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The Chains We Wear	By : LadyYeinKhan Category: Gundam Wing/AC > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 13123 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
A/n: STATUS UPDATES CAN BE FOUND AT ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com

I'm not entirely sure how I managed it, but somehow I wrote the sixteenth chapter in little over a month. This hasn't happened since...my second year of university? I wonder if I should be overjoyed or slightly concerned.

Either way, I present to you Chapter 16, written in astoundingly short time. I'm quite happy with this chapter for the most part.

Warnings for this chapter: violence and swearing

Chapter 16:

Quatre was having, by far, one of the worst days of his life. While not nearly as terrible as when he had been addled by the zero system, it was much worse than, say, when he had gone through a day of meetings wearing two different dress shoes. What had started so promising—first an unusual but oh-so-appreciated extra hour of sleep and then Heero's utilitarian-but-still-delicious breakfast—had quickly degenerated into a political staffer's personal hell.

Less than a block from the office, a larger-than-normal pothole had thrown coffee all over the last of Quatre's clean, white dress shirts (thankfully, he kept a spare shirt at the office for just such emergencies; it didn’t clash too terribly). His presentation had disappeared, from his password-protected laptop no less, and only years-worth of experience improvising as a pilot had stopped him from making a fool of himself at the most important presentation of his short career. Not an hour after, Relena had, once again, laughed off his concerns that Stevens—what with his appropriate IT skills and the abnormally-large chip on his shoulder—may be attempting to sabotage him. And in the same breath, she had had the audacity to name Quatre the bearer of her condolences to Fahd Kader.

And now he was getting a speeding ticket. Quatre swore with such color and vehemence that, had they been there, Heero and Trowa would have blinked in shock, and Duo would have fallen over laughing.

Quatre had noticed the unmarked police car, of course. It had pulled out from an empty parking lot, just after Quatre had gone through the last green light before the highway. Its lights had been off, though, so he mostly ignored it as it merged at least a dozen car-lengths behind him. Quatre must have gone a mile with it inching closer before he really noticed. Then it was there: two car-lengths behind instead of seven, imbedded red-and-blue LEDs flashing from the windshield, headlights, and grill.

The posted speed of this stretch of highway was 60. Quatre glanced down at his dashboard. 10 miles-per-hour wasn't that much of difference.

The squad car disagreed. It gave two electronics beeps before letting out a short burst of siren. Swearing under his breath, Quatre pulled off onto the shoulder. The squad car followed. It stopped about twenty feet behind him: close enough for the patrol car's high beams to brighten the fake leather interior of Quatre's sedan.   Quatre squinted at the rear view mirror. Through the glare, he saw one large shadow in the driver's seat. After watching for about thirty seconds, the officer shifted.

Quatre, blinking away painful spots, glanced into his side mirror. The bend half a mile or more behind them steadily began to glow. This highway was known for speeders and not just a few hit-and-run sideswipes. Safety first.

The glow brightened into the heavy cab of an eighteen-wheeler. It crawled around the bend at posted speed, oblivious to the line of cars forming behind it. Only one or two managed to escape the snail's-paced line. They merged just ahead of the top-heavy pickup trucks and SUVs that were barreling down the left lanes like dragsters. Except for the slow turn of his head after a SUV that was easily pushing ninety, the officer behind him ignored them.

Quatre would get the single-minded cop, wouldn't he? And because sixty was more than enough to kill a man, Quatre had to wait until the truck and its wake crawled past. He had to watch other cars push triple-digits, their tires lifting as they merged with their badly-centered bodies, and wonder how much reasonable speeding was going to cost him.

Glaring at the officer, Quatre snatched his briefcase from the passenger seat. Fine, he was getting a ticket; he wasn't going to torture himself waiting for it. Quatre had a stack of papers to read before Monday morning, on top of his usual prep work. If he wanted at least Sunday night to himself, he should make the best use of the time. He tugged the work out, thumbing through the pages for a rough count before propping it up on the steering wheel. Relena's itinerary for Quatre's Tuesday meeting with Fahd was on top.

Quatre knew he was the most logical choice for bearer of Relena's condolences. Death in the political world was a tricky business, demanding just the right balance of compassion, tact, and strength: a balance that Quatre could achieve the easiest without looking weak or condescending. In the first place, he was empathetic. He could read, and, if he was very careful, even manipulate, Fahd's emotions. He could prevent most of the misunderstandings and miscommunications that had plagued every prior meeting with the man. Quatre was also Arabic and well-schooled in most Middle Eastern cultures and their etiquette. There would be no faux pas with him carrying her sentiments, something that could not be said about some of Relena's more "experienced" advisors. Most importantly, however, Quatre was the nearest to him in age. Tactful sympathy would be less emotionally charged, or condescending, coming from him than from a staffer closer to Kader's father's age.

And Relena wanted to be sympathetic. She wanted to be supportive in what she saw as the hardest part of life. Her father's murder still pained her on occasion, so she wanted to ease Fahd's burden of grief as much as possible, as professionally as possible. It was very noble and astoundingly naïve.

Saif Kader's strained relationship with his second-born had been no secret. In public, the two had had a coldness between them that was surprising even for Middle Eastern aristocracy. But strain can be eased, coldness can be tempered, with death. Grief can still occur. According to Quatre's sources, however—which, while not nearly as vast as Relena's, were far more efficient due to their necessarily morally-ambiguous nature—there would be no grief. The animosity between them was too thick for grief.

Before his illness, Saif had been known for publically, and in no way subtly, criticizing his son, criticisms that Fahd took with the grace and tongue-in-cheek appreciation expected of an heir. The two did not meet in private, had not for years, according to former house staff.  Fahd occupied the opposite end of the main house when he was there; there was less broken furniture and blood stains that way.

All of Quatre's sources assured him that Saif had always been a violent man; as a teenager, he had escaped manslaughter charges through family connections, and the last only narrowly. An early marriage to the particularly calm and demure daughter of an oil tycoon had mellowed his temper. The birth announcement had actually made a marked improvement. Unfortunately, Ilham Kader had been born with Vrolik Syndrome. The severity of the case almost killed him at birth, the pressures breaking his legs and fracturing several ribs. It was a miracle he survived.

But he did. Saif's money and influence saw to that. After the near disaster of his start, Ilham was provided with the best medical care money could buy. He had to be. Complications surrounding his birth had made a second child practically impossible; complications with the family of his wife made a mistress, or a second wife, completely impossible. Saif needed an heir, and a cripple was better than none.

That necessity had protected him for nearly ten years.

Then the impossible happened: Saif’s subdued and frail wife had another son. A healthy one. Everything shifted. It was not immediate, of course—Saif couldn't rid himself of the spare until he was sure of the heir—but over the next several years, Ilham was moved further and further away from attention. He was moved further and further from the center of the house. The rate of treatments decreased; the medical staff on hand shrank. Apart from an occasional formal appearance, where he stood with state-of-the-art braces and crutches, Ilham practically disappeared.

And then he finally did.

The coroner declared it an accident, one that was inevitable given the instability of Ilham's bone structure. No one asked why Ilham was alone at the top of the stairs in the middle of the night. No one asked why he was near the west wing of the house, his brother and father's wing, even though the household knew he was not prone to insomnia or wandering. But no one had asked how the graceful wife had managed such a clumsy fall so as to hang herself with the curtain sash, either. A fall down the stairs was at least believable.

Fahd had been devastated.

He had been seven at the time, much too young. Too young to truly understand the implications of an ousted first-born or the necessity of political murder. Saif should have waited until he was older, until the affection for his older brother had died with the single-minded selfishness of adolescence. But he didn't and from the end of the small, exceptionally private funeral, Fahd had changed. He saw his brother's death as a failing on his father's part. All the money and effort he poured into Fahd and he couldn't stop a simple fall down the stairs? One guard would have been more than enough. That failing strained their relationship. As Fahd grew, and undoubtedly discovered for himself the truth, the strain turned to tension, that turned to hate.

It was possible that Fahd had orchestrated his father's illness. More than possible. He had the connections and the motive. More than one politician had actually suggested it, in the quiet but public forums politics had. But Fahd was too charming, too disarming to suggest something so nefarious. He met every report of deterioration with just the right amount of concern. And every accuser met "small problems" that took their attention away from the accusations; the last one simply disappeared.

Fahd was patient, much more patient than Saif himself. He had waited until the old man's weakness resolved itself, until there was no way to prove absolutely that the failing of Saif's immune system was anything but natural. He had waited until the body was already compromised before allowing lethal allergens to slip under the eyes of his father's guards.

If the rumors were true; they probably were. The head of Saif's medical staff had meetings with Fahd frequently, had been Ilham's main physician, and had purchased a new house for his family shortly after Saif lost consciousness the first time. But that, like everything else, was coincidental and hardly proof.

There would be no grief on Tuesday; any tears Quatre saw when he bore Relena's sincerest condolences would be tears of joy. Quatre was surprised Fahd hadn't been caught dancing atop his father's grave.

Quatre was not going through the paperwork as fast as he would have liked. Even after shuffling the itinerary to the back of pile, he was distracted. He had so much information, hearsay or not; how much of it would be relevant? The Preventors had hit something of a wall in their newest investigation. What if he funneled the information to Heero? But considering his sources, how much could legally be used? To see Fahd Kader get released on a technicality and knowing he had been partially responsible for it. It wasn't worth it. Except that the Preventors were not always bound to the same rules as local law enforcement, and when they were, they had a way of exploiting the littlest-known loopholes. Questionable legality was really a small matter,

He had been staring at the same introductory paragraph for a while, sorting his knowledge into legal and questionable, then with-evidence and hearsay, when he heard a car door slam. Quatre blinked and looked at the rearview mirror. The officer, dressed on standard blues, was walking towards his car with a clipboard and a flashlight. About time. Quatre tossed the papers onto his briefcase.

Somewhere near the trunk of the car, the officer flipped his flashlight on. So when he arrived at the driver's window, the light beamed in Quatre's face. Full in the face. From just below the officer’s ribs.

The strategist in him froze. A bit of random data suddenly started spinning around his head, demanding his attention. The dormant pilot in him latched onto it.

"Local law enforcement training dictated that when approaching a suspect at night, every officer bear their flashlight at shoulder-height. Reasons were numerous: differentiation between officer and civilian, make-shift weapon should the suspect prove to be uncooperative and violent. Ex cetra. If approached by..."

Quatre let the information go and stared at the head of the flashlight for a second. The second expanded, giving him time to absorb every detail of the scene. The darkness of this stretch of highway. The silence that had ruled for over five minutes now, since the last car had sped away. The time: 7:23, not overly long after rush hour. Cars would still come by but at a trickle. Plenty of time for the would-be cop.

Quatre's heart pounded in his ears. If he didn’t'play the next two to three minutes perfectly, the trap he had stumbled into would cost him something. Most likely, his life.

"Is there a problem, officer?" Quatre asked, voice carefully neutral, a small uncomfortable smile on his lips. Appropriate for one who wanted to pretend they had done nothing wrong.

"License and registration, if you please."

An odd choice of words. More subservient than the standard "please," allowing the listener to stand in higher authority than the speaker. And therefore inappropriate in an officer. This man was used to serving someone who demanded observance of a rigid hierarchy.

"Of course," Quatre answered.

His registration was in the glove box. On top of the pile of paperwork that hid the box of bullets, thankfully. His license was in his wallet, which was in his briefcase. Quatre let his nervousness develop into a twitch. It knocked his briefcase to the floor in an entirely believable fumbling. Quatre apologized hurriedly, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning over the hand brake.

There was no short, horrifying pain of a bullet piercing the back of his skull. The would-be cop was under strict orders, then?

Quatre had left the briefcase open, so most of its contents spilled out when it fell. Coupled with the mess from the stack of papers, Quatre had a believable pile "burying" his wallet.   Still, he didn't linger longer than he needed to. While shuffling papers from one side to the other, he snuck a hand under the passenger seat and flicked the snap holding the holster closed.

He hadn't wanted the gun. In Quatre's mind, the time to carry a loaded firearm at all times ended with the war. When Heero had found out he was going to be working in politics, however, he asked Quatre get a gun. Relena was a pacifist; most politicians were not, and it was too easy to hire a decent-enough hit man. Quatre had refused. Heero reluctantly accepted it after a thorough detailing of Relena's security staff.

When Quatre became an unofficial Preventor informant, Heero didn't ask. He insisted. He went so far as to develop and install a special harness for the car: to keep the gun from accidentally firing if Quatre were in a car accident or something. Knowing Heero would not relent, and not wanting to seem unappreciative of his concern and effort, Quatre had begrudgingly accepted. But he had always thought the likelihood of himself getting into any sort of trouble that needed bullets to solve.

I'm lucky Heero's so paranoid.

"Sorry about that," Quatre said, handing the would-be cop his documents with a sheepish smile. He passed them with his right hand, which was both awkward and suspicious. He kept his voice high, however, and fumbled over his words. Still nervous, slightly protective. The would-be cop took them without comment and didn't notice Quatre's left hand sliding to the door handle.

"Going a little fast, weren't you Mr. Winner?"

"I...Yeah, I guess I was. It was, it was just such a long day and I really just wanted to get home—"

"Speed limits exist for a reason, Mr. Winner."

"Yes, of course. It won't happen again, officer."

The would-be officer glanced at him as he clipped the license to the clipboard. "No, Mr. Winner. I imagine it won't."

In the time that it took him to write the ticket, Quatre had discreetly switched his left hand for his right and unlatched the door with the softest and quietest of movements. The would-be cop didn't appear to notice. He ripped the ticket from the pad, folded it around Quatre's documents, and handed it back to him. Quatre reached out with his left hand.

The strategist in him expected to be grabbed. A grab, with maybe a pull into the door, was the simplest and most effective. It would surprise him and give the would-be cop enough time to grab the back of his head and slam it into the steering wheel or door; or else pull out his gun, cock it, and fire point-blank.

Quatre was not disappointed. The would-be cop dropped the license and lunged at Quatre's wrist. He threw the clipboard as he did, freeing the hand for the head or the gun. Since he was expecting it, though, Quatre twisted out of the grab. The move gave him a two-second window of shock. He didn't waste it. He shoved at the driver's door twice, both hands slamming the hard metal into the man's knees and then his head.

Bleeding, the would-be cop snarled in garbled Farsi. He fumbled with his pistol. Quatre twisted in the driver's seat, fell back across the hand brake, and grabbed the gun. He kicked the door once. The would-be cop jumped back. The driver's window framed his shoulders.

Quatre emptied the chamber in his head.

His assailant's ravaged face fell back in a less than graceful arc. The body swayed, staggered a step, and dropped below the window. Quatre didn't hear it hit the asphalt. He didn't hear his pulse in his ears or his heart pounding against his ribs. All he heard was a high ringing. A car was too small a place to fire half a dozen bullets.

The likelihood of surviving not one but six bullets to the head was practically zero. Quatre still held the gun, poised to fire. The threat of a seventh bullet should be enough. As the seconds ticked on, the ringing dimmed. Soon he realized that the high hissing sound punctuating the singing pulses of his wounded hearing was his breath. Quatre fought with his gasping longs, forcing them to make longer pulls. He gagged twice before getting his breathing back to normal. As he took in more oxygen, his hands stopped shaking, and the frightened chinking of a trembling gun that he had just started to notice stopped.

It was then that Quatre felt a light weight on his legs. Several light weights, like pinpoints on his shins and thighs. Blood stains. Quatre suddenly smelled gunpowder and the heavy metallic tang of blood.

Quatre shifted the full weight of the gun into his right hand. It trembled only a little as he fished his cell phone out of his coat.

It rang five times before connecting. "Yuy."

He's busy. He always checks the ID. He's busy; I'm interrupting some precious prep time for his mission.

"I just shot someone in the head."

Anyone else would have answered the sudden declaration with hysteria. And while panicked questions about his health and demands for explanations could be comforting, more likely they would shatter the already fractured, tenuous hold Quatre had on his emotions. He needed that hold, and he needed time, time those questions would waste.

Heero answered him with thirty-six seconds of silence. He wasn't shocked. Heero refused to be shocked, because shock was dangerous.   It implied disbelief, which led to panic, which wasted valuable time. Besides, it wasn’t shocking. Heero knew Quatre was capable of killing, that he had killed before. He had seen it. Of course, that had been in the war. They weren't at war, so he shouldn't have to kill now. This was a surprising turn-of-events. Not shocking. Surprising.

But that was not important. Not right now. It would be important but later. Much later, after Heero had finished processing a simple but gruesome fact and the most effective and efficient course of action he decided on with had been acted upon to the letter.

"Are you hurt?" Heero asked finally.

"No."

"Where are you?"

"East-bound on route 28," Quatre said. He lifted himself slowly, just high enough and long enough to read a mile marker through the windshield. About one hundred feet before mile-marker 9."

"How many shots?"

"Six."

"Do you have any bullets left?"

"There's a box in the glove box. It's unopened."

"Open it and reload."

"Heero."

"It's just a precaution, you know that," Heero said. Quatre heard a creak in the background: Heero pushing back his chair. "I'll talk to Une now."

"Heero."

"We'll call it in—"

"It was a cop."

Heero's silence lasted only ten seconds. "Shit."

"I'm sorry Heero. I don't know if he was dirty, or if he was just some guy who somehow stole a uniform and an unmarked car—"

"Where's the gun?"

"In my hand."

"Put it down. On the passenger seat. Is your window up?"

"No."

"Put it up."

Quatre sat up carefully. He considered picking up his briefcase for a moment before setting the gun on the seat. Shifting around, Quatre closed the driver's door, forcing himself to ignore the asphalt and the high beam-illuminated pool of blood. The side mirror, however, was angled just right to catch a black shoe in the bottom corner of the reflection, and two pale points of light half a mile behind him.

"Cars, Heero."

"Put the window up."

Quatre turned the car on, holding the ignition key just a little too long. The grind of the starter made him jump.

"Do not talk to anyone." Heero ordered, the words coming out with a mild pant. He was hurrying somewhere.  "No matter what happens, do not talk to anyone. Une has you in the books as an informant. They can't touch you."

The Preventors already had a very strained relationship with the local law enforcement and justice system. The organization's "harboring of a cop-killer" was going to completely destroy it.

"I'm sorry, Heero. I'm so sorry. I—"

"How's your battery?"

Quatre blinked. "What?"

"Your battery. Your cell phone battery."

"It, it's fine. I had some work to do at my desk so I charged it before I left."

"Good. That means you can talk to Duo."

"Talk to..what?"

But Heero was not listening. He was moving, his long stride a series of whooshes and thuds over the phone. Quatre heard him bark at Duo quite clearly. Heard Duo yelp. Heero must have grabbed him. No one bothered to cover the mouth piece.

Talk to him. What? Talk to him. Now. About what? About anything. Just talk to him.

There was silence and then breath in his ears. It was Heero's.

"Do not talk to anyone. No matter what. Talk to Duo. Only talk to Duo. Talk about anything, everything, that's not this. You cannot talk about this. We can't take a statement over the phone. Understand?"

The first of a small group of cars rushed past. It didn't slow. The second did. The third pulled off to the side ahead of him. So did the fourth. Someone got out. They ran a few feet toward him before staring down his car and raising their closed hand to their ear.

Quatre covered his face with his hand.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Quatre," Heero said, voice softening for the first time since he picked up the phone. Quatre felt, through the metal and plastic of the phone and miles and miles of phone lines and electricity bouncing from satellites, the concern and fear. Such a strong bitter-sweetness bathing his senses; it practically choked him. "Sit tight. We're coming."

*-----*-----*

"There. Finished," Catherine said, sitting back on her heels and wiping her forehead. She watched Trowa move the last crate, looking from the cardboard boxes she had packed and stacked to the crates he had packed and stacked to the tent they had spent most of the day working in.

"Well, the little stuff anyway."

Packing up the circus was always at least a three-day job. Trowa had missed day one, when aside from a personal suitcase, everything that wasn't nailed down or otherwise fastened in the temp-solid housing had to be packed. And occasionally dismantled first. And he would miss the third day, when the bleachers, rings, and tents would be dismantled and the largest of remaining items from day two—like animal cages—would be loaded onto transport trucks.

Trowa was not particularly upset about missing days one and three. He and Catherine could never pack the trailer without arguing, either because she had no sense of logical organization or because he could not fold clothes for imagined optimal packing space/wrinkle-prevention. And he somehow always managed to get surrounded by generally inept people when it came to the tents.   Not having to endure her glaring after he had bested her lack of logic, and not having to watch his head for falling coils of rope or swinging beams, was a nice change.

"The trucks are coming tomorrow?" Trowa asked as he pushed the last crate into place.

"Four A.M. My favorite time. I always love getting up at dawn to move 100 boxes before dismantling tents and coiling rope for hours."

Trowa decided not to mention that dawn was actually somewhere around 5:30, 6:00.

"When's the flight?"

"We have to be at the port by 7:30 tomorrow evening, so sometime after that."

Had he been inclined to, which he hadn't, Trowa wouldn’t even need to ask Catherine where the circus was headed. He had run into the ringmaster in the early morning, when he was pushing his bike across the crate-littered grounds. By no means a sentimental man, he gave Trowa an unusually gruff greeting. It took a moment of consideration and a single question to figure out exactly what pinched the ringmaster's face more so than usual today.

The circus was headed for a colony. The animals were not exactly fond of shuttles and were even less fond of the sedatives they got before space travel.

The colonies were a logical choice. Many of the colonists missed some of the traditions and classic cultures of Earth. So there was good money and publicity to be had for a performing group willing to endure the frustrations of space travel. Which the circus was. They would have yet another long, successful tour among the colonies, spending weeks to months on each.

It would be the first colony-tour Trowa would not be present for; he was not exactly sure how he felt about that.

Catherine stood and stretched, grimacing as her back audibly popped. "Ugh I'm starving, I'm stiff, and I stink of cardboard and tape. I get dibs on the shower."

Trowa, who had been itching for the last hour or two from the layer of dry sweat under his shirt, disagreed.

"Because I am also not starving, stiff, and smelling like not only hand-heated metal crates but also the cardboard boxes you couldn't lift."

"My house, my bathroom, shotgun."

"I am faster than you."

"I locked the door this time."

"What happened to being a good host," Trowa asked arms over his chest.

Catherine snorted playfully. "Hostess-ing rules do not apply on moving day."

Trowa was aware that this was mostly likely the last time, for probably a long time, that Catherine could engage in the playful, argumentative banter she enjoyed. So he indulged her, resisting a bit more, and with much more effort for wittiness, than usual before giving in. It made their walk back to the uncomfortably empty trailer a bit more bearable.

Besides, he was used to being uncomfortable. Catherine was not. And a little salt on the skin was much better than roasting or freezing in a cockpit for hours, or having his ribs ache with every breath.

Everything apart from the table and chairs had been packed. Catherine grabbed her over-stuffed duffle bag from the table and dragged it to the bathroom. As he waited for his turn, Trowa busied himself with finding the usual disposable plates and utensils that were provided for the troupe during moving days and then carefully spooning out rations from the leftovers in the fridge. Catherine had just enough saved for a small dinner and lunch for two. Trowa dug out a smartly-packed sandwich from his bag, and then cut his portion in half.

Catherine noticed the size difference almost immediately. But Trowa had put the sandwich right next to his plate, so she couldn't do much more than pout.

"Shower's yours. There should still be hot water left. Just bring out the shampoo and soap when you're done so I can pack it again."

"Not showering before the flight?"

"I will if I'm lucky, but last time we weren't."

Trowa certainly hoped they were. Commercial shuttles were bad enough without other passengers glaring at you because you, unfortunately, reeked.

Knowing she wouldn't, Trowa didn't bother to tell her to start without him. He would just have to take a fast shower. He set his much-lighter duffle on the toilet seat and wriggled out of his work clothes. Trowa turned the shirts over in his hands, thumbing an old pull he had worsened today with getting caught on a crate. The old turtleneck and plain tee were both very close to being useless as clothing. But they still had enough integrity to make good rags, and half-decent bandages in a pinch. He'd cut them up for scraps after washing them.

Jeans were harder. Luckily, his work jeans were still in decent shape. And when they weren't, hopefully he could make them into cutoffs. Otherwise, he was stuck with useless cloth that had to be either dumped or that cluttered his scrap box.

Trowa showered just enough to feel sufficiently clean and a little more relaxed. And much hungrier.   Hungry enough to leave his hair gel and corset in the bathroom until after dinner.   Trowa did, however, bring out her toiletries. If Catherine noticed the lack of corset—how could she not notice his hair—she thankfully didn't say anything.

They ate cold chicken and vegetables in silence, grimacing occasionally. Or rather Catherine did. Trowa was quite fine with cold vegetables, even microwavable ones. And he had his peanut butter sandwich to wash away any unpleasant tastes. Catherine had some water and the empty space where the microwave had been to frown at.

Trowa finished before her, which was not all that unusual, and took his plate and utensils to the trash bag in the corner without a word, which was also not unusual. Catherine watched him as he moved with a pursed, thoughtful expression. Which also wasn't that unusual either. What was unusual was Catherine watching him for most of the day, which she had, and always with an overly curious or overly thoughtful expression. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

"It's a shame you can't stay tonight," she said when he sat back down with a plastic cup of water.

Fahd had told him he could; it was the last night Trowa would be able to spend with her for quite a while. He should spend it with her, soak up as much of her confidence and concern and care as he could. Eventually, he would need it, and letters and phone calls just weren't the same. But Trowa had only just started to develop a slightly more-normal sleeping habit. He needed at least another two weeks to even out. Besides, he had woken up from nightmares three times this week, two of which on the nights he stayed home. He had only managed to stifle the screaming once. He would rather not risk having to explain his night terrors to her.

"I really don't think Wufei wants to trust Duo with his water heater."

"It's a water heater."

"Duo is very good at making things explode."

"And you aren't."

"But when I do it, it's on purpose."

Catherine, who had once lost a very nice blender thanks to Duo's bad luck with household appliances, nodded. "Good point."

With no other point to be made, they lapsed into silence, which soon turned somewhat awkward as Catherine resumed her staring.

"Is there a reason you're staring?"

"I'm not staring."

"You've been staring at me all day."

"Have not." Trowa, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms, arched an eyebrow. "Alright fine, but there's just something different about you and I'm trying to find it."

"If you are thinking I've lost weight again, you're right. I was sick, and no, it wasn't serious. But a weekend without being able to eat can result in weight loss."

He was not going to mention the pills. Ever.

"I've had stomach viruses, too, smart-ass. And no that's not it. Something's just...different. About you, you know what I mean?"

"No."

"You are just not helpful." Catherine sighed.  " don't know. Something's just different. The way you move, the way you stand, even the glare you're giving me now. It just seems different. You seem different, like something's changed."

Trowa stiffened. He had forgotten just how perceptive Catherine was when it came to him.

"Nothing's changed."

"Is it something at work?"

"Catherine."

"A promotion?"

He sighed. "No."

"A demotion then? What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Did someone move out? Did someone move in?"

"Catherine, I don't know what you're seeing but there's nothing different about me."

"Are you dating?”

Dating implied two people who were mutual attracted to one another, enjoyed each other's company, and went out on either utterly mundane or irritatingly sentimental excursions simply because they could. For whatever reason, yes, Fahd was sexually attracted him—which made Trowa shudder—and he had to begrudgingly admit that Fahd was attractive him—which made Trowa shudder more—but as of yet, Trowa hadn't gone even as far as the front door of the apartment with Fahd, and was inclined to keep it that way. There was nothing mudane or sentimental about anything they did; Fahd seemed incapable of limiting his perversity, and he seemed incapable of controlling himself. And Trowa certainly didn’t enjoy Fahd's company; he simply needed it and had reached the point where he was unfortunately more than willing to endure it.

They were not dating.

Unfortunately, Trowa took a little too long to reach that conclusion. Catherine jumped on the hesitation immediately.

"Oh my god," she gasped behind her hands. Trowa had to head her off, and quickly.

"No."

"Since when?"

"Since never."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"We're not dating."

"But you are seeing someone."

As it was technically true, Trowa couldn't do anything but grit his teeth and pinch the bridge of his nose.  Catherine reached over and smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

"Sneaky bastard! I'm your sister, you're supposed to tell me these things."

"Hardly." Catherine smacked him again, harder this time. "I don't have to tell you everything, and you know very well that I don't. Besides, it's complicated."

"Everyone says that."

"Everyone" was not sleeping with a known terrorist for the known reason of sleep deprivation, and several unknown, unwanted reasons.

"I wouldn't know but it is. And no, I am not explaining it."

"Well too bad. I didn't get to meet the guy before leaving, thanks to you, so I want details and I want them now."

Trowa arched an eyebrow. "You expect me to tell you everything because I didn't tell you and didn't let you meet?"

"Exactly."

"And my privacy means nothing?"

"Not right now it doesn't. You have three hours before you absolutely have to leave, so I suggest you start talking."

Trowa did not know enough about relationships or dating, real or fictionalized, to come up suitable lies on the spot.

Which meant that he'd have to tell the truth, because in her current state, Catherine would not be deterred. By anything. Except that he couldn't tell her the truth. Catherine would not accept it well, and all of the responses Trowa imagined her making were uncomfortable at best and disasterous at worst. He had to say something, though, and soon. She was leaning forward with a hard, almost disturbing focus, and drumming her fingers on the table expectantly. If he waited any longer, she would start asking questions.

And when it came to her interrogations, Trowa seemed to be quite incapable of not tripping himself.

Trowa was spinning convincing half truths as fast he could when the phone rang. Catherine, apart from a short glance, completely ignored it. The phone rang six times before cutting out; the answering machine, which was not wall mounted, had already been packed. In the short silence, Catherine opened her mouth. The phone rang again. She stared at it a little longer.

The third time she got up. "Don't think you're off the hook yet," she said as she crossed to the phone. But if it was a moderately-serious emergency, preferably something transport-related, he might be. With his luck though, it was probably a salesman.

Catherine, back against the counter, watched him as she picked it up. "Hello?" Not her typical light-hearted greeting but still convincingly nonchalant. Her forehead suddenly creased. "Nice to hear from you too. I'm fine, by the way, thanks. How are you?"

Trowa could only think of one person Catherine would use that tone with. But Thomas, now without his crutches, could easily walk over the snowless grounds from his trailer if he really wanted to bother them.

Catherine pursed her lips. "Well yeah. We're moving out, he came by to help—" Trowa tilted his head. Someone for him? And someone with the kind of phone etiquette Catherine hated? "Yes, he's finishing dinner—" Catherine sneered at the phone and put her hand on her hip. "Excuse me?—Not with that attitude you're not."

Trowa knew of only a few people who could be looking for him and already know Catherine's unlisted number. Of them, three were busy: Heero and Duo were pulling another 78-hour shift, classified-mission-centered which meant that phone calls were heavily restricted, and Quatre never left work before seven on a Saturday. Which left Trowa with one more realistic choice. Unlisted numbers weren't difficult to find, especially if you had the resources Fahd did. But if he had had the audacity to call her—

"Fine, fine. Trowa, it's for you." she hissed not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. "It's your rude jerk of a roommate."

Trowa felt only marginally better. All things considered, the only reason they’d call was for an emergency. And their emergencies could be rather disasterous. Trowa took the phone from her before she decided to throw it at him.

"Yes?"

"Your phone is neither off nor dead," Heero growled. "So is there a reason you’re not answering it?"

"I didn't know you were calling."

"The damn thing vibrates like a sex toy and you're telling me you didn't feel it?"

Trowa arched an eyebrow; he couldn't remember the last time Heero sounded quite so pissed. He did remember, however, how little he liked it. "I've been moving metal crates all day. Heavy metal crates. Accidents happen, so I left it in the trailer."

"Were you moving shit an hour ago?"

"No."

"Then you should have heard the damn phone."

Trowa grit his teeth. "Pardon me for taking a shower, Heero."

"Since when do you take hour-long showers?"

"Fine, a shower and dinner, then." He spat. "If all you're planning on doing is scolding me, then good night, I'm hanging up now. You can tell me when I get home. Tomorrow."

"Don't be a smartass, Trowa."

“Then tell me what’s so goddamned important.”

"Quatre was attacked."

For some inexplicable reason, Trowa couldn't make those three common words, said in a completely grammatically correct order, work properly in his head. The sentence dominated his focus, repeating endlessly in his head, without him fully understanding it. He felt distant pain, sharp and burning, that sharpened the more he tried to untangle the meaning.

Catherine's hand cupped his. Trowa twitched, looking down at the hand she covered, the one digging into the countertop with force enough to dent it. She ran her thumb over his knuckle. There was confusion and fear on her face when she tilted her head to look at him. Trowa relaxed his grip, leaving a dull pain in his fingers, and took a long shaking breath. His chest still burned from the momentary override shock had forced on his lungs.

"When?"

"About forty-five minutes ago on 28. We're pulling up to the site now."

"Is he hurt?"

"He said no, and there is a very dead cop next to his car."

"A cop?"

"Une called them before we left. Every precinct in a thirty-mile radius."

Which might not mean anything. Cops, Trowa had learned, were particularly territorial when it came to jurisdictions. More so when cop-killers were involved.

"And?"

"And there are half a dozen squad cars and a dozen pissed-off cops drawing everyone's attention. It's a traffic nightmare. But Quatre's still in the car."

"Is he alright?"

"Duo's been talking to him. He tells him to calm down twice roughly every six minutes."

Which was not bad for an empath with a dead body and twelve angry cops surrounding him.

"We're getting out now."

"What's next?"

"Une's bringing him in. He's an informant, but I'm expecting fifteen minutes of arguing with the cops before Quatre gets out of the car. Hour and a half minimal before we're back at headquarters."

"I'll be waiting."

The silence Heero answered him with was unusual. Heavy, as if he was processing normally, but tinged with something too much like surprise. When he answered, though, his voice was perfectly even, apart from a small lift at the end of a word or two that indicated appreciation.

"We'll see you there."

Trowa hung up the phone. He squeezed Catherine's hand gently before hurrying for the bathroom.

"What happened?"

"Quatre. I need to leave."

"Is he alright?"

"He’s not hurt."

"But is he alright?"

Trowa paused from stuffing his filthy work clothes into the duffle bag, overtop the plastic bag. "I don't know. Heero and Duo are with him now."

"What happened?"

"Catherine," he said, "It's going to take me almost two hours to get from here to the Preventors. And that's if I speed and don't stop for gas." He threw the jar and corset on top and yanked the zipper closed. "I have to go."

Catherine stared at the duffle bag for a moment before looking at him. "Call me?"

"I will."

Between throwing his jacket on and running out the door, Trowa paused and let Catherine hug him as hard as she wanted. He felt, for the first time in years, the scratch of wool against his breasts as she held him close. Trowa wrapped his arms about her back and held.

The highway from the grounds to the city was mostly deserted at this hour, and not known for speeders, so there were no cops to flag him down as he pushed 130.     Unfortunately, Trowa only had half a tank of gas, which pushing 130 mph depleted quite quickly. He pulled off into a gas station about half way, where he bounced minutely on the balls of his feet while the single attendant meandered between tanks and pumps and register.   Even with the fifteen minute delay, Trowa arrived first. Heero and Duo’s parking space was empty. Trowa waited in the empty space next to it.

Exactly 23 minutes after he arrived, three cars pulled into the garage. He recognized only one. Heero didn't look surprised to see Trowa standing at his door. He nodded his head slightly. Duo slipped out and without so much as a glance hurried to one of the cars parking a row down.

When Quatre did not get out of their car, Trowa understood why.

As former teammates and current roommates, there was a conflict of interests the local authorities would have jumped on immediately. It was a conflict that, threatened enough, Une would have bowed against. So the primary officers were three men Trowa vaguely recognized. They flanked Quatre, two on one side, one on the other. They had most of Quatre's possessions and one had his hand on his elbow. He stirred him to the elevator none to gently. Trowa grit his teeth. The idiot. Quatre was probably stirring with so many emotions, his and foreign, that he could barely walk straight, and they were feeding him tension?

Duo, walking at Quatre's back, didn’t approve of the hard grip either. He gave the gripping Preventor a nudge in the back. The Preventor threw Duo a nasty look but loosened his hand.

The elevator was at the end of their row, so Heero and Trowa waited by the elevator for the small group of Preventors. Heero called the elevator when they hit the end of the row and turned towards them. Trowa looked Quatre over thoroughly. There was blood but only small flecks on his pant legs. Obviously not his. His clothes were a little more wrinkled than was normal for the end of a work day. And his hair was ruffled, as if he had been running his hands through it. When they got closer, Quatre glanced up at him. The last few hours had drained him of color, except for his eyes that glowed an abnormally feverish blue. He must have spent too long thinking and analyzing and being constantly frustrated in his attempts to understand.

Quatre slowed, tilting his head slightly as he looked at Trowa. It was only then Trowa realized that with his duffle bag still slung across his back, and with the corset inside it, the nylon strap highlighted the subtle dip and rise of his breasts under his jacket. If he weren't so anxious, Trowa might have blushed.

Quatre gave him a small, crooked smile. Nervous and tired but genuinely warm. When the elevator dinged and they piled in, Quatre made a point of brushing the back of his hand against Trowa's.

There was not enough space, so Trowa waited in the garage with Heero.

"Waiting long?" Heero asked.

"Twenty-three minutes and eleven seconds."

"They were more argumentative than I expected. I flashed my badge twice and cited the regulations their commissioner had accepted and signed and they still insisted on bringing Quatre in."

"Protecting their own."

"And I'm protecting ours. I ended up having to call Une who had the order come directly from their chief. They weren't happy."

"Don't imagine they would be."

"Kept Quatre in that damn car for another half hour."

"Where is the car?"

"Une let the cops have some of their blood. The scene's theirs and we have to send over the reports."

That could be problematic. "Oh."

"She wasn't happy about it, but she wanted Quatre here."

"Are we at least getting copies of the forensics reports?"

"If we don't, then someone is getting a very angry phone call in the morning."

Trowa and Heero lapsed back into silence, Trowa eventually shifting his duffle bag to his hand and then the ground. Where exactly would they take Quatre? He had to be "interrogated" as it were, and there were a few places it could be done. Some of the conferences rooms. Probably not Une's office. Trowa just hoped it would not be in the rarely-used holding cells on the top floor. The atmosphere would not do Quatre any favors. But Une was aware of his empathy, and Duo was there. Hopefully he had enough clout with the other Preventors to force a change of place if the situation arose.

"Do we know anything yet?"

Heero shook his head. "I told Quatre not to say anything to anyone, and forensics hasn't contacted us. But they haven't had much time yet."

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open. Heero put his foot against the catch.

"Sorry, for yelling."

"I should have checked my phone. Thanks for being so persistent."

"I should be thanking you. With Catherine leaving tomorrow and—" Heero paused and looked momentarily both uncomfortable and bitter, before shrugging, "I just didn't think you would come."

Heero stepped into the elevator, the doors starting to close behind him. So Trowa didn't exactly have the time to be surprised, unless he wanted to walk. He slipped between the two doors with his duffle bag.

The ride to their floor was not long enough for Trowa to ask him exactly where he expected Trowa to be after finding out Quatre had been attacked. And when the doors opened, he was surprised enough to see a sulking Duo to forget about asking altogether.

Heero blinked slightly. "Une's office?"

"Conference room upstairs. Une kicked me out.." He muttered.

"That's not surprising." he said.

"Those idiots don’t know him. They'll freak him out."

"You live with him and the cops would have a field day with that. Quatre will be fine."

Duo frowned, arms crossed mutionously over his chest. He sulked for another few seconds before noticing Trowa.

"Trowa?"

"Yes, Duo."

"When'd you get here?"

"About twenty minutes before you did, actually."

Heero shook his head when Duo looked at him confused. "You were talking to Quatre."

"You used your cell phone while driving? Where the hell is my calendar?"

Heero sneered at him. "Duo."

"No I need to document this for the next time you cite the perception rate and reaction time percentage cuts—"

"Don't you have work to do?"

They couldn't just sit around and wait, as much as they might want to. So Heero and Duo excused themselves and slipped back behind the closed doors of a classified prep meeting. Trowa could, theoretically, find and loiter outside the conference room. All the rooms were sound-proofed, however, and the camera system had been updated and he hadn't bothered to hack it yet. Apart from further aggravating his already anxious nerves, waiting was worse than useless. He needed a distraction, and there was always work to do.

The floor was practically deserted; most of the night operatives worked a level above or below them. Since Une genenrally stayed late, however, half of the overhead flourescents were on. Still, it was dark enough that Trowa switched on his desk lamp. Trowa dropped his bag by his desk and draped his coat over the chair before sitting down and pulling over the nearest stack of papers.

Quatre was upstairs for nearly three hours, and in those three hours several things happened. In the first hour, several people came and went by his desk. Most were involved in various errands of much more importance than curiosity and didn’t stop, but one or two stopped just before or after his desk and looked at him. It was not every day an operative came to work in plain clothes. Duo also stopped by near the end of the hour, dropping off a Styrofoam cup. He came back five minutes later and switched it with the one that actually had tea. Trowa thanked him anyway.

In the second hour, the forensics team called. Of all the evidence they gathered—Quatre's bloodied license, the bloodied ticket and clipboard, six bullets matching the make and model of the gun and the unopened ammo box, no immediate signs of struggle—one piece had Une rushing to and from her office as fast as her flats allowed.

Quatre hadn't shot a cop six times in the head. He had shot a cop-killer six times in the head, which made the local precinct only slightly less irritated. They usually preferred executing their own cop-killers.

It wasn't even a matter of mismatched finger prints and handwriting. Both the head of forensics and the coroner had known Officer Johnson well. The Middle-Eastern man with the ripped-up skull, broad-shoulder and sturdy as he was, was not brown haired, green eyed, English-white Johnson. It had taken only about an hour of scouring his planned evening-patrol route before police found him, naked and abandoned in a dumpster with a broken neck. The family would be contacted after he was checked for evidence and cleaned up a bit.

Forensics and the coroner's office were working on identification. They would send any findings over immediately.

Not off the hook, but no longer gunned for by every precinct in the district. That was a definite improvement. Heero informed Trowa of all of this during the last thirty minutes of the second hour, when he had slipped out for coffee.

Early in the last hour, Trowa got a text message. He felt it vibrating against his chair in the usual three-beat pattern. Not that Trowa need that peculiar pattern to know exactly who was contacting him. He should have been waiting in the alley hours ago. Trowa waited until he had finished his current paper to answer it. Even knowing the physical hell Fahd would put him through, Trowa hadn't quite mentally prepared himself for refusing to come. Whether or not he was afraid to sleep alone or afraid that Fahd would unexpectedly arrive at the house, Trowa wasn't considering. He did, however, have quite a few compromises planned when he put his pen down.

Trowa settled back against his chair, reaching into his coat pocket. He took out the cell phone and flipped it open. The text message, black letters scrawled across a blue-white screen, blinded him.

At the end of that third hour, Heero and Duo walked past his desk, heading for the elevator. Trowa had enough sense to snap the phone closed as they approached. He twisted around in his chair and grabbed his bag. If either of them thought him stiff or jerky in the movements, they didn't say anything. Heero, kindly as possible, told him to wait. He wasn't an active Preventor; he wasn't allowed upstairs. They'd bring Quatre down. Trowa felt a momentary, healthy sting of irritation that he quickly lost hold of. He sank back into his chair as they disappeared into the elevator.

When they returned fifteen minutes later, Quatre was with them, released most likely into protective custody. Duo had an arm tight about his shoulders. Quatre, tired as he was, smiled that warm crooked smile. Trowa did his damnedest to smile back, unlocking his fury-tightened jaw to keep himself from grimacing.

"We'll bring him back in a couple of hours. Une gave us clearance." Heero said. Trowa nodded once.

"Let's go home," Quatre muttered.

Trowa followed them, doing his best to keep to the back of the group as they headed for the garage. He didn't trust the hold he had over himself and Quatre was suffering enough. In the garage, he waited a moment for Quatre to sink into the back seat before walking stiffly to his bike. Trowa shrugged his bag over chest and stuffed his helmet on his head before relinquishing his crushing hold on the cellphone.

Driving an uncomfortably sane speed behind them, Trowa considered tossing the phone into the street. And running over it. He didn't. The pilot in him knew the dangers of knee-jerk reactions. A text message wasn't proof. It was an accusation. A confession. A slip. A coincidence.

Trowa swerved hard, throttling the snide, know-it-all mental snigger into silence.

It wasn't proof, but Trowa could find proof. He was exceptionally good at it. Had made a career out of it. The question now was, could he find it fast enough?

He wasn't worried about another attempted assassination. Unless the assassin was particularly clever, and they generally weren't, they'd all end up in various stages of total annihilation, depending on the attempted pilot.

No, Trowa was worried about losing hold of his logic, which was reminding him infinitely, even now, that he could not kill Fahd. Not yet. Not without proof.

Trowa gave himself until Friday. Three days, if Fahd did indeed call for him Wednesday. Trowa ground his teeth as the text message rolled past his vision.

"Something's come up. I can't see you. Not for a while. Wednesday, I'll probably see you Wednesday."

Wednesday, Trowa would search. Wednesday Thursday, he would find it. And Friday, Fahd was a dead man.

A/n: Writing Quatre for this chapter was actually quite hard. I wanted him to be both the gentle peson that he is, while still being the pilot that he is. Quatre is, after all, the only one who managed to use the Zero system, in an altered capacityy, without going bat shit crazy. He is pretty badass, and deserves to have a moment to prove it.

This story is, well not quickly, but starting to come to its close. We are approaching the climax, gentle readers, and then the after math. But the after math is still...complicated and long. I imagine this will be over twenty chapters, roughly...300 pages on word document?

As always, read and review gentle readers. I love hearing from you. People who are interested in status updates can check out my tumblr ahsimwithsake.tumblr.com This fic features quite often there, as well as some shorter fanfictions. Mostly Dragon Age and Final Fantasy VIII.

~*~LadyYeinKhan~*~
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The Chains We Wear