, as Trowa sank into the chair.

Trowa drank it black. After the first long sip he closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Thank you.”

“Quatre can vouch for the pancakes. Right, Quatre?” she bubbled friendlily.

Quatre nodded, wondering if Trowa was awake enough to sense the tempestuous undercurrent.

“And Mrs. Undegdau sent over those strawberries to thank you for weeding her garden last Wednesday. They're delicious.”

Trowa reached over and picked up one of the beautiful red berries and held it before his eyes. “So that's a strawberry,” he mused.

Quatre said, incredulous, “You mean you've never had strawberries before?”

Trowa shrugged. “At the Foundation we just ate whatever it was cheapest to import.”

He looked so defensive that Quatre and Cathy could not help laughing, and that helped to ease away the last of the tension between them, at least temporarily. Cathy mussed Trowa's hair playfully. “I'll leave you two to your lunch.” She picked up the apple she had mutilated. “Maybe I'll make a pie, later.” She deposited the mangled fruit on the counter and, picking up her purse, wandered out the front door, saying over her shoulder, “If anyone calls, just tell them I'm going to the store for a few minutes.”

Once she was gone Trowa lifted his gaze to Quatre's. “She wasn't mean to you, was she?”

Quatre considered telling Trowa a little bit about their discussion, but decided not to. It would probably embarrass him to be the subject of such a debate and Quatre really didn't think Trowa would approve of his offer to let Cathy kill him if he ever hurt him, deliberately or not. Instead he said, resting his chin on his fist, “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh-huh.” Trowa gazed thoughtfully at the strawberry. “Funny,” he said, “I didn't think they would be so...red.” Quatre snickered. Trowa glanced up over the berry and fixed him with a smile so melting that his heart did a triple axle. “I wonder,” he softly, “are they very sweet?”

“The really ripe ones are.”

“I'm not a big fan of sweet.”

“Then how come you're with me?”

It was Trowa's turn to snicker. “You're not REALLY sweet. You're a little tart.” His seductive façade collapsed, though, into a small giggle. “Quatre, I can't do this. It's not me.”

“Eat your strawberry.”

Trowa took a tentative bite and made a slight face. “It's REALLY sweet.”

“That one's really ripe. Try this one,” he said, picking up a bright red berry from his plate. He was about to pass it across the table to Trowa, but a sudden naughty thought possessed him and instead he slid out of his chair, crossed the floor to where Trowa sat and said, trying to keep his voice sultrily low-pitched but blushing furiously, “Open your mouth.” Trowa did so. Quatre popped the strawberry in, brushing his lips with his fingertips as he did. Trowa practically inhaled the strawberry and the fingers holding it. Quatre's heart fluttered wildly as Trowa swallowed the strawberry, then ran his cool tongue along Quatre's fingertips, tasting and caressing. Little thrills of excitement began to dance in his belly and his vision went slightly hazy. Trowa put his hands on his waist and drew him close. Their lips met in a juicy, not-overly-sweet kiss. Quatre ran his tongue along the inside of Trowa's mouth, tasting the remnants of the strawberry. Trowa bunched up the bottom of Quatre's shirt in his fists, drew him closer so that he was practically sitting in his lap.

“Mmmm.” Trowa broke the kiss slowly after a long, languorous moment, lifting Quatre's face away from his and gazing up at him tenderly. “So that's how you eat a strawberry,” he murmured. “I think I could become a real fan.”

“Your breath tastes wonderful,” Quatre said, blushing as brightly as the berry they had just consumed.

“So does yours. Just the right amount of sweet. I'm sorry I was such a grouch, before.”

“Don't worry. I'll just have to learn how to make coffee.”

“You don't know? Quatre, even I know how to make coffee.”

“Good. You can teach me.”

“It's very easy,” Trowa said, helping himself to some pancakes. “You just pour boiling water over the coffee crystals.”

“I always thought coffee came from beans. That's really all there is to it?”

Trowa thought as he carved up his pancakes. “I think there's a more complicated way that Cathy knows, but that's what I do.” He shrugged. “It works.”

Now was the time, Quatre thought, to ask Trowa his questions, while Catherine was away and before they had to start explaining everything to their friends. There were so many, though, and the most burning ones made him the most uneasy. He did not, for instance, feel that now was the appropriate moment to ask Trowa about his sexuality. Besides, his conversation with Cathy had more or less sorted him out on that issue; he loved Trowa. What did it matter whether or not he was a man? As for the others... Trowa glanced up at him. “Quatre? You're staring at me.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to ask...”

“What?”

“I was wondering,” he said, stroking Trowa's hair, “are we lovers, now?” For the third time in ten minutes he blushed.

Trowa put his fork down, propped his chin up on his fist and regarded him thoughtfully. “I don't know,” he said, after a moment.

“I mean, we didn't really DO anything last night...did we?” he asked uncertainly.

Trowa grinned. “I can't believe you don't remember.”

“I was a little spaced.”

“We almost did something, but we weren't ready.”

“I remember you-undressing me, I think.”

The corners of that small smile curved further upward. “Yes.”

“But if we didn't...do anything...are we...?” He started to say, “Don't we have to make love first?” but he couldn't make the words come. Instead he said, “I mean, I feel sort of funny calling you my boyfriend. Or my significant other.”

“You're right; it doesn't sound like us,” Trowa agreed, seriously.

“CAN we be lovers if we just love each other?”

“I think so. I've never had a lover, before.”

“Really never?”

“Really never.”

Quatre smiled.

Just then there was a knock at the door. The boys glanced at one another. “It's probably a neighbor,” Trowa said. “I'm in my shorts...”

“But this is your trailer.”

The knock sounded again, loudly and insistently. Trowa got up and went to the door. He peered out the window, then turned back to Quatre, his eyebrows raised. The door rattled a third time and Trowa drew it open with a sigh. Quatre could not see who stood in the doorway, but he recognized the deep, gravelly, very tired-sounding voice immediately:

“All right. I have it from a fairly reliable source Master Quatre is here. Let me in.”

“Crap! Abdul!” Quatre gulped. He KNEW he'd been forgetting something.

Barely waiting for Trowa to move out of the way, Abdul staggered through the doorway. “Master Quatre! Thank Allah you're all right. When you didn't come home last night we were worried. I've been out since five a.m. looking for you.” He looked as though he had been. His customary green shirt and blue vest were dirty, his usually neatly-combed black hair was disheveled, and Quatre could see dark circles peeking out from under the trademark sunglasses. Even his fez seemed to droop. He felt genuinely contrite at having caused his loyal guardians to worry.

“I'm sorry,” he said meekly. “Won't you sit down?”

Abdul shook his head. “No. I have to call Rashid and the others. Tell them you're alive and not lying in a ditch somewhere.” He eyed the pancakes and strawberries longingly, but dragged his gaze back to Quatre's. He said, accusingly, “You could have called us, Master. Rashid was ready to kill me for leaving you alone in a pub.”

“I wasn't alone,” Quatre protested. “I was with Trowa and Sally and Miss Noin-”

“What about Miss Noin? She was the first person I went to see after checking the Preventers' Headquarters and she said she didn't know where you were. She only said you'd gone off with Trowa Barton after you left the pub. How could she leave you alone like that?”

Quatre bristled. “Miss Noin was my date, not my babysitter. Abdul, I'm eighteen!”

Trowa, meantime, had wandered back into the kitchen and was hovering off to the side, watching the exchange impassively. Now he spoke up, politely: “Sir, he was perfectly safe with me.”

Quatre tried to signal Trowa to stay quiet, but it was too late. Abdul, who had apparently forgotten Trowa existed, turned around to glare at him. He took a few threatening paces toward Trowa, who stood his ground, chin held high, small fists clenched at his sides. Quatre, who honestly did not think they would come to blows, but who nevertheless wanted to divert Abdul's hostile attention from Trowa, cried, “Abdul, nothing happened!”

At once Abdul halted and Quatre realized that he had erred. Until that point Abdul had merely thought that the date with Miss Noin had ended poorly and so Quatre had sought refuge with his best friend. Now the implication was that something MIGHT have happened between Quatre and Trowa, and from the guilty look on Quatre's face, it was clear the assumption was correct. “Master Quatre,” Abdul said in a stiff voice, “get dressed, and let's go.”

Quatre held his ground stubbornly. “No.”

“Master Quatre,” Abdul said, turning to face him, “I have been walking all over this city for the past nine hours looking for you, thinking you'd been kidnapped or murdered and were lying in a gutter somewhere. Please come home with me.” The face he gave Quatre was far more weary than angry, and Quatre almost relented, but then Trowa said, uncertainly, “Quatre?” and his resolve hardened.

“No,” he said again. “I'm not leaving. Not yet, anyway. Trowa and I are in the middle of lunch. If you want, I'll call Rashid from here and tell him I'm still alive and that I'm very sorry for making all of you worry. And then you may join us for lunch. But I'm not leaving.” He looked from Abdul's slack, astonished face to Trowa-and knew that whatever chastisement he received from his guardians for his obstinacy, the look on Trowa's face would forever be worth it. He pulled the chair he had been standing by away from the table. “Abdul, you look exhausted. Please sit down.”

For a moment he thought Abdul would argue. He seemed about to. But then the last of whatever energy had carried him this far gave out and he sagged into the chair. He folded his arms on the table and dropped his head into them. A muffled sigh issued from the depths of the folded arms. Quatre bent forward anxiously. “Abdul?” he said, touching the Maguanac's shoulder. Abdul brushed his hand away. “Rashid is going to kill me,” he whimpered.

"Why?” he asked, truly not understanding. “Nothing happened and it's not your fault. Even if something had happened, why would it matter?” There was something alarming about witnessing his guardian in such a pathetic state. He exchanged a worried glance with Trowa over Abdul's bowed head. “I guess he's really tired,” Quatre murmured.

“Maybe you should go home,” Trowa suggested, though it was clear that was not what he wanted.

“How? Oh, I guess we could call a cab.”

Trowa's brows knitted together. “I guess... Cathy will be mad we didn't finish the pancakes.”

“I'M mad,” Quatre said with a small, dry laugh. “Not just about the pancakes.” He saw, in the way Trowa lowered his lashes, that he understood what Quatre did not say.

He looked up again. “I guess we could move him to the sofa until the cab gets here, anyway. It's probably more comfortable.” He took hold of one of Abdul's arms and started to help the Maguanac to his feet.

What followed happened too quickly for Quatre to make much sense of it immediately. Abdul probably had not MEANT to harm Trowa, he decided afterward. He was probably surprised by the unexpected hand on his arm, too exhausted and distraught to know what he was doing. And Trowa's reflexes were quick, but Quatre doubted he expected a blow of any kind. So when Abdul jerked his hand back, catching Trowa across the chest, the boy staggered back violently, crashing into the wall. Quatre's cry of alarm was lost to the sound of a door slamming and an unmistakable voice ringing like a clap of thunder,

“GET YOUR MEATHOOKS OFF MY BROTHER!”

Everyone jumped up, Abdul nearly tripping over his chair.

“It's okay, Cathy,” Trowa choked, stepping away from the wall.

Cathy brushed past him.

“Miss Catherine, he didn't-” Quatre began, but she ignored him as well, planting herself in front of Abdul and demanding, imperious as any queen, though she had to tilt her head all the way back to see his face,

“Who. Are. You.”

Abdul seemed to have lost his ability to speak. He tried to mumble something that was probably his name, but it sounded more like, “Abdabalasser.”

“He's one of my guardians,” Quatre put in hurriedly. “He's a Maguanac warrior. He's been looking for me all morning and he's very tired. He didn't mean to hit Trowa. He would NEVER do anything like that-er, in his right mind.”

“I don't care what mind he is in. NO one hits my brother...”

“Cathy, YOU hit me once,” Trowa ventured timidly.

“...except ME.”

Quatre had only ever seen Trowa's sister so angry once before, and the memory of that confrontation still frightened him. Every time he thought about it he remembered the old warning against getting between a mother bear and her cub...and he wisely backed away, hoping Abdul would do the same, with proper humility. Abdul simply continued to stare down at the furious woman before him. Quatre wondered what he saw.

What Abdul saw was a vision in denim cut-offs and tiny crop-top, ragged cotton sweater tied loosely around a waist he imagined he could span with one hand; eyes the color of the sky before a hurricane, framed by russet curls as soft and fluffy as nimbus clouds; all of which stemmed from the longest, most perfectly slender pair of legs he had ever seen. The vision had her dainty white hands on her trim waist and was tapping one slim, sandaled foot impatiently. “Well?” she snapped in a tone that even the most smitten poet could not describe as dulcet. “What are you looking at?”

Here Abdul finally found his voice and his manners. He quickly removed his fez and sunglasses and set them on the table behind them. Then he picked up one of those dainty hands in his own large, callused one and, bringing it to his lips, said, his eyes flashing like polished onyx, “I'm looking at you, miss.”

It was Cathy's turn to stare, and stare she did, her mouth open in a little ‘o', her eyes wide, her cheeks dusted crimson. Though clearly the worse for wear at the moment, nine hours of walking could not disguise the fact that the man before her had, in addition to two of the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen, clear, smooth skin as bronze as a desert sunset, impressively broad shoulders, and a smile that suggested an inner suavity beneath the somewhat goofy exterior.

“Sir,” Trowa said in a voice like quiet thunder, “get your hands off my sister.”

“Oh, Trowa, pipe down,” Cathy said, not looking at him. She murmured to Abdul, her long lashes fluttering downward demurely, “No one has ever kissed my hand, before.”

“That,” Abdul said softly, “is a crime.”

“Er-” Quatre and Trowa said at the same moment. They were ignored.

“Miss Barton,” Abdul began.

“Bloom,” Cathy said, lifting her gaze and smiling dazzlingly. “My name is Catherine Bloom.”

“I am Abdul al-Nasr of the Maguanac Fighting Corps. Where I come from it's custom to kiss a lady's hand when first introduced.”

“No, it's not!” Quatre exclaimed, but Abdul shot him a warning look.

“I'm so sorry for intruding in your home,” he went on, turning back to the rapt Catherine, “and for, er, hitting your brother. I swear I didn't mean to.”

“Who?” said Cathy breathlessly.

Trowa and Quatre stood together, staring at the two people who had forgotten they existed. Trowa reached for Quatre's hand, found it was trembling like his own. They glanced at one another, eyes mirroring each other's horror.

PART TWO

Still early afternoon, Monday

Lucrezia Noin was not expecting any visitors that morning. However, she was in such a sunny mood that when, halfway through her second cup of coffee, the doorbell chimed, she was not the least bit annoyed. She set her coffee cup down, reached over to turn off the radio, and got up slowly to see who it was. It was Zechs Merquise. She waited until her heartbeat had slowed to a steady thump and the sudden red in her cheeks had gone back to white. Then she slowly undid the lock and, opening the door, said, in a neutral voice, “Hello, Zechs.”

He looked at her for a long moment, his cool blue eyes troubled, his fine silver brows drawn together worriedly. It was the first time in many, many years that Noin had seen Zechs look anything approaching nervous. It shocked her, but she had her face under control and managed to betray none of her inner quaking. She simply returned his look, thinking, I'll never get over feeling sixteen years old again whenever I look at him. Even if I get over him, I won't get over that feeling.

Finally he said, uncertainly, “May I come in?” “Of course, Zechs,” she said coolly, stepping away from the door. “I was just finishing brunch before heading to Headquarters. Would you like some coffee?” She went back into the kitchen, imagining he would follow, but when she stopped and turned around she saw he still stood in the doorway, a curious expression on his face.

“It's been a long time since we had coffee together,” he observed in a soft, faraway voice that made Noin's heart lurch. She willed herself back to severity.

“Yes, it is.”

“Not since the Academy, I think.”

“No.”

“We used to get up early and meet at the café just as it was opening so we could drink coffee and get a few hours of studying in, before breakfast.”

“I remember,” she said evenly. Everyone in their class had thought them mad, but she hadn't minded. It had given her an extra few hours to study HIM as well as her academic books. “Do you WANT coffee?”

“Not if YOU made it,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“I've gotten better. But if you don't care to try it, you can make it yourself, or not have any at all.” She turned and marched to the sink where she began doing the dishes furiously.

“I'll have a cup.”

“Get it yourself.”

“Fine.” He came up behind her, and reaching up over her shoulder, got a mug from the cabinet. She scrubbed the dish furiously, forcing herself not to inhale the musky scent of him, so wonderful, so masculine, trying not to flinch when his arm brushed her shoulder.

“What do you want, Zechs?” she asked, as he poured coffee for himself. Her voice broke a little. She hated it. When would she learn to stop reacting this way to him? If fighting on opposite sides during the war had not dimmed her love, would anything?

“I want to talk to you.”

“Oh, that's rich,” she said, nearly crushing the suds-covered glass in her hand. “YOU want to talk. When do YOU ever want to TALK?”

“I said I did,” he said gruffly. “If you don't want to, I'll leave.”

“Don't leave,” Noin said, not turning, because then he would see her flush of unhappiness at the thought of him leaving. “I'm a sucker for novelty. Please talk.”

Instead of launching into an oration-which, coming from the taciturn Zechs would have greatly amused Noin, whatever it was about-his gaze swept the apartment's small kitchen, taking in all the little things that were different from the last time he was there. “Those flowers are not the ones I sent you. Did you throw them out?”

“No. I would never throw out flowers. They're in my office.”

“Then who are those from?” he fairly growled. Noin's neck and shoulders tingled at the sound.

“Quatre Winner,” she said nonchalantly.

Zechs sat in silence for a minute. Then he said, “Right. I heard the two of you had a date. I didn't think robbing the cradle was your thing.”

“For your information,” Noin said, turning around to face him angrily, “he is eighteen years old and a perfect gentleman. I had a marvelous time with him. Are you jealous that a younger man might be interested in me?”

“Who said anything about jealous? And if things were ‘marvelous' as you say, what are all those phone numbers on your fridge?”

“Things didn't go QUITE as expected,” Noin admitted. “Those are future dates. A couple of them are former OZ officers. You probably know one or two.”

He snorted.

“Zechs, did you come here to talk or to argue?”

“I came here to talk.”

“Go ahead.” She leaned against the sink, her arms folded across her chest, her expression stony. She would not let him get to her. Not this time. She could not bring herself to harm him during the war, but she'd be damned if she let him walk all over her now that there was peace.

He sighed. “Noin, a lot of things...happened in the war, things I still don't understand. Here I sit on the world I tried so hard to destroy, and I'm not sorry that I failed. I don't understand that. Earth had become to me the epitome of evil and oppression in the universe. But with Treize's death, somehow that changed. I still do not know who my true enemy was, who I was really trying to destroy-the Earth, or Treize, my former friend?”

“It is hard to bring yourself to harm someone you cared about, even if it was in the past. Perhaps you could not destroy Treize, so you directed your anger at the Earth, the thing he represented.”

“Noin, I don't know. Then there's the matter of that mobile suit, Epyon. When I attempted to destroy the Earth, was I acting by my own will or was my will bent by Epyon?” Noin watched him patiently. “And then there are the Gundam pilots themselves. Heero Yuy was my enemy, and I would have killed him if I could, but I would not let him self destruct in Libra, in the end. Was I a coward? Or was I trying to atone-when I'm not even sure I was wrong?”

“Maybe it was kindness to Relena,” Noin suggested softly. Zechs looked at her derisively for a moment, then he shrugged.

“I don't know. That could have been part of it.”

“Zechs, these are things I want to help you figure out. But I can't if you won't be open with me.”

“I'm trying, Noin. You must know it's not easy.”

“I never thought it would be, Zechs.”

“For the last three years I've considered myself a dead man.”

“Well,” she snapped, “you're not dead. So stop acting like it. I need to leave. I told Lady Une I'd be late, but she won't forgive me if I'm not at Headquarters in half an hour. Are you going to drink that coffee or not?”

Zechs glanced down at the still-full mug in his hands. “Have you really improved?” he asked doubtfully. Noin simply glared. Scrunching his face up bravely, Zechs lifted the mug to his lips, and took a tentative sip. His lips twisted in disgust and he set the mug down on the table, pushing it as far from him as his arm could reach. “Noin, this is the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. You honestly CAN'T make coffee.”

Noin took the mug, spilled its contents into the sink, then left it there to wash later. She picked up her Preventers' jacket and her backpack, dug the keys to Sally's convertible out of her pocket, and started for the door. “Are you coming?”

Zechs got up and followed her. When she reached the door, though, he stepped in front of her, barring the way. “I meant what I said, Noin. I want you to help me. I miss you.”

Noin looked up at him. He was beautiful. She would never be immune to the power of those wintry blue eyes, that cascade of frost-colored hair, those thin, sensual lips curved into that gently mocking smile. Still she said, with more conviction than she'd thought herself capable of, “Zechs, I need to go and do my job. There are only three words I want to hear from you right now and until I hear them, there is nothing I can do for you.”

“Noin.” He touched her cheek with his long, lean fingers. “Lucrezia.” The way he said her name, his low, husky voice wrapping around the syllables, came straight from all her most cherished dreams and fantasies. “I DO love you.”

“That's four words,” she said, meeting his gaze, “and they're the wrong ones.”

She brushed past him, shoving Sally's keys back into her pocket. Her friend could get her car back later. Noin needed to burn off steam and she did not want to do it behind the wheel of a car. She started down the street, her chin held high, not caring whether or not Zechs was following.

He was, though at a safe distance on the other side of the street. She caught one glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, his hands in his pockets, his long hair trailing down his back, his eyes straight ahead. When she turned her head all the way to look he turned as well. His gaze met hers. He smiled. She glared straight ahead, lengthening her stride. He matched hers, step for step, across the street. “Go the hell away,” she muttered through clenched teeth. When she glanced back-she couldn't help it-he was gone. Trying not to be too disappointed, she strode on.

She never heard him, never saw him, but suddenly he was on the sidewalk in front of her, his arms folded across his chest. She tried to shoulder past him, but he wouldn't move.

“Dammit, Zechs! Let me go.”

“Can't I at least walk on the same side of the street as you?”

“Do whatever the hell you want. It's not as though I care.”

She stepped quickly around him. She had not gone three paces when she heard him say, in a distinct, measured tone,

“Lucrezia, I. Was. Wrong.”

She stopped. “That's four, dammit.”

“Lucrezia.” He came up behind her. He did not touch her, but his warm breath stirred her hair. “I'm sorry. I need you in my life. I was wrong to brush you aside.”

She turned. Tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she did not care if he saw. She wanted him to know how his stubbornness hurt her. She was tired of being strong.

“Lucrezia,” he murmured, cupping her slender shoulders in his hands.

“I couldn't hurt you in the war,” she half-sobbed, her lower lip trembling violently, her arms hanging limply at her sides. “I should have. But I was weak.”

“I couldn't bring myself to hurt you, either. I thought it was weakness. But I was wrong. It was strength.”

“We can't go back to what we were at the Academy, Zechs. I don't want that, anyway. I want something new. But I don't know what, yet.”

He lifted one hand to touch her cheek, gently. “We'll find out what sort of options there are for a man just come back from the dead. And the woman he loves and needs. In the meantime, there is something I want to do.”

“What?”

“I want to buy you a decent cup of coffee.” He winked.

“Damn you!” She pummeled his chest with her fists. When she was through, though, he kissed her, lightly, on the lips. “Mmmfff.” She broke the kiss, but she smiled up at him. “Let's start with coffee,” she said, “and see where it leads us.”

EPILOGUE
Tuesday morning

“Hey, babe,” Duo said when Hilde bounced into the barracks the next morning. “What's up?”

Hilde slid onto his lap, straddling his waist with her slim legs. “Guess who I just saw in the mess hall oh-so-surreptitiously holding hands under the table?” she bubbled.

Duo scratched his head thoughtfully. “Would that be...Dorothy and Wufei?”

“Duo! Prove your oft hinted-at intelligence by making GOOD guesses if you don't already know.”

He tilted his head back so he could look into her dancing blue eyes. He traced her smile with his finger before guessing, “HEERO and Wufei?”

“Oh, you!” He let her bat him playfully for a bit, then he caught her small fists and said amiably, “So tell me.”

“Trowa and Quatre!” she revealed with a superior air. “Duo, say you didn't know. Did I really surprise you?”

He nodded slowly. “I'm surprised they were that...quick. It's about freaking time, though. Hilde, that's SO COOL!” He bounded out of his chair, spilling her onto the floor as he did so.

“Duo!”

“Sorry, babe,” he said, leaning back to kiss her cheek. “I gotta go tell the guys!”

He was out of the room before she could stop him.

Heero and Wufei were in the ammunition storeroom, bent intently over a rocket launcher, when Duo found them. Heero was saying, “I find that if you adjust this knob right here, you get an even bigger radius of destruction,” to which Wufei replied, “Cool.”

“Guys!” Duo exclaimed, bounding into the room.

“Maxwell,” Wufei acknowledged, looking up. Heero merely nodded.

Duo clucked his tongue at them, hands on his hips. “What busy little beavers. Heero, I don't suppose you could fix the coke machine in the lobby so I can get my drinks for free?”

Heero did not look up. “No.”

Wufei snorted. “You want us to HELP you get your fix, Maxwell?”

Duo harrumphed. “Well, fine. Be that way. But...guess who's a prophet?”

“You, I suppose,” said Wufei.

“That's right. Exactly a week and a day ago I predicted Q-bunny and El Silencio would make a charming couple and GUESS WHAT.”

Heero looked up from the rocket launcher. “They're going out. Duo, we know that. We've known that since yesterday. EVERYONE has known that since yesterday.”

Wufei snickered. “Where have you BEEN, Maxwell?”

Duo looked deflated. “Why didn't you tell ME?”

Heero lifted his heavy dark eyebrows. “And miss this?”

Duo glowered for a moment. Then the sparkle came back into his violet eyes. “I have better things to do than stand around and be mocked.”

“You do?” said Wufei, surprised.

“Oh, shut up, or I'll tell Sally you're hot for her.” Wufei bristled. “Heed the words of the prophet, Heeeero, or I might start suggesting YOU and a certain pretty princess belong together.”

“I'll kill you.”

“Yeah, I've heard THAT somewhere before. Ladies, I trust I'll see you later?” He caught the oil-stained rag Wufei launched at him and ducked gracefully out of the storeroom.

Wufei and Heero listened until the sound of his laughter echoing back to them down the corridor faded. Then they grinned, shrugged, and bent back to work.

(3/15/01)