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North Pole Bureaucracy	By : Raletha Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 1400 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing/AC, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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North Pole Bureaucracy

Part 1

By Raletha

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. It is copyrighted to Bandai, Sunrise, and
the Sotsu agency. I am using the characters for entertainment purposes only. Original
content and concepts, however, are my own: © Raletha 02/2004 & beyond.

Pairings: 4x3x4

Rating: NC-17

Content: AU, lemon, humour, language, romance, PWP.

Summary: Trowa, a newly arrived stablehand at the North Pole, needs assistance with his late Christmas list.

Notes: A Christmas gift for my good friend and muse, Mephisto Waltz. Inspired by & written for her fanart, Dear Quatre Claus. This fic is horrendously late for a holiday fic, but a holiday fic it is. What the hell, lets have some Christmas in February. ^_^

Trowa squinted at the fine print at the bottom of the form he held and compared it to the sign posted on the wooden door he faced.

'All late Christmas list submissions to be taken directly to Q.R. in the Elf Resources department for processing,' read the form.

'Q.R. Claus, Senior Elf Resources Manager,' proclaimed the shiny brass lettering of the sign.

"Must be the right place," murmured Trowa to himself. He carefully folded his form back into even thirds and knocked on the door.

The sound thudded dully against the thick timber, and no response followed. Trowa knocked again--more loudly--and rubbed his stinging knuckles absently along his breastbone.

"Oh, it's open!" called a voice; it had a bright, melodic quality, which was not completely muffled by the door.

For a moment Trowa hesitated, moving his hand to the doorknob. It would all work out just fine, he reassured himself. This Q.R. Claus didn't sound so dreadful. Perhaps this bureaucrat wouldn't be as bad as the other Claus daughters who managed the operational details of the North Pole. Thus mentally fortified, Trowa turned the handle and swung open the door.

A pert derriere covered in clinging green satin hot-pants greeted him.

Trowa blinked several times, shook his head once, and looked a second time. The shimmering, swaying backside remained.

Officious--so far--didn't quite describe this Claus.

He stared dumbly at the sight of the office's sole occupant bent unselfconsciously over the room's large open fire. He quickly noted that, although the bureaucrat's voice had sounded androgynous, the anatomy presented was distinctly not female. Among all those daughters, Trowa hadn't guessed there might be a Claus son. He immediately felt sympathy for the young man. None of the encounters Trowa had experienced with any of the twenty-nine Claus girls had been one he hoped to repeat.

His sympathy, however, was soon waylaid by his increasing fascination with Q.R.'s backend. Especially intriguing was the contrast a pair of dark green garter straps marked on Q.R.'s slim thighs. The garters held up identically hued stockings on the elf's long legs. Trowa tilted his head to better appreciate the view.

"Ah, hello, come in, please take a seat," said Q.R. Claus and gave the stack of logs several energetic jabs with his iron poker. "I'll just be a moment."

Yes, now that Trowa could better hear the voice, it was distinctly non-feminine--though not wholly masculine either, for it still carried the music of youth. Q.R. mustn't be so young though, for him to hold such a high level position at the North Pole. Unless his job allocation was a matter of nepotism gone awry.

However, thoughts of nepotism and Polar management structures didn't take up a long residence in Trowa's thoughts. Other, more visceral interests soon evicted them. Belatedly, Trowa realised he hadn't moved from the doorway. He sighted the nearest chair in his peripheral vision.

"Thank you," he said and bumped into a corner of a file cabinet as he sidled toward his seating goal: a generous wingback armchair, upholstered in burgundy leather--fragrant and buttery soft to the touch he discovered.

Trowa sat on the edge of the seat and idly caressed the armrests as he watched and waited. A log slipped after receiving a particularly fervent stab. Sparks popped and flew into the room, but faded quickly, leaving only the ashy dry scent of burnt wood. Trowa thought he heard Q.R. curse.

"Sorry," muttered Q.R, "the fire's nearly gone out."

Judging by the way Q.R. Claus wielded his poker, he was determined to beat the flames back into the wood. This sign of irritation didn't promise good results.

But the irritation could be linked to the elf's lack of trousers, Trowa considered. That surely would entail an interesting explanation. Not that Trowa required one, content as he was to admire the view. And try though he might, he couldn't tear his gaze away. His eyes roved in appreciation up and down the bared thighs, lower to take in the polished black boots, then higher again to that truly breath-stealing backside swishing back and forth, framed above by an arc of the fluffy white fur which trimmed Q.R.'s velvet coat.

The other elf's rich--though quirky--ensemble did leave Trowa feeling a tad self-conscious in his own plain woolen stable clothes. Stray bits of hay flecked both his red sweater and dark blue trousers, and dust covered his sturdy work boots. And, Trowa realised, he probably smelled like a reindeer. Blitzen had been in a demanding mood that morning. It had taken twice as long to feed and groom her as the others.

Q.R. muttered something unintelligible under his breath, set the poker aside with a clang, and turned abruptly. "So, what may I do for you then?" he asked and smiled brightly (though Trowa had the impression that clenched teeth lay behind the smile).

"I, ah, have a late Christmas list." Trowa held out his wish list form, and silently instructed his gaze to stay on the other's face and not venture lower. It turned out not to be a difficult task, for Q.R.'s features were so pleasing to the eye, one might easily call the slender elf pretty. Trowa cocked his head; yes, surely perfection resided in those wide blue eyes and the curve of those smiling lips...

Forcibly Trowa dragged his focus back to the immediate problem: that of his late wish list. He cleared his throat politely. "I hoped you'd be able to process it for me." With a shake of his hand, the form unfolded toward the blond elf. But Q.R. made no move to take the offered paper.

A single eyebrow rose, and the Senior Elf Resources Manager pursed his lips. "You do realise it's the twenty-third now?" He leaned back against he edge of his desk and crossed his ankles, leaving Trowa's list dangling, ignored, between them.

"Am I in the wrong place? It said I should take my late list to Q.R. in the Elf Resources Department." Or maybe this Q.R. was just as officious and stubborn as the rest of his family. Trowa began to despair.

"Yes, I'm Quatre. But I'm afraid you're one day too late, Mister...?"

"Bloom. Call me Trowa, please." Trowa frowned, feeling cold disappointment sinking in his belly. "Is there nothing you can do? I had hoped-"

"I'm sorry, Trowa, but my father doesn't accept any lists after midnight on the twenty-second. And as I'm sure you know, he has to begin delivery in the Southern Hemisphere tonight."

Trowa slumped back in his seat. "I've been so busy with the reindeer this month, today's the first chance I've had to submit it," he mumbled more to himself than to Quatre, and his eyes fell to the list in his hands. Absently he began to crumple the paper in his fist.

"Is this your first Christmas here?" Quatre inquired.

"Yes." Trowa glanced back up to see that Quatre had shifted; his new posture allowed the bottom of his coat to fall open, and Trowa found some solace in gaining a new appreciation for just how tight those satin shorts were.

He must have stared too long.

"You're wondering about my pants, are you?" said Quatre.

"Eh?"

"You're wondering why I'm not wearing pants."

"I'm sorry, I didn't me-"

Quatre snorted in amusement. "It's okay. I forgot how ridiculous I must look. I made the mistake of going through the workshop this morning. They'd begun their bratbrations early." He staggered away from his desk in an imitation of drunkenness. "Eggnog doesn't go well on velvet."

Quatre's features fell into a disgruntled moue. "They were my very favourite trousers too."

"You don't look ridiculous," Trowa whispered, his throat long gone dry, for Quatre's inebriated swagger had brought him close; Trowa caught the scent of the other elf--sweet, like holly in the spring.

Trowa pulled his hands (still clutching his crumpled list) back to cover the most tangible effect this was having on his physiology.

"No? Well, here, let me look over your list." Quatre leaned over and reached down toward Trowa's lap. "There might be something I can do for you."

In sudden horror, Trowa jerked his hands away, the wadded paper ball tumbled to the ground, but Quatre's hand didn't stop. Abruptly, Trowa had Quatre's palm pressed against his stiffening cock, and, just a few inches from Trowa's lips, the other elf's mouth formed an 'O' of surprise.

They both froze; their eyes locked. Trowa willed himself further back in his chair, but had nowhere to go.

The bright blue gaze recovered first, dropping down to where Quatre's hand rested. "I see," he murmured, his tone unreadable.

"Uh," replied Trowa and closed his eyes, wishing as hard as he could that this was all merely a dream (he wasn't actually being so intimately--even if accidentally--groped by his boss's son) and he'd be waking up soon.

Although, his mind amended, if this were a dream, then he ought to let things go a little further. It had been a while since he'd had a sexually satisfying dream--and even longer since the real thing. Trowa relaxed his lips in preparation for a kiss--just in case.

But the warmth and scent of Quatre vanished with a faint waft of air. Trowa's eyelids flew open at the unwelcome loss to see Quatre quietly closing the door of his office. The other elf stood still, back to Trowa for a moment. He gave a little sigh and quickly snipped the lock on the doorknob.

"All right," he said.

"All right?"

Quatre turned with a tight smile. "I'm not supposed to do this sort of thing officially yet. But for you, I'm willing to make an exception."

"For me...? What?"

"It's all right," Quatre said, his expression now (woefully) all business. He made his way to a chair by the fire, a twin to the chair in which Trowa sat, and seated himself. "All the males in my family have the talent."

Talent? Many questions jostled for position to be Trowa's next utterance. He ignored them, hoping instead that events might explain themselves. But that hope proved to be futile--at least for the short term.

Quatre unbuttoned the top of his jacket with one hand and patted his left thigh with the other. "You'll have to sit in my lap for it to work." Quatre's expression indicated he felt perhaps uncomfortable with the proposition, but Trowa wasn't certain. Quatre's expressions changed so subtly so quickly, he felt entirely lost trying to read the other elf.

And so with the situation rapidly spiraling out of his control, Trowa determined the smart move--regardless of his fantastical wishes--was to leave. "Mr. Claus," Trowa said, directing his gaze away from Quatre and standing. "I am sorry, it was not my intention to impose upon you. I'm-"

"Quatre. Trowa, please call me Quatre. Mr. Claus is my father," said Quatre, irritation marring his voice--but then abruptly, his tone softened. "Please don't go just yet. I can help you with your list."

That was enough to encourage his remaining, but despite the assurance, Trowa made no gesture of acquiescence--except to return his gaze to Quatre.

Quatre sighed and smiled before stretching out an imploring hand. "I'm the one who should be apologising. Here I am, a senior manager. I'm supposed to be better at my job than this."

"I have to sit in your lap?" Trowa asked. The prospect was not an unattractive one, but he'd already violated enough decorum for one office visit.

"Um, yes," said Quatre; his glance flashed left-wise up to the ceiling before returning to Trowa. It could have been due the heat from the fire (which was now burning quite cheerily), but a rosy blush had blossomed across Quatre's cheeks.

A smile threatened Trowa's lips, but he waited to indulge it.

"Well, it is the most reliable way to do...these...sort of...things," Quatre finished.

tbc.
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North Pole Bureaucracy

North Pole Bureaucracy

Part 1