Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Prince and The Mercenary ❯ Chapter 1

The Prince and The Mercenary

Warnings: Alternate Universe, angst, violence, shonen ai; and to all those people thinking they fall in love too fast, just remember, Romeo and Juliet fell in love, married, made love and died in one week! So there!

Disclaimers: Gundam Wing characters belong to Mixx Entertainment, Koichi Tokita, the SOTSU Agency, Sunrise, Kodansha and anyone I may have forgotten, not to me. I make no money off of this.

Other Info: This was a challenge sent (awhile ago) by Pure Evil, (and I've finally been able to finish,) to switch Trowa and Quatre around so that Quatre is raised by mercenaries and Trowa is the millionaire. If they seem kind of OOC, it's because I didn't just want to surround sweet Quatre by mean soldiers of fortune and make stoic Trowa rich. I also didn't want to just put Trowa's personality into Quatre's body, and vice versa. Instead, I wanted to see the effects of the different environments on each of their characters. One difference, though. Trowa has the space heart.

"We caught a break this time," the tall man started. "The mark's coming to the late performance tonight."

"Who is it?" Quatre asked quietly, his gaze glued to the knife he turned slowly in his hands.

"Trowa Barton, heir to the Barton fortune."

Quatre glanced dispassionately at the file pushed towards him, but he opened manila folder anyway. He narrowed his eyes as he picked up the enclosed photo, staring intently at the figure circled in red ink. Boyishly tall, a shock of brown hair covering half of his face, the mark wore an unguarded smile as he walked between two tall bodyguards who were doing their best not to look like bodyguards. Quatre frowned.

"Why him?"

The commander stared at him in mild surprise. That's odd...he's never asked that before...he shook his head. "His father's refused to help fund a military project for the Alliance, and our client wants him terminated in order to 'encourage' other prospective contributors."

Quatre glanced at the folder. "Catalonia Corporation again?"

The commander shrugged. "I know, that girl unnerves everyone. At least she's not putting a hit out on her own relatives again."

Quatre sighed and pushed the folder back. "I'll finish him off after the performance."

"Look, Nanashi," the commander started harshly. "You may be our best sniper, but that's the worst time to do it! There'll be too many people around to see."

Quatre stood. "Exactly. The client's objectives won't be fulfilled if no one sees the hit. And she is our best client, right?" He headed towards the door, then turned back for a moment. "No one will suspect the circus." With that, he disappeared into the twilight.

*

"Quatre, you just about ready?"

Quatre allowed himself a brief smile as he readjusted his costume. His adopted sister was the only one he allowed to call him by his real name. "Almost." He picked up the half-mask and slipped it on, staring at himself in the mirror.

Catherine looked inside his dressing room and grinned. "You look fine, Quatre. Come on, we're next up!"

He nodded and got up, following her as they made their way to the main tent. They passed by several men, some sitting on crates while others sat on the ground, all of them cleaning weapons and examining body armor. Catherine pressed a little closer to Quatre, avoiding the stares her tight, pink costume brought.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "They wouldn't try anything."

"Only 'cause of you," she replied. "They're all scared of you."

"You're too modest," he answered. "They're afraid you might slice their balls off."

Catherine winced at the crude comment, but those were affecting her less and less ever since the soldiers had taken up roost. "I suppose...I guess I just never realized what a good cover the circus is for mercenaries...always on the move, with lots of people to hide amongst..."

"I'm just glad you agreed to keep quiet about it," Quatre said.

She didn't have to ask what would have happened if she hadn't.

*

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages--!"

Quatre tuned out what the commander, now dressed in the red coat of a ringmaster, was shouting. Instead he scanned the audience from the safety of his momentary darkness, searching out the target. He smirked when he spotted Trowa sitting in the front row, seated between the same bodyguards he'd seen in the picture.

Trowa wore a light colored shirt, but Quatre couldn't see what was below that. If he were to fire into a large crowd in the darkness, he'd have to know exactly what the tall boy was dressed in. He frowned slightly. Trowa seemed...delighted...just to be in the audience, watching these trivial acts.

"--featuring Catherine..."

The spotlight fell on her, and she bowed.

"...and Quatre!"

He similarly bowed, and a few people in the stands blinked as the light made his white costume glimmer. Quatre had refused to put up with a clown's suit and insisted upon a form-fitting white cat suit with black tiger stripes. The tail was light enough to stay out of his way, while the mask included one kitty ear, along with painted whiskers.

In the stands, Trowa gasped in awe.

Quatre took his place against the circular board and stretched his arms out, nodding once to signal he was ready. Catherine stood about twenty feet away and brought one dagger, eliciting low murmurs from the crowd. She flicked her hand, and suddenly a dozen knives flashed out into view. One by one, she flipped each knife towards Quatre. With a solid thunk, each knife landed less than an inch away from him.

"Relax, Master Trowa, it's just an act," came a soft whisper from the stands.

Quatre heard and glanced at the mark. Trowa's hands were clenched up into fists and pressed to his mouth, his visible eye as wide as physically possible. Quatre looked away. Everyone in the crowd always wanted to see him doubled over with a knife in his chest, to see blood and pain. The audience always wanted Catherine's aim to slip. This was the first time he'd ever seen someone fearful that he would be hurt.

He looked up at Catherine, who held one last knife. She raised one eyebrow, and he nodded. With a look of intense concentration, she let the blade fly directly at his face. Quatre heard Trowa's loud gasp over everyone else's, then put his hand up and easily caught the knife by the hilt, its point lightly touching his cheek.

The crowd roared its approval, but when Quatre took his bow with Catherine, he noticed that Trowa wasn't cheering. The rich boy leaned back in his seat, gasping for breath as if he'd been holding it for hours. Trowa's hands were now clasped over his heart. Against his better judgment, Quatre smiled at him from behind his mask and waved.

And Trowa grinned and waved back.

*

"Quatre, you have a visitor!"

Quatre, who had just started to undo the ties to his mask, stared indifferently at Catherine, unaffected by her exuberant smile. "Who is it?"

"Trowa Barton! He says he really liked our show, he wants to meet you!"

Well, this is a surprise, Quatre thought. I never thought the gazelle would walk right into the lion's den.

"Um, Quatre...?" she mumbled, biting her lip. He had that look again...

He looked up at her and nodded. "It's all right. I'll see him."

His words dispelled her nervous unease and she nodded. "I'll send him right in!"

She disappeared, and a moment later Trowa stepped into his dressing room. The tall boy smiled when he saw Quatre, staring in amazement as if he was surprised the blonde daredevil could be so small. "Hi...I'm Trowa..."

Quatre forced a smile to his face, trying to look friendly. "Hello. My name is Quatre. I saw you during the act." His smile softened as it took less effort. "It's rare someone is actually worried for me."

"It was just so scary, seeing those knives coming at you...and then the way you caught that last one...wow..." Trowa blushed, realizing he was merely rambling. "How did you learn to do that?"

"Catch the knife, you mean?" Quatre asked. He finished taking off the mask and turned, revealing a small but pronounced scar on his right cheek. "Practice. But sometimes it slips anyway."

Trowa moved closer and sat down on the bench, lightly laying his fingertips on the scar. "That must have hurt terribly."

Quatre shrugged. "It wasn't deep, only messy. But then, your heart must hurt, too."

Trowa froze, his hand jerking back. "How did you know...?"

"I saw you in the stands, remember? Is it weak or something?"

Trowa shook his head and lowered his eyes. "No...I...the crowd was just really excited, and...too much excitement hurts."

Quatre tilted his head, but Trowa changed the subject quickly. "Was that your last performance tonight?"

Quatre paused, wanting to pursue the matter further, then let it drop. "Yes, why?"

Trowa nervously wrung his hands. "Um, I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me. I know a small restaurant not too far from here..." Too soon, Trowa berated himself. I should have waited a little longer to ask...

But Quatre surprised both of them. "I would like that. Will you wait for me to change?"

Trowa nodded eagerly. "Sure. Want me to go outside?"

"Not necessary," Quatre said. No telling what those mercenaries might try with the target right there in front of them. "There's a partition here." He went back behind the screen and began to strip off his costume.

Trowa, grinning in anticipation, took the time to look over the small dressing room. Pictures of white tigers abounded, but there were other wild cats around the room. The screen especially featured several lions staring out at some object out of view.

"I take it you like cats," Trowa said shyly.

He could barely see Quatre nod from behind the screen. "Love them, actually. They're quiet and independent."

Quatre finished pulling on a pair of tight jeans, then slid on a dark blue turtleneck. Turning his back to the screen so Trowa wouldn't even see his silhouette, he took a pair of handcuffs and his magnum, slipping both into a back holster. "All done," he said, stepping back out. "Where to?"

"I know a little French restaurant not too far from here," Trowa answered, standing.

"Great," Quatre said. "Let's go."

They stepped out of Quatre's dressing room, the blonde leading the way through the back areas of crates and half-covered palettes. A few of the men surrounding them looked up in surprise, but a stern glower from Quatre kept anyone from asking questions, even the commander, who paused to watch them as he took his red jacket off.

As they neared Trowa's limousine, Quatre had to crane his neck to look the bodyguards in the eye. The first man wasn't so bad, but the other was easily twice his size.

"Master Trowa?"

Trowa looked up and smiled. "It's all right, Rashid. He accepted my invitation."

The comment didn't soothe the guard's obvious suspicions. Quatre returned Rashid's glare, daring him to say anything. The cold, cruel indifference made Rashid involuntarily back up a step, but to anyone watching, he only appeared to be giving Quatre room to enter the car. Trowa put his hand out to help Quatre in, and the blonde had to steel himself to allow the rich boy to touch him.

"Th-thank you," he murmured, easing along the padded bench seat.

Trowa followed after him and shut the door. A moment later the car lurched forward and started down the road. "Are you okay? You seem a little nervous."

Quatre shook his head and forced a smile. "No, I'm all right. I'm just not used to...this," he gestured around himself. "It must be wonderful."

Trowa sighed and leaned back. "I guess it might seem that way..."

Quatre blinked. That remark truly caught him by surprise. "You don't enjoy being wealthy?"

Trowa gave a bitter laugh. "You mean being surrounded by guards, kept under close supervision, dodging sycophants all the time..." He suddenly smiled at Quatre. "I really envy you. Traveling with a circus, doing what you like to do."

"It's not all fun and games," Quatre said softly, looking out the window. "There are some things about it I don't like."

"There must be," Trowa conceded, "but at least there's some things you love. I'm sure you don't have to beg and plead just to be let out for a night."

Quatre nodded slightly. "True...there is that." He glanced back up at Trowa. "Do you have to?"

Trowa leaned back against his seat. "Yes. I...father hates it when I leave the manor. I was so lucky to have a few hours out. And lately...it's been even worse."

"Why?" Quatre wondered. "Is he paranoid?"

"I don't know," Trowa mused. "I try to reason it out, but there's so much I don't know. I...think he's afraid for me."

"But...you have your body guards," Quatre argued.

Trowa shrugged. "True...but I think there's something else. He doesn't tell me everything, and recently he's been spending more time in meetings. For all I know, he could be worried about assassins."

Quatre turned back towards the window.

Trowa shook his head with a rueful laugh. "I'm sure it's nothing, though. Why anyone would want to kill someone as useless as I am is beyond me."

Quatre frowned. Why would Trowa say--? But then the car stopped and a minute later, the passenger doors were opened.

"We're here, Master Trowa," Rashid said.

*

Quatre had never seen so much food in his life. Only his cold discipline kept him from bolting the fare down immediately. With firm control on his appetite, he forced himself to use the silverware as Trowa did.

"And after Spain?" Trowa prompted.

"What?" Quatre blinked. "Oh, right..." he started up where he'd left off. "We traveled through a few of the cities in France, but we decided that since no other circus had toured through the colonies, we'd take a chance and try it. It's been profitable so far, so we'll probably come back again."

"How soon?" Trowa asked.

Quatre felt a twinge in his heart when he saw the eager light in Trowa's eyes. "It...it could be months, even years."

"Oh..." Trowa started picking at his food again.

Quatre frowned as he watched him. "Do you have some kind of eating disorder? You've hardly eaten anything."

Surprisingly, Trowa smiled. "No, it's just...large crowds tend to make me nervous. My weight's suffered for it." He sighed and his smile disappeared. "I guess my father has a good reason for keeping me locked in. I...go to pieces sometimes."

"It's probably only because you're not used to it," Quatre argued. "Maybe if he let you out more often, you wouldn't feel so lonely."

Trowa shook his head. "No, he's probably right. He wouldn't want to lose his investment. I'm not entirely naive, I know the world can be cruel."

"Yes, it can," Quatre whispered, his mind drifting. With a little shudder he changed the subject. "What do you mean, investment?"

"You don't know?" Trowa asked, wide-eyed. "I thought everyone...sorry, I just...um...I'm a test tube baby."

Quatre shrugged. "That just means you were fertilized outside a womb."

"No. They didn't even use sperm for us. They...grew the eggs. Like bacteria cultures."

"'Us'?"

"My sisters and I. There are twenty-nine of them. I'm the only son."

"Wow..." That explains it. Target the only son of a wealthy patriarch. Sadistic. "But that doesn't mean you're worthless," he argued.

"I guess not, but father sees to that part." Trowa suddenly blushed. "I'm sorry, we barely know each other and I'm dumping all my problems on you."

"It's all right," Quatre said quickly. "I...I don't mind."

"I'm glad. I wouldn't want to bore you."

They fell silent for a moment. Quatre took the few seconds to surreptitiously study Trowa, examining the way his hair tilted to one side, the way the low restaurant light brought out the gold highlights, how he nervously tore the threads of his napkin. He followed the line of the rose colored shirt along the contours of Trowa's body until it disappeared under the table. Unconsciously he sighed. He's beautiful.

Trowa suddenly jerked. Quatre looked up and found Trowa staring back, his green eyes wide and glimmering with tears. The long fingers started to shake.

"Trowa, what's--"

"You can't like me," Trowa whispered. "You can't."

"What?" How the hell did he--?

"You see, it always turns bad, it always does." Trowa pulled back from the table, and his tears trickled down his now pale cheeks. "You find out and it turns bad."

"Find out what, Trowa?" Quatre stared at him in shock, wondering why he was feeling shock in the first place.

"I'm a freak..." Trowa insisted. He moved to stand. "I'm sorry. I should never have--"

"Wait." Quatre snatched Trowa's wrist and held it to the table, arresting the motion. "Stop."

Trowa pulled once, but Quatre didn't even adjust his grip. Trowa gasped and dropped back in his chair, his fear of himself changing to fear of the strong boy before him.

Quatre recognized the look. He'd seen it enough times in the instant before he pulled the trigger. He gently let go of Trowa's hand. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I'm sorry."

"I..."

"I didn't want you to run away. I don't want you to run." This time Quatre gently put his hand on top of Trowa's, caressing the soft skin. Trowa made no move to leave. "I...want you to stay. To talk."

"Quatre--"

"I've never felt this before," Quatre insisted. "I don't know for sure what it is. But I see you, and you're beautiful, and...and I want to be around you more."

Trowa shook his head. "No, not possible. I'm a freak."

"Could I love a freak?" Love? So this is what Cathy kept talking about?

"I don't like girls."

"Apparently, neither do I." Quatre now spotted Rashid and the other bodyguards coming through the restaurant, trying to act casual but hurrying. Grabbing Trowa must have set them off.

"I like...boys. Men," the green-eyed boy continued, wondering if it would set Quatre on edge.

"I love you."

"That's impossible."

Quatre gambled that Trowa's comments about being freak weren't limited to his orientations. "What does your heart tell you?"

Trowa's eyes opened as wide as they could go. "I...how do you know this?"

"Has it ever lied before?"

"No."

Silent again, they just stared.

"Master Trowa," Rashid demanded, moving to his side. "Are you all right?"

The mood broke somewhat. Trowa smacked Rashid's hands from his shoulders. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I was getting overemotional again and Quatre calmed me down."

Rashid glared at the blonde, who met his stern gaze with his own. "How dare you touch him."

"Rashid, enough. I'm not hurt, he meant no harm, now let it go."

Glancing back and forth between the two, Rashid backed off, but only a few paces away. He hovered around the table, listening to every word.

"Again?" Quatre asked.

Trowa blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You said 'overemotional again'. What do you mean?"

"The same way I feel what you feel," Trowa started.

"Master Trowa!" Rashid stood straight, apparently astonished that Trowa would give the secret out so easily.

"Rashid, enough!" Trowa looked back at Quatre. "If I get around people whose emotions run high, I can get lost in them. It's...happened before."

"It must be nice to feel emotions so strongly."

Trowa gave him a strange look. "What do you mean?"

Quatre shrugged noncommittally. "I...don't feel things...not really. Not anymore. I don't know if I used to. I...try not to. I don't like it when I do."

Trowa abruptly smiled, his good mood returning. "You must come home with me. I'd like to continue this conversation."

"Master--"

"Don't. Say. It. Rashid." Trowa stood and opened his wallet, tossing out a bill so large that Quatre, who was used to seeing suitcases full of money, gasped. "Will you come, Quatre?"

The blonde nodded with a barely noticeable smile. "Yes, I'd like that."

Walking beside Trowa, they followed between Rashid and the other bodyguards, allowing them at least some work. Rashid, however, looked like he wanted to work Quatre over with his fists.

Quatre, as he walked, stared up for a moment at Trowa. There were actually only a few inches difference in height, but Quatre found himself enjoying the feel of walking next to him. The presence felt...comforting.

*

"My father is away on business somewhere," Trowa told him as the car pulled to a stop. "I have no idea when he'll be back."

The blonde stepped out after him and stared up at the largest house he'd ever seen. "Wow," Quatre breathed.

For a moment he could only stare up at the monolithic structure. Dark and gray, it obscured the high ceiling of the satellite so that all Quatre could see were the thick black windows and heavy stone walls. It reminded him of the gothic mansions he'd seen in their private performances, but in space the more ornamental designs had been done away with. No spires, no arches, not even a solitary gargoyle. Of course, the entire house felt like it was staring at him, but then the front door opened, revealing a soft light and hints of a lushly furnished interior.

"Come on," Trowa said, tugging on his sleeve. "I'll give you a guided tour."

Quatre smiled without having to force himself. "Okay. Lead on."

Following a step behind the taller boy, Quatre walked into the mouth of the house and had the disturbing feeling that he was being swallowed. He couldn't shake the feeling, either, since the front room was easily two stories high, perhaps three, and white walls bounced back every sound into a reverberating echo. The long rugs were dark red and the mahogany tables held white vases filled with pink roses. At the far end of the room lay a gigantic staircase complete with banisters and branching off at the middle to two separate wings.

Trowa kept walking towards the staircase, but Quatre hesitated, suddenly feeling tiny and exposed. To think that such wealth even existed...The door slammed behind him, and he whirled to see Rashid locking the heavy brass knobs with a thick key. Rashid noticed the look and glared as he stepped forward.

"Quatre?" Trowa asked, turning.

The blonde forced a smile and hurried to his side. "Sorry. I've just never been in such a big house before."

"It can be unnerving," Trowa admitted. "But you get used to it."

"You don't live here alone, do you?"

Trowa nodded. "My sisters all moved out a long time ago. The youngest is already a doctor. I guess I'm the baby of the family." He took Quatre down the left wing and into a white room. "This is the nursery. All of us were raised here. Father never changed a thing."

Quatre gasped when he stepped in after him. The closet alone was larger than his own living quarters in the circus. The walls were white with various pictures and murals, and all the luscious furniture had been painted in pastel colors. "Beautiful..."

Trowa sighed. "I never thought so. It seems...so surreal."

"I suppose," Quatre admitted. "But the painted lions are nice."

The tall boy couldn't help his smile. "I suppose."

Quatre could easily have spent hours roaming the large area, examining the odd playthings and the huge amount of drawers and cabinets. He saw how uncomfortable Trowa was with the room, however, and instead wandered the rest of the mansion at his side. The multitude of rooms blurred together in white carpets, decorative vases and crystal chandeliers. One room did stand out in his mind.

Trowa's bedroom.

"It's so empty," Quatre said before he could stop himself.

"The size just makes it look that way,"Trowa said, turning on the light.

Quatre shook his head as he looked around. "No, it really doesn't have as much furniture in here." Aside from a desk and a bed, little else occupied the room. He smiled. "I guess you got tired of all the flowers everywhere else."

Trowa smiled shyly and nodded, sitting down on the bed. "Can you tell? Everything in this house seems so fragile."

The blonde stared into Trowa's green eyes. "You...seem to fit in."

Instead of taking offense, he nodded again. "True. I can't go out that often. Crowds are too much, sometimes even just a few people are enough to make it hurt." He gave a bitter laugh. "I collapsed in a hospital once."

Quatre sat beside him and lay his hand on Trowa's, not thinking to question why he did it. "At least you chose the right place to collapse," he offered with a small smile.

Trowa couldn't help his weak laugh. "I guess."

"Why were you in a hospital?"

Trowa fell silent and closed his eyes, lowering his head.

Thinking he'd said something wrong, Quatre withdrew his hand and eased away a few inches. "I'm..I'm sorry if I--"
"No, no, it's all right," Trowa said quickly, looking up. "It's...all right. Father...he was trying to make another of us."

"'Make'?"

He nodded. "We...none of us were actually born. Like I said, technicians grew us like bacteria. My 'birthday' is just the day they took me off of life support." He tilted his head and closed his eyes. "The girls all came out right, but he wanted a son to inherit everything. When he saw how thin and weak I am...I guess he wanted to try again."

"But you're perfect," Quatre blurted before he could stop himself.

Fortunately Trowa wasn't spooked by his sudden attachment. "No, you were right. I'm as fragile as cut roses in a porcelain vase. If anyone's too excited, I fall to pieces."

"Lots of people are like that," the blonde argued. "And they don't have your gift as an excuse."

Now Trowa took offense. "Gift? You think this is a gift? If someone's too happy I get giddy, hysterical. If they're crying, I can't help but cry with them. When they're excited...my heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest and shatter."

"You're not glass," Quatre insisted. "You could learn to control it, use it to your advantage."

"The only thing it's gotten me is pain and solitude," he whispered. "I tried suppressing it, but I felt dead. I felt like the whole world was dead."

"You probably cut every outside emotion off. You just aren't used to being around people. Were you ever allowed out of the house, or've you been trapped in here forever?"

The tall boy stared at the floor. "I don't have a choice. Father won't let me out until he has another heir. And since the last one didn't...reach completion..." His shoulders drooped as he sighed. "You're so lucky. You get to travel all over the world, into other colonies."

Quatre drew back, reminded of the circus. "It has its drawbacks. No real home, no new friends, people dying..."

Trowa looked up. "'Dying'?"

"Uh, accidents," Quatre backtracked as fast as he could, and his heart beat faster. "Trapeze ropes break, the tigers strike out for real. Or I don't catch fast enough," he tried to smile, motioning at the scar on his face.

Trowa narrowed his eyes and faced him, rising from the bed. "You're lying."

"No, I--"

"I can tell. You're lying." He took a step back. "What did you mean, 'people dying'?"

Quatre stood and moved towards him. "It's not what you think."

"No, I can feel it, I can feel it," he kept backing up. "No wonder you're so cold inside."

"Trowa--"

He shook his head and stayed just out of reach. "That's why. That's why I could be near you. You're so cold. How many? How many, Quatre?"

The blonde's face hardened. "Trowa, get back here."

Trowa whirled and ran for the door. A hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him back, the other covering his mouth before he could call Rashid. He tried to pry Quatre's fingers loose with his free hand, tried to kick at his legs. Instead he felt himself picked up off the floor and tossed onto the bed. Something dry and thick filled his mouth, followed by an uncomfortable strip of cloth that bit into his cheeks as Quatre knotted it behind his head.

"Stop fighting, I'm not going to hurt you," he growled, grunting as Trowa's elbow caught his stomach. He seized the boy's hands and pulled out his handcuffs.

Trowa, on his stomach, guessed what the glint of metal was and struggled to buck Quatre's grip. Muffled groans filled the room, and he kicked at the mattress, sending blankets onto the floor.

"Dammit, hold still," Quatre hissed as he finally locked him down. He left Trowa to sit up by himself and took a seat at the computer. "I suppose I can reach the Barton funds through here?" he asked. He turned it on and waited.

Maneuvering to a point where he could sit, Trowa didn't reply. Not even bothering to try a run for the door, he hung his head down and closed his eyes.

"What's the password?"

Trowa didn't move.

Quatre glared at the little pop up box on the screen demanding both a user name and password. He tried a few combinations and gave up after a few minutes. Just too many possible combinations. He searched through the desk drawers, flipping through notebooks of poetry and drawings before tossing them aside. "I don't believe this." He returned to Trowa's side and started working on the tight gag. "If I take this off, you promise you won't scream?"

His prisoner gave a little shrug.

Quatre lay the gag on the bed. "Well, what's the password?"

Green eyes focused on him. "Why?"

He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Look, I know it looks like I'm just after your money, but that's not it. I have to do this or else you're going to die."

Trowa couldn't help his sharp breath. "I don't--"

"It's your father," Quatre explained as fast as he could. "He's refused to pay for some project for Catalonia, and now she's hired me to kill you as a lesson to him. But if I get her that money, the contract should be canceled. Now please, Trowa, give me the password."

"Why haven't you killed me then?"

"I..." He swallowed nervously. "I don't want to. You shouldn't die over something like this. She'll just get it some other way, and your family has so much it won't even notice. What's the password?"

"Catalonia," Trowa murmured to himself. "I know that name..."

"Lots of people do," Quatre snapped. "The password. Now."

"She designs weapons," his captive continued, hardly aware of his situation now. "I've heard father talking about it...she causes war just to fuel her company."

"That doesn't matter now."

Trowa's head snapped up. "What?"

"I said it doesn't matter, give me the--"

"How can you say it doesn't matter?" the tall boy breathed. "Hundreds of people die every day because of her."

"Oh, please," Quatre rolled his eyes. "Naiveté is cute on you, but you can't be that stupid."

Trowa blinked. "What?"

"Yeah, she starts shit, but there are always people willing to fight." Seeing that Trowa wasn't following, he tried another track. "It's like an avalanche. You can't call one down unless the snow's already there. But this avalanche is gonna roll over you if you don't let me stop it."

Trowa glared. "No."

His minimal patience worn thin, Quatre sighed and stared out the window. In the colony's dark night cycle, moonlight glinted off something metallic perched in the tree tops. He hissed in a sharp breath and ran towards Trowa.

He got one arm around him and was yanking him down when the first shot crashed through the window. Footsteps came stomping up the steps while Quatre fished in his pocket for the keys to the handcuffs.

"What's...what's going on?" his hostage gasped.

"I suppose the boss got tired of waiting."

He pushed Trowa to the ground and lay down on top of him, grunting as he slid his hands around the metal. Three more bullets came through the mattress, missing them by inches, and the blonde finally unlocked Trowa.

"Listen," he whispered, easing back. "Stay here until you hear me leave, then get out of here. Rashid can probably take care of you."

Trowa rolled on his back, his eyes dilated in fear. "What are you...?" His eyes widened even more when Quatre pulled a black handgun from behind his shirt. "Wait, you can't go out there."

Quatre grinned and flipped the safety from under the barrel. "What do you want me to do, wait for your ogre to come in and wring my neck? No, I think I'll take my chances with the assassin out there." Two more bullets passed by. "Hmm...one for the window...then three...two more...six so far...and he's probably using a CZ 75..."

"Quatre." The green-eyed boy placed his hand on the blonde's arm. "What are you doing?"

"Counting," was the nonchalant reply. "He's probably only got ten rounds, so that's six down--"

One bullet whizzed by into the door lock. Trowa jerked in surprise and wrapped his arms around himself.

"Seven down." He took a deep breath, then stared at Trowa. His lips quirking into a awkward smile, he leaned forward and stole a quick kiss from the boy's slightly open mouth. "Now don't move."

Before Trowa could say anything else, Quatre crouched at the foot of the bed before darting to the other side of the room. Another shot shattered the window's remaining glass, and Quatre jumped through the hole. He landed on the grass a story down, dropping to all fours to absorb the shock. His small frame disappeared behind the rose bushes, and he scuttled to one side before leaves and wood exploded behind him, blown apart by the high caliber bullet.

One more, Quatre told himself. He peered through the thorns and spotted the assassin dropping from the trees and heading for the house. He must think he got me. Before his enemy could cross the yard halfway, he burst through the bushes, leaving strips of cloth and skin behind on the thorns. He brought his own firearm up, aimed and pulled the trigger.

The moment he heard the bushes rustle, the assassin fell to his left and rolled, dodging the bullet. While coming back on his feet, he pulled another cartridge from his belt. When he heard another shot, he dropped again, stood, and ran for the house.

Quatre fired on instinct, choosing to send a spray of bullets rather than aim completely. The assassin dropped to one leg, his knee splintered by a lucky hit. Falling on his back, he managed to turn and aim. Quatre tried to run for the trees, but the grass was slick and he lost his footing, collapsing on one side. He brought the gun up and fired until his chamber clicked. On the other side of the garden, his enemy managed to fire before his body jerked backward and blood sprayed up on the wall behind him. Quatre couldn't stop his scream when the shot hit his right arm, broke the bone and continued through. His hand opened and dropped his empty gun. Groaning, he lay back on the grass and stared at the metal paneling that made up the satellite's interior.

"Quatre!"

Someone ran towards him, but he didn't move. He could sense someone sitting beside him, hear their heavy breathing, and then Trowa's face appeared over his.

"Oh, Quatre..."

The blonde smiled slightly and exhaled. "No stars."

"What?" He looked over his shoulder. Every window in the mansion was lit, and already a team of bodyguards drew close.

"Not fair..." he turned his head to one side. "You can't see them from here. Trowa?"

He picked up the boy's uninjured hand and held it tightly. "Yes, Quatre?"

"Give her the money," he whispered. "Don't let...me die for nothing..."

"You're not dying tonight," Trowa said. "I won't let you."

He heard no reply. Quatre chest rose and fell every few seconds, but the wealthy child worried more about the blood seeping into the ground.

"Master Trowa, are you all right?"

He turned and faced Rashid, edging away from the man's hands. "I'm fine. Quatre's the one who needs help."

"But Master Trowa, he tried to kill you!"

Ignoring Rashid's stunned protest, Trowa dropped to one knee and eased his arms beneath the limp body laying in the wet grass. Blood streaked the light blond hair and face, and his breath came in shallow little breaths followed sometimes by sharp hisses of pain.

"My poor Quatre," he whispered, cradling the boy against himself. "Rashid?"

"Yes, Trowa?"

"Please summon a doctor. I'll have Quatre in my room waiting."

Hesitating only a moment, Rashid reluctantly left his young master. Trowa stood, bringing Quatre up with him and carrying him back into the house amidst the staring servants. He brought the blonde into his ransacked room and set him on the bed, pulling the blankets up to his chest.

Quatre moaned and shifted in his sleep, struggling against the sheets. Worried he might wake up and run away, Trowa retrieved the handcuffs from Quatre's pants and locked his right hand to the bed frame. He frowned. That slender wrist seemed so fragile, as if it could break under the rigid iron. He brushed back the dirty blonde hair, and the soft movement woke Quatre up. For a moment, he seemed like a little angel, not so much fallen as his wings had been broken. His eyes fluttered open and he whimpered in pain as he flexed his injured arm. Realizing his good arm was locked down, he tried to jerk it up, yanking on the cuffs as hard as he could.

Trowa put his hand on his arm, forcibly holding him still. "No, don't fight. You'll only hurt yourself more."

Clear blue eyes focused on him as Quatre figured out that he was chained to a bed. Tears started to stream out onto his cheeks and he turned his face onto the pillow, trying to hide. "Don't..." he whispered raggedly. "Don't..."

Trowa, having been raised in a relatively secure environment, had no idea why Quatre was acting this way. "Please, Quatre, don't cry. I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise. You're safe here."

When the mercenary could feel that he was still clothed, he peered out of the corner of his eye at Trowa. The tall boy hadn't made any of the familiar aggressive moves. No leer, no roaming hands...nothing. Just a very confused look.

"If I unlock you," Trowa started to ask, "will you promise not to run?"

Quatre nodded once.

Trowa smiled and picked the key up from the floor. "I'm glad. I didn't want the doctor to see you locked up. He might get the wrong idea."

"Wouldn't be too far off," Quatre laughed weakly. After a few seconds he looked up. "Doctor?"

"Your arm," he explained. He took off the handcuff and tossed it aside. "We've got a physician on staff and--"

The door opened without warning and an older man, flanked by Rashid, walked in with a large black bag. He nodded once to Trowa and sat down on the edge of the bed, but he frowned when he saw the handcuffs on the nightstand and not on Quatre. "Your bodyguard said this boy is dangerous. We should leave him to the police's care."

"The boy" lowered his eyes, but Trowa shook his head. "No, I've promised him my protection."

"Master Trowa--" Rashid started.

Trowa held his hand up. "Yes, Quatre can be dangerous," here he smiled at his companion and took his good hand. "But not to me."

Quatre's eyes lit up, and his smile visibly took less effort.

The doctor gave the barest of smiles. "I had a feeling you'd say that." He opened the bag and rummaged around, pulling out a roll of bandages, butterfly stitches and a bottle of pills. "Rashid, please bring me some clean water and a washcloth."

Grumbling under his breath, the large man exited into the adjoining bathroom. Quatre couldn't help his smirk, but that quickly faded when the doctor opened the bottle and shook out two pills.

"Give him these, and make sure he takes them."

At that moment, Rashid came back with the large bowl and a glass of water.

Quatre groaned and stared at the ugly blue pills. "What are they?"

"The strongest pain relievers available," the doctor answered.

"I don't like pills," the blonde grumbled.

"I need to set your arm and clear any bone shards," the doctor replied. "And then I have to stitch you up."

"Not like I've never been shot before."

"You were expecting to die five minutes ago. Look, I promise they won't hurt you," Trowa said. "Here. No, don't move, you're too weak. Just open up."

Quatre glowered at him but obeyed, taking the pills from Trowa's fingers. The green-eyed boy then tipped the water glass to his friend's lips and chuckled when Quatre rolled his eyes.

"Before you fall asleep," the doctor asked, "what blood type are you?"

"AB negative," Quatre said. He yawned and looked up at Trowa again. "You aren't mad at me?"

"Of course I am," Trowa nodded. "You should've trusted me. But I can understand why you didn't." He smoothed Quatre's damp hair and brushed his knuckles across the scarred cheek. "We'll work on that later. Now go to sleep before he starts."

Quatre lay his head on Trowa's hand, relishing the cool skin on his fevered face, and allowed the pills to take effect.

*

"But it's almost healed up," Quatre argued, pointing to the lack of bruises to his arm in a sling even though Trowa couldn't see. "I can take my gun apart, clean it, and put it back together in five minutes."

"With one hand," Trowa pointed out, shaking his had as he fished a bottle of water from the fridge. "It's only been a couple weeks. Besides, where are you in a hurry to rush to? You're a little late if you want to run off with the circus again."

Quatre ignored that comment and stretched out on the white couch. "Did Cathy call yet?"

"Yes, you were still asleep." He put his arm under Quatre's shoulders and hefted him up a foot, sliding beneath him. "She's almost put a new circus together, they should start touring next season. She said to thank you again."

The former mercenary snuggled his head on his lover's lap, breathing deep. "It wasn't very much."

"It wasn't nothing, either." Trowa glanced at the clock and sighed. Another ten minutes. "All the money you'd saved up, plus the reward on your mercenary friends..."

"Minus one," Quatre smirked.

"Minus two," Trowa corrected him. "Just because you killed one doesn't mean they forgot about you."

"You wouldn't turn me in, would you?"

"If you promise not to tie me up again."

"I thought you might like that kind of shi--thing," he amended.

Trowa smiled and hugged him gently. "Thank you."

Quatre sighed. "It isn't easy, curbing my language. I'm used to saying whatever I want."

For a mercenary, he has the cutest pout. "Yes, but father won't like it, and it drives Rashid up the wall."

"I don't think he likes me anyway," he mumbled, turning his face towards Trowa's abdomen.

"You tied me up, tried to break into the family finances and then shot someone on the lawn," the tall boy laughed. "Of course he doesn't like you."

The blonde snorted. "He said if I ever made you cry, he'd rip my face off."

Trowa smirked. "So you'd better not make me cry, hmm?"

"He's probably afraid I'll take his job." Quatre grinned and closed his eyes. "I think I'd make a good bodyguard."

Trowa stroked his hair, running his fingers down to the base of his boyfriend's neck. "Maybe you should. Father might take this a little easier. Since Catalonia didn't get her money and I'm still alive..."

"No one will ever hurt you," Quatre promised. "Unless Rashid goes on a rampage. He's so big, I don't think bullets could stop him."

"That's why father hired him."

"You sure he won't get angry and call the cops on me?"

"I doubt it. The worst that could happen is he disowns me, but I've got enough stashed away just in case."

"You little sneak," Quatre said appreciatively. "So you aren't that naive after all."

Trowa tapped his fingers on his love's lips. "And you aren't so cold. I guess we're even."

Still smiling, Quatre made a move to sit and instead found himself hauled onto Trowa's lap. "I'm not helpless. I can move myself," he griped.

"Mm, but I think you are." The tall boy wrapped his arms around Quatre and hugged him close, almost smothering him. "I've got you trapped here."

The blonde lay his head on Trowa's shoulder and whispered in his ear. "Maybe I should tie you up again. You look sweet gagged."

"Master Trowa," a booming voice sounded from behind them.

Quatre turned his head and spotted Rashid coming closer. "What? He's not crying."

The bodyguard didn't laugh. "Master Trowa, you're father has arrived at the docking bay. He'll be home shortly."

Trowa sighed and nodded. "Understood. Thank you, Rashid." He stared into Quatre's eyes and kissed him. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I have to meet him sometime, huh?" Quatre nodded. "He won't shoot me, right?"

"You and Rashid have the only guns," Trowa told him.

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better."

The End