International Relations

“I already told you, he’s my student

Disclaimer: New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing and all affiliated characters are property of Shin Kidousenki and Bandai, Setsu Agency.. Don’t sue me, because I’m the proud owner of over two-thousand dollar’s worth of Gundam merchandise.

Title: International Relations

Chapter: VII—Articles of Surrender

Author: Switchblade003

Pairing(s): Matzos and marshmallow fluff. Yum.

Warning(s): Quat torture implied, this time ‘round.

Rating: A solid, unwavering NC-17 (violence, drugs, statutory rape, naked marshmallows, the usual…)

Archive: www.wuffie.net

Notes: Sorry this chapter is so short… Again, it’s just a bridge. By the way, Tro spouts some legalities in this chapter, and I don’t know that they’re necessarily true. J
Literary license rocks.

Review Raves: Not to complain, and realizing that a ton of these are repeats for chapter updates, but I’ve had 523 hits on this story to date and only twelve reviews; this last chapter received only TWO. C’mon, guys! How the hell am I supposed to write if I have no feedback? Oh, and I’ve recently been informed that my gorgeous boyfriend John is reading this story as I update, so everyone say "Hi!"

Takaro: Lol. You’re funny.

Fabi-chan: "Stray Cats"? One of my fav.s! Trowa’s speech in the restaurant was hysterical! I’m glad you like "IR." In truth… parts of it truly are based quite heavily on my own life. I didn’t make a move on my UN coach (he’s married, and I’m engaged), but I did develop some fairly strong feelings for him. Some kids genuinely need a mentor. My coach is the kind of guy whose only outward falut is being too supportive, too naïve. In "IR," I took his personality and gave him an Achilles’ heel—basic human error and susceptibility. Viola: Trowa Barton, Ph. D.!

+++

"I already told you, he’s my student."

Trowa sighed, holding his head in his hands and staring at the all-too-familiar surface of the table, the sole piece of furniture in the holding cell. "And you don’t have any idea why his father would claim otherwise?" The detective wasn’t implying anything, and the brunette could tell that from the gentle tone in his voice, but he was losing his patience. They'd had him in this damned room for almost two hours, and all he wanted was to see Quatre.

"The man’s an alcoholic! He’s got a criminal record as long as my arm, he’s had social services investigate him at least seven times, and I count even count the number of times that his son has shown up on my doorstep, bruised and bleeding, because ‘Dad’ just had one too many beers, again!" he shouted, standing up from his chair so abruptly that it toppled over. "I don’t know what you people are waiting on, but I won’t sit idly by and watch him kill this kid! If you won’t press charges, I will, on Quatre’s behalf. I’m fully aware of the laws involved, and in the great state of California, an adult can sue or prosecute on behalf of a minor."

The detective sighed, still sitting, and nodded. "Let me be honest with you, Mr. Barton," he spoke quietly. "This kid is trouble. I personally have picked him up and put him in the back of my squad car more times than I can remember. He drinks, does drugs, and ruthlessly exploits the law, whenever possible. If you ask me, he and his old man have a lot more in common than you think." Trowa’s green eyes darted to the other man, and he almost growled as he spoke.

"You don’t know him the way I do." Frustrated, he paced to the two-way mirror that dominated the room’s far wall. "Can I leave, now? I have some business to take care of."

The detective nodded, getting up and walking to the door. "Of course. We weren’t detaining you; we just had some questions." Trowa stormed out of the holding area and headed back towards the front of the department, tracing his way back to the social worker’s office where he had left his young ward. He found the office easily, knocking on the frame before entering. Quatre was sitting in the dimly-lit room, curled up in a high-backed armchair, his knees to his chest, blue eyes wide.

Upon sight of the professor, he jumped up, running over to the man and throwing his arms around him. Trowa sighed in relief, embracing the boy firmly, one hand holding the bright head to him, his cheek resting against the top of the boy’s head. He swayed gently, his emotions overwhelming him as he held his companion close. Quatre was covered in cuts and bruises; his pale skin was literally black and blue in some places.

"I take it that you’re Professor Barton?" The brunette looked up at the plump, middle-aged woman standing before him, and he nodded, extending one hand. The woman smiled kindly. "I think that a discussion is in order," she said softly, gesturing for the man to take a seat.

Trowa frowned, looking down at the blonde trembling in his arms. "Quatre," he whispered into the white-gold hair. "C’mon, it’s okay. I’m here." He led the boy over to the chair he’d vacated, gently levering him into it, and he sat in a similar seat beside him.

The social worker sighed. "I really do hate to ask you this, Mr. Barton, but do you think that we’d be able to sign temporary custody of Quatre over to you? He has no other relatives, and if I can’t find anyone else to take him, we’ll have to hand him over to the state…"

Trowa shook his head, leaning forward. "Where do I sign?"

+++

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen an abuse case quite this severe…"

Trowa stood with his arms crossed over his chest as he supervised the young doctor dressing his ward’s wounds. Dr. Po was a cheerful but serious young MD, and her concern for the blonde boy was obvious as she carefully finished stitching up the large gash over his left eye.

Quatre flinched slightly as the needle passed through his skin again, blue eyes riveted to his teacher as he tried to block out the pain. The Arabian hissed quietly, eyes narrow slits, and his hands wandered to his abused ribs. Dr. Po had said that three of them were cracked, and he wouldn’t be able to run or participate in any strenuous activity for at least a month. He had noted with a bit of amusement that Trowa had seemed pointedly disappointed at that…

"All right," the woman smiled, patting Quatre’s bright hair. "You’re all done." She handed the youth his shirt, gesturing towards the adjacent bathroom. "Go get dressed." The boy nodded wordlessly and hopped off of the examination table, exiting into the smaller room and closing the door.

"He’s a very fortunate young man," the woman sighed, leveling her suddenly somber blue eyes at Trowa. "If his father had hit him any harder his ribs could have punctured one of his lungs. The cut over his eye will probably leave a pretty nasty scar. The cuts across his back will, as well. Keep an eye on them. Change the bandages daily."

Quatre walked stiffly back into the room, looking possibly more guarded and flighty than Trowa had ever seen him. His cold blue eyes darted around the room, and silently, he left the room.

"Just keep an eye on the stitches, too. The butterfly closures over the strings should keep them closed, but in case something opens, call me."

+++

Trowa found his ward waiting outside the emergency room for him, perched atop the dented hood of his dusty red Nissan. He’d had that damned car since his first year at college, and it was falling apart. The paint on the front bumper was chipping off in large shards, the rear license plate was lopsided, the front end alignment was shot, and the back windshield was a collage of local and out-of-state school parking decals; and that was just the cosmetic exterior.

I should get a new car, the teacher thought absently moving to the blonde on his hood. The sky was growing dark and the wind was picking up; a storm was on its way in.

The brunette stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, watching his companion quietly. Quatre seemed to be staring off at nothing, the breeze playing with his unruly bright hair and tugging at the collar of his shirt.

He’d actually been dressing like a normal teenager, these past few days. It had surprised Trowa at first, and while he had honestly grown to like Quatre’s retro-punk, gothic style of fashion, he had to admit that the boy looked nice. He was a very handsome young man, and the lack of grunge wear and dark makeup couldn’t hide that fact.

It also illuminated the dark violet bruises blossoming on his cheekbones, jaw, throat… Trowa swore softly, moving to his protégé and brushing stubborn platinum bangs from his eyes, dark cold stone reflecting the tumultuous heavens above them.

The Arabian winced slightly as the UN coach’s knuckles grazed the stitches over his left eye, and Trowa noticed how standoffish the youth was acting. It was understandable, considering that his father had just beat the hell out of him less than four hours ago, and he was covered in injuries.

"Can we go home?"

It was a request, not a demand, and Trowa nodded slowly, his heart warming a bit at Quatre’s words. Yes, it’s his home now, as well, isn’t it?

The brunette pressed a chaste kiss to his ward’s bright hair before pulling back and walking to the driver’s side door.

For some reason, home no longer seemed like a "safe haven" to the professor.

+++

TBC.

During the later part of World War II, the United States was avidly pursuing the Japanese in the Pacific Theatre, Russia having long-since crushed the Germans in Europe, meeting the incoming and eastward-moving American forces in Berlin. Engaged in a novel military strategy which General Douglas McArthur would coin "island-hopping," the United States and Australian coalitions would steadily advance on Japan’s mainland, sweeping over the archipelago. One of the most notable battles and victories for the Allied forces was Iwo Jima (I’m sure you’ve all seen the statue). American Marines were the real heroes of the Pacific Theatre, though the Navy displayed its fair share of "courage under fire." Japanese kamikaze pilots, in a ritual called hari-kari, would literally fly their fighter planes into American warships. It was believed that suicide for the preservation of Nihon (Japan) was a more honorable death than being shot down by the enemy in combat.

Are Americans the only soldiers in ory ory with no self-destruction kick? -Jack Switchblade

Recommended Flicks:

"The Bridge on the River Kwai"—an oldie but a classic, in my opinion. A very accurate portrayal of the hardships of being an American prisoner of war in Japanese-held Chinese mainland. There’s an odd side-story dominated by a big-time womanizing actor of the 1950s (can’t remember his name), but it doesn’t take away from the cinematic value.