The Chains We Wear

Disclaimer: I still do not own Gundam Wing and am making no money off of this piece of fiction.

A/n: Profuse apologies can be found at the END of the chapter. I refuse to make you wait any longer.

Chapter 9

Allah was a vindictive, sadistic bastard.

It was a truth Nizar felt was a long time coming, and it would certainly explain much about his situation. Whether or not he was a devote Muslim or an practitioner of Islamic lip service didn’t matter to Allah. He could pay homage to Mecca every dawn, live by the empty rules of the priests, and dedicate his life to the tutelage and salvation offered in the Koran and Allah would still conjure up the horrific apparition currently materializing before him. He apparently enjoyed torturing Nizar with such visions; was this a punishment some sin, forgotten or acted upon unaware? Couldn’t it be beheading, or physical torture? Even castration was more welcome than--

“Nizar, you’re still awake? The sun hasn’t even risen yet. Your arthritis isn’t bothering you again, is it? I know that this cold weather is awful for it.”

--than a prince walking through the door carrying what appeared to be the corpse of a drunkard. Damn you, Allah, for chaining me to this boy and his whims for eternity!

Nizar bowed stiffly, glaring into the blood red carpet of the hallway. “Dawn is not so far off, my lord,” he started after breathing deeply through his nose twice and unclenching his jaw. “When the time his lordship assured me he would return had passed--” Which was three hours ago, you ungrateful little brat. “and still he did not appear, I was loath to sleep until either he returned for rest or some news was sent of his sudden, unwelcome and undeserved demise.”

If he had had his brains splattered on the pavement while dry humping some Western whore… Did he even consider the dangers of this society?

“Nizar,” he glanced up at the snide beckoning, smiling inwardly at the look of sheer annoyance on his young prince’s face. It was so satisfying to see that he could still aggravate him to such extent. “How long have you served my family?”

“Several decades, my lord.”

“Yes…” He nodded slightly. Juggling the body between his arms as gently as he apparently could, he shrugged out of his winter coat and hung it on the row of pegs. Nizar grit his teeth at the muttered complaint the corpse made. “And how long have you been serving me, personally?”

“Twenty years, my prince.” The longest and most stressful years of my life. Your father was never this damn trying.

He nodded. “So. Twenty years. Twenty years of loyal service, twenty years as protector, guide, confidant--”

“In private company.” Nizar reminded. He merely waved an occupied hand from beneath that drunkard’s dead legs.

“Yes, yes fine. Private company, that isn’t the point. The point is, Nizar, it’s been twenty years since you’ve started working for me personally. Don’t you think it’s time to drop the honorifics?” He demanded, head tilted with genuine curiosity. “You don’t honestly put any truth to them, do you?”

Nizar took the bothersome questions as a sign that the time for humble subservience was official over. Straightening, he fixed the idiot boy with a dark stare--which apparently didn’t phase him in the least if the innocent blinks were any sort of sign. Twenty years and he was immune to Nizar’s looks, but that same immunity had yet to spread to him? How unfair life was. Audacious, ignorant son of a whore. Why do you insist on playing these bothersome games? We have more important things to do!

“And what does my prince expect of me, hm? To speak plainly in his presence, chastise him for his childish mistakes and choices, consider him as the immature whelp that he is? The same man who will be king, who could, at a word, have any one of my body parts hacked off for insolence?” he demanded. Snorting, Nizar shook his head. “I happen to like my limbs and such exactly where they are. And if keeping them in their proper places means I must address a bothersome toddler in the manner obligated to me by his rank of birth, then so be it. Even if he is entirely undeserving.”

He realized far too late the clever trap he had stumbled in to.

“…Do age, wisdom, and experience count for nothing anymore?” he asked after a moment of silent reflection. The delicate tone almost surprised Nizar. Black eyes glimmered with a sudden crystalline brilliance, looking upon Nizar with childish longing and admiration, stiffening his spine and tightening his jaw. “Or must they always pale beneath that word. Birthright… Do you know tightly the concept constricts me, Nizar? Is it so wrong of me, Nizar, to long for the days of simple master and pupil? You were my teacher and guide since I was old enough to appreciate the concept. Is it wrong of me to want to return, at least when we are in the company of ourselves, to the time when you were my superior in age and wisdom?”

Damn him and his perfectly feigned adoration! Those looks would be the death of him. Arms folded across his chest, he sneered at the hopeful expression.

“…You are a treacherous snake, Fahd.” he admonished. “And it will get you into serious trouble sooner rather than later.”

Innocence melting at an alarming rate, Fahd flashed a toothy grin. “If such a fate comes to pass, we will only have you to blame, Nizar. After all, you taught me a great many things.”

“And Allah be damned you were so diligent.” he grumbled. Fahd, rolling his eyes, sidled past him with full arms.

“So you’ve said.” he purred and made his way up the narrow hall. Nizar followed, but only after checking on the two guards positioned outside the penthouse door. Their broad shoulders were pressed back into the wall on either side, chins dropped on their chests, but at least they weren’t asleep this time. Their eyes roved the corridor with attentive, if not disinterested, inspection. He didn’t have the patience for a reprimand. Slamming the door would be enough to snap them back to proper vigilance. Honestly, the boys they let into the guard. They get stupider and more impudent with every year. He smiled inwardly at the stumbling from the other side of the door. That was better.

Fahd, glancing at him over his shoulder, arched an eyebrow questioningly. At Nizar’s following steps, he simply shook his head and made his way. Gathering up the small stack of files he’d left on a side table--the exact reason for Nizar’s lack of sleep, they needed Fahd‘s immediate attention--he fell into step behind his exalted prince.

Westerners could never hope to understand the nuances of culture. With such a narrow-minded populace, he really shouldn’t be so surprised at their ignorance. So assured, they were, of the prominence of their cities and countries; so accustomed to the subservience of lesser nations to their dominance, their rule, their traditions. What a scandal, albeit a relatively minor one at that, the two of them had caused: Eastern prince Fahd, dignitary of his nation, arriving with his chief of staff and body guard at his heels, three steps behind and on the left. Within the day, there were “subtle” rumors flying among the petty nobles and politicians concerning Nizar’s loyalty. To the left, of all places! Didn’t they knew that was the path of wicked intentions?

He snorted at the memory; were westerner’s really so stupid? Did they have no commonsense? Who cared about their moronic tradition of anything left-originating being inheritably evil? Following on the left was beyond logical. The heart was located on the left side of the body, not the right. And most assassins, as far as Nizar had come to learn, preferred to strike when their prey’s back is turned. So wouldn’t commonsense dictate that following behind and to the left of a dignitary was the most efficient way to ensure their back remained knifeless?

Nizar held no love for these Westerners. It was no secret, he openly expressed his disdain towards the entire Western cultural as a collective whole. Everything from their food to their clothes, their cities to their speech irritated him almost as much as his immature charge. All of which Fahd found endlessly amusing. To watch his mouth tighten and his expression darken at the slightest mention of one of their inane little quips apparently was the best entertainment the prince could ask for, because it always worked. Like idioms. They drove Nizar absolutely out of his mind. The West had some of the most idiotic and pointless phrases! “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” “A stitch in time saves nine.” And they would slip such drivel into entirely serious discussion. What sort of drugs were these people on to make them think such childish rhymes belonged in a mature man’s vernacular?

“You just don’t understand the idiosyncrasies of their culture, Nizar. It’s these little quirks that make the West so charming.” had been Fahd’s response when Nizar had made the mistake of muttering his opinion heavy with obscenities. Charming? Charming was not the word he would use to describes these loons. Even agitating was far too polite for the sheer agony these people put him through. Madness. Complete and total madness, every single Westerner was utterly insane.

Not that Fahd minded at all. He found them charming. Quaint. Intriguing. And a dozen others of the like. It was beyond irritating. It was becoming downright nauseating.

The same way he found their aesthetic tastes intriguing. How Fahd could found the Westerners’ idea of innovative interior design remotely interesting was beyond him. Their rooms were eyesores, no escaping it; either the room was such a barrage of stomach wrenching color it looked like several parrots had spontaneously combusted or it was so monochromatic Nizar could swear he stumbled into a silent movie. The best was when they decided to put the two concepts in the same building. Walking from the dining room to the living room became an exercise in bodily control. So rude, it was, to vomit on a dignitary’s horrible and expensive gray shag. And annoying, when Fahd would most likely smirk at every opportunity afterwards. He wasn’t sure which was more annoying.

Although, in the West’s defense, they knew how to frame a view.

Their penthouse (“their” being used quite loosely) had cost them a small fortune, even for the son of a king. Equivalent to a terrorist’s ransom, the uppermost rooms of one of the more dignified and elegant skyscraper apartment complexes would be barely worth the expense of their rent--considering Nizar’s tastes--if not for the breathtaking view splayed out for audiences in the moderately sized sitting room. The fourth wall was taken up almost entirely by solid glass panes, opening out onto a balcony that would be very useful were it not the middle of December. Still, it had its winter charms. The twinkling of the nightlights of the city gave the city an almost watery look, as the stars above seemed to generate the points of reflection. Onyx and pearl the city was painted in, and on the horizon day was just beginning. The first signs of dawn--a just barely gray wisp--were peeking. Breathtaking, perfect, if not for the little matter of the corpse.

Nizar, somehow, managed to control his sneering as Fahd made his way towards one of the leather couches that had been selected as appropriate furnishings. He smiled back at him in appreciation, since Nizar took it upon himself to flick the light switch the other had so pointedly ignored. The acknowledgement was momentary, however, as he immediately returned his attention to that thing. Most specifically its shoes.

Well, at least he isn’t letting it lay with its dirt-covered rags on the furniture.

“Seeing as my lord--pardon, you--aren’t going to retire, shall I begin running through the day’s agenda?” he asked. The words did not have their desired affect; Fahd smiled at him again and nodded.

“Please do, Nizar.” he replied with a wave of his hand.

“…Very well.” Balancing the folder in one hand, he flipped to the first page and scanned the itinerary, again. “The schedule for today is very full--”

“When isn’t it?”

“--but with the proper timing, all should be completed without an overt amount of stress. You have a meeting with the defense council at seven. We will have to keep the chatter to a minimum, because there is a scheduled press conference at eight-thirty back in the city.”

“And we don’t need you trying to talk us out of a traffic ticket again.” chuckled Fahd, stroking the man’s hair back while adjusting it on the cushion.

“…The media is concerned about the continuing rumors of your terrorist affiliations.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course they are. Allah forbid, but never mind. I will simply have to assuaged their fears, won’t I Nizar?” The smile was soft and charming. It was the media smile, and 99% effective in absolutely every situation. “How shall I go about it today? Amused or offended?”

“Whatever you decide upon will be effective.” shrugged Nizar. Frowning, Fahd turned away and gestured his continuation. Such immaturity. “After meeting the press, you have a meeting with the Peacecraft--”

“Again? Doesn’t that woman have anything better to do?”

“Her organization is one of the most prominent and influential currently, and as such it--”

“Yes, yes highly important to maintain a positive relationship, I know. Just,” he sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. “just tell me which old idiot I have to appease and suffer through today.” Nizar searched for his added notation, and took a moment to ponder again the name.

“A Quatre Raberba Winner.”

Fahd’s expression was surprisingly like his own when he had first recognized the name. Rising, he snatched the paper from Nizar’s hands and read the name more closely. While his handwriting was not the most legible, there was no mistaking it. Fahd pursed his lips considering the probability. There was no way it could be, and yet there was no way there could--coincidently--be two Winners.

“…Sandrock. He must be nineteen now.” He said softly to the name.

“Somewhere in the range of 19 and 21.” he shrugged, watching Fahd’s reaction closely. The boy had been in politics for only a few short years before the war between Earth and the colonies had begun; the country had chosen to remain neutral--with Nizar’s hacking of every side’s systems for information as the exception. Fahd had been borderline obsessive with the war’s progress, especially the Gundam pilots’ escapades. What fueled it, he didn’t know but suspected it to be jealousy. Even then, his father kept Fahd very tightly bound.

Fahd handed the paper back, features returned from his momentary burst of surprise and confusion to his typical arrogant smirk. “Well, this shall be interesting.”

“Indeed.”

“What else?” he asked returning to the couch.

Conference calls, press conferences, appointments. Dinner dates, lunch meetings. To be honest, Fahd wasn’t the only one who missed the “old days” when he was a tutor. Politics was a boring, monotonous world. A hardly challenging game; they had mastered the rules far too quickly. At least there would be several visits to the bases this week. That was always enjoyable, to see the fruit of their labors so brilliantly blossoming. Their war was going to be beyond successful if things kept going so smoothly.

“Oh, you also have a conference call this afternoon with his majesty’s physicians.”

The drunk cried out sharply as Fahd’s fingers twisted its hair harshly. It brought a sleepy hand up to scratch his arm which caught Fahd’s attention quickly. Hastily stroking the hair down and it back into sleep, he glared over his shoulder.

“…And?” he demanded. Impatience rolled off him in heavy waves. Nizar searched for the faxed medical report, ignoring the annoyed noises.

“His majesty has taken a turn for the worse, I’m afraid. This time he suffered a stroke. They managed to stabilize him but they are not hopeful. They predicting he will not make it through the rest of the season and implore you to return immediately and see him.”

If Nizar didn’t see the look every time some new malady affected the comatose king, the utter joy on Fahd’s face would have been greatly disturbing. As it was, it simply meant that Nizar would have to come up with another viable excuse to forgive Fahd’s continued absence from the king’s deathbed.

“Oh, is that all?” chuckling, he turned back to stroking the hair. “Well, we’ll certainly try but our schedule is so busy, I’m afraid I might not be able to see the man before he passes.”

“Which the doctors will understand. After all, you are trying to uphold the man’s ideals.”

“Oh yes. The country’s honor. I’ll make the old bastard proud.” he sneered.

He really shouldn’t have gone to such lengths to ensure Fahd’s success. He would probably still be conscious now. I don’t know whether to consider the man’s experiment a success or a failure…

Nizar snapped the folder closed. “Well that is all for today’s schedule.”

“Wonderful. And there’s still,” Fahd glanced at the digital clock sitting atop the liquor cabinet along the wall. “half an hour at least before I need to start. Plenty of time to get things settled.” Things being the deadweight currently nuzzling the hand running fingers across its cheek.

Sneering at his back, Nizar tossed the folder on the coffee table in disgust. This had gone on long enough. He realized he wasn’t the most patient man but thought he was rather good about Fahd’s physical needs. The nightly escapades, for the most part, he ignored other than to remind him--and himself--how easily it would be for Fahd to be caught by the media or something even more unpleasant. Fahd was a virile twenty-eight year old with a libido to match. Of course there would be urges and needs to be met. Nizar didn’t even comment on his preferences, but then again cultural conditioning had already skewed their tastes in lovers. Nizar considered himself, on the whole, to being rather open and fair about Fahd’s sexual appetite.

But damn it, he had never brought one back before! Forget the sheer rudeness and the blatant abuse of Nizar’s complacency, this was just stupidity at its worst. Who knew who this drunk prostitute could be working for? Did he hear nothing when I explained the nooks and crannies whores are privy to?

“Fahd, I’d like the opportunity to speak plainly--”

“We’ve had this conversation already: I prefer it.”

“--And I would like amnesty for it.” That drew his attention. Fahd eyed him curiously for a moment, hand wound in the tresses.

“Do you feel you need it?” he asked. Nizar nodded curtly. A lesser man would lose his life for what he planned to say--a godsend compared to the mutilations greater and equal men would suffer. Sighing, Fahd waved a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine, amnesty granted, although I’ll bet you’d be fine without it. No matter. Now just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“…Are you completely stupid?” he demanded, ignoring the blinking innocence radiating from Fahd’s tilted head. “Do you have any idea of the danger you are putting yourself, and us, in to?”

“What in the world are you talking about? What danger?”

“That!” Fahd followed the impatient gestured and turned a confused eye back to him, complete with an incredulous arched eyebrow.

“…What about him?”

If he didn’t have the power to execute him at a whim, Nizar would have wrung his neck. He continuously reminded himself how much he enjoyed living to keep him from vaulting the coffee table to do just that. Could royalty really be so incredibly stupid?

“Forgetting for the moment the innumerable diseases that is probably infected with, and passing on to you,” he sneered. Fahd returned the look with an eye roll. “do you have any idea the position prostitutes have in this society?”

“Oh, not again…”

“They have this lovely little situation where no one wants to acknowledge their existence, and yet they are everywhere. They occupy all the nooks and crannies no one likes to think about or consider, and thusly are presented with the best opportunities for possessing valuable information.”

“I’ve heard this lecture before.” he muttered, chin in his hand.

And paid no attention to it! “These whores are damn-near payrolled not only by the media but by the government. Everyone from high school reporters to the FBI knows that to get the real dirt on someone, especially celebrities and politicians, talk to the whores.”

“…Finished?”

“No.” He snapped, fisted clenched and glad for the fact that his knee was aching with cold. It kept him from rushing the ignorant bastard. “You’ve brought an extreme liability upon our plans, your plans! Forget the fact whoring is an excellent way to get the absolutely wrong image you wanted plastered all over the media. You brought it home! Unless you’re going to kill him and burn the remains, there is nothing to stop him from going straight to the police once he’s conscious.”

“He’s not going to go to the cops.”

“You put too much faith in the scum of the earth.”

“He is not going to tell anyone anything.”

Nizar sniffed banefully. “Either he’s mute or you are planning a murder, in which case I sorely hope this is someone no one is going to miss.”

“I am not going to murder him, and he isn’t mute.” Fahd smiled at some hidden joke between the two. “Although, he likes to pretend to be.”

“The whore’s going to go to the media at least, for a quick buck.” He assured. Fahd rolled his eyes.

“Enough with the ‘whore’ business. He isn’t a prostitute.”

If it was supposed to make him feel better, Fahd was sorely mistaken. It wasn’t a prostitute? Then what, he just picked up some random drunk at a bar? He couldn’t be much older than eighteen by the looks of him. Horrible images of assault accusations stemming from homophobic upper-class parents leapt about his mind.

“I don’t know what you’re imagining but stop it.”

“You’ve dug yourself a fine fucking grave, Fahd.”

He rolled his eyes. “You have an overactive imagination.”

“And you have none!” He snapped, loudly enough to rouse the drunkard to quasi-consciousness. Fahd pushed him back into sleep, keeping an eye on Nizar throughout the tirade. “You have no capacity for considering the could bes! None of the possibilities penetrate that skull of yours, you don’t have the power to see past now to realize that everything you do affects your goals. Everyone is watching, waiting for you to prove to them that you aren’t the things you claim and are the things they think. Everyone is waiting for you to fuck up. They are waiting for the opportunity to expose you, your goals, to ridicule you. Kill you! You don’t get it, that every time you leave this penthouse, every time you wake up, every time you fucking piss there is a gun trained on your head! People out there want to kill you, Fahd, and incriminate you while they’re at it! And you’re going out to find underage prostitutes!”

By now his knees were loudly complaining. Nizar sank into the armchair beside him, running his hand across his face. On the one hand, the scolding was very therapeutic; a heavy weight was lifted off his chest. On the other, he desperately needed a drink. Fahd noticed. He rose after making sure it was sleeping soundly again and crossed to the liquor cabinet. There was a knowing smile on his lips as he dangled a glass of scotch above his head.

“Someone’s been holding that in for a while.” he commented wryly. Nizar stared at him for a moment before sighing.

“You have no idea…” The alcohol was exquisite--a second Western defense.

“Now while I was aware of your feelings about my antics,” Fahd started, seating himself on the chair’s arm. Judging by the look on his face, it was more than aware. Everything’s a game to him. “I wasn’t aware of the amount of stress I was apparently putting you through. I apologize, but, in my own defense, I am well aware of how many people are out to hurt me and am very particular about my nightly outings. But your concern is really very touching, and it pains me to know that I’ve been causing you such stress.”

Nizar snorted, not believing a word but too exhausted to call him on the bluff. He took another swig, emptying the glass which Fahd promptly refilled.

“I just wish you would leave the finding of your partners to me. Then I could be much more sure they are clean and, as the case may be,” he glared at the couch. “expendable.”

“But then you take away all of my fun.” Fahd explained as he poured. As if there was a shortage of whores and mongrels.

“I’m quite certain I can find you one just as enjoyable.”

“No. I am quite sure that you could never find me anything quite like him.” he said, watching it shift in its sleep with some knowing smile.

“You doubt my resources too much.”

Fahd’s smile broadened. “You trust them too much.”

The sun was cresting, a beautiful crescent against the dark horizon, when Nizar was finished his fourth shot of the stuff. He basked in the splendor of the sparkles from the now gold-cast buildings, and the pleasant warmth of the alcohol coursing through his blood. Fahd, still balancing himself on the arm, cradled the folder in his hand and read with a surprising intensity. He had taken interest in it after pouring Nizar’s third shot, and had remained engrossed in the pages since--breaking of course to offer the fourth. The sky was rosy and gold streaked (and Nizar just barely dizzy) when he snapped it shut.

“Time, I think, to start the day.” he announced.

Nizar looked more closely at the sky, and then at the clock, before nodding. Yes, if they wanted to be on time today it would be best to start now.

“No, no, Nizar. Don’t get up.” Fahd guided him back down from his rising position, ignoring the gleam of suspicion flashing through his eyes. “Relax.”

Relax? “What are you up to?” he demanded.

“Making amends for my behavior. I’ve caused you another sleepless night, and aggravated your arthritis.”

“…So?”

“So, I’m going to make today a much easier day. I’ll be escorting myself to my appointments.”

“You’re going to what?”

He rose, tucking the folder under his arm. “Consider it a holiday. You hate politics and these talks and meetings almost as much as I do, and I’ve been so inconsiderate. You deserve the day. I’ll simply chauffer myself and survive without you--a proper punishment for my mistreatment of your trust.”

Nizar tracked his movements cautiously, allowing his mind to run as fast as it would. The boy was up to something and curse all if he couldn’t figure out what. Fahd never ran a day alone. Nizar was always at his side. Always. There had almost been a very disastrous incident the last time he couldn’t accompany the prince; thankfully he eventually understood surgery took precedence when it ensured Nizar would be beside him tomorrow. For all his bravado, Fahd had insecurities and quirks only his former tutor could properly handle and quash. And he wanted to go alone? Today?

“No, no. I insist.” Fahd said when Nizar opened his mouth. “I know how much of a child I have been, how stupid and inconsiderate I’ve acted, how dangerously close I’ve come to ruining everything. You’re right, Nizar: I have no capacity to see ahead. If I did, I would realize that someday you will not be here. There will come a day, oh how I rue it!, when you will no longer be at my side, watching and guiding me. We are mortal; you’ll have to die eventually, and somehow I must learn to carry on without you. And since I could never dream of replacing you once you’ve passed, I have to learn how to do your job when you can no longer do it yourself.” He smiled, holding the folder before him. “Today is the day I begin to see. Today is the day I start looking ahead and take responsibility for my actions. Whatever happens to today, mistake or no, is my doing. Today is the day for you to relax.”

Nizar sat back in the chair, awed by the sudden monumental growth of his prince. He should have done this ages ago, if it got such an improvement from the idiot! Fahd busied himself with preparations, asking where necessary paperwork could be found and requesting specific directions, never once looking at the couch. Nizar answered almost cheerfully following him to see him off. Finally, there was progress! He would toss the body out on the street before it regained consciousness, as he had wanted to since it arrived. Fahd would probably ask him to, fueled by the newfound maturity. Things would finally start to grow!

“Oh, Nizar.” he stopped at the door, pulling his coat on. “There is one thing I would like you to do today. I know I really shouldn’t ask any more favors of you, and I understand if you refuse, but I would greatly appreciate it. It’s such a small thing, really.”

The opportunity came faster than he could have hoped. Nizar cracked his knuckles, discreetly but joyously. “Of course, Fahd. I would be happy to assist.”

“Wonderful!” he smiled, finishing his buttoning. “If you could just look after him for the day. He drank quite a bit, cracked his head on the car too, so he should sleep for a while. But if he gets anxious or difficult, just leave him in my bedroom and I’ll deal with it later. I should be no later than five, that is the usual time after all. Thank you, Nizar, I really do appreciate it.”

He had swept the car keys and folders into his arms and was out the door long before Nizar fully realized how skillfully he had been tricked. When the bastard’s treachery finally sunk in, he kicked the wall, satisfied only when the cracking was perfectly stark.

“Allah damn him!”

Nizar, seething with embarrassment, stomped back to the living room. The mouthful of scotch burned pleasantly down his throat. When he slammed the bottle back onto the cabinet, the body whined in protest. He sneered watching it curl on the couch.

It would be so easy just to walk over, hold a cushion over its face, and smother it. Or open the glass doors to the balcony and cast it over the side. There were plenty of knives in the kitchen, too many to miss just one that would be soiled in blood when he stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. And, lest he forget, the revolver strapped to his side beneath his coat. All effective, with varying levels of noise and flair, means of committing first degree murder--easy enough to erase.

Except, of course, that the heir to the throne who could erase such a minor incident wouldn’t 1) because he had left the victim in his charge and 2) just to spite him. The second mouthful wasn’t so pleasant.

Bottle in hand, Nizar sat down and watched it sleep. On an inane, probably drunk, level, there was something attractive about it. The face, for instance. It was angular lines and corners but still maintained an alluring softness to it--sculpted but real. The auburn locks curled delicately along its cheek bones and fluttered with each breath. The lips were slender, too, for a boy’s, and such a gentle shade, parted invitingly and flashing just the barest amount of white enamel. I wonder what sort of eyes he has. They don’t look almond-shaped from here.

Of course there were discrepancies, Nizar reminded himself with a shaking of the head. He was heavily bruised, for one thing. The blue and purple splotches marred the cheek and neck, all the way down into the fabric of the sweater. The coloring was faded which made him suspect they were at least several days old, but still not attractive in the least. The lips were split too. Healing nicely, but still split. Too thin, too. Look at the cut of the jaw, probably hasn’t eaten properly in months. Or anorexic. Western males are just as obsessive as their females over weight. Not attractive in the least.

And then there were the clothes. Positively filthy. He could see the mud splatter despite its coiled position, and didn’t doubt the idea of more not only on the jeans but the sweater too. It reeked of drink and, now that he was really being critical, cigarettes and something more illicit. Wonderful. A runaway, a druggie, or an adolescent idiot had been dumped into his lap. When will that boy at least get some taste?

“A holiday…” he spat when returning the near-empty bottle. It grumbled in reply. “I would rather be in those irritating meetings…who knows how he will mess up today?” Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair as it shifted and rolled.

Well, if he was going to baby-sit, it would at least be with a clean dog. There was no way he would let it muddy up the good furniture. Leather was a bitch to clean.

Leaning back against the wall, wondering whether he should yank it off and leave it on the carpet--cleaning services were astronomically expensive--Nizar waited for the party on the other end of the line to pick up. True, he could easily walk to the front door and get them but this kept them on their toes. Theoretically. It was six rings before an actual connection; if those idiots had fallen asleep!

“Sir?”

“Living room.”

“…Now?”

The lazy stupidity of these people! How they ever escaped the academy and were accepted into the program was beyond him. The ranks were never so lenient when Nizar was training.

“Of course, now. You have ten seconds.”

He had to give them credit: when motivated to move, the two boys moved. And what better motivation than a threat undeclared that Nizar could simply get away with because he was the heir’s right hand? They were standing before him in attention in seven seconds. Bitter, but present.

“Get those looks off your faces.” It took them a moment to respond. Nizar fumed. They weren’t practicing enough! If they were going to be Fahd’s guards they not only had to communicate in their own tongue (something they hardly were efficient at) but in a variety of others as well. Nizar made it a point to speak their native language very rarely and scold quickly for the lapse due to the stagnant barrier.

The one on the right, Hamid, promising enough and scarred enough, recovered the quickest. Nizar nodded to him curtly. The other, Raif, would be reprimanded later.

He gestured to the couch. “Bring him.”

The trek to the bathroom only took so long because the drunkard surprised all of them by his weight. Belying his scrawny appearance, there was an astounding amount of muscle to him. They shuffled him for a moment, to which he grumbled and complained but never actually awoke, before deciding to drape an arm over each set of shoulders and drag him. Nothing was knocked over, at least.

Nizar opened the bathroom door, an annoyingly out-of-place sliding wood grain, and flicked on the lights. The space was almost too large for the penthouse, and was done almost tastefully in black, off-white, and steel. The pair dropped their load gratefully to the white throw rug strewn in front of the glass shower stall.

“Strip him.” he ordered, going to the shower and starting the water. It was halfway to warm before he noticed the lack of movement. “Now.” The scurrying was refreshing. Leaving the water to heat on its own, Nizar crossed to the marbled sink and the mirror over it.

He looked like hell: dark bags under his eyes and more wrinkles than he remembered. The severe scar disfiguring the right side of his face, from eye to jaw, was almost faded and shadowed by both time and wrinkles. He passed a hand over his head and marveled irritably at the smoothness. It used to be only after a few weeks Nizar would have to shave his head of the weed-like hair. Now, he could go for damn near months without shaving one strand to keep the bald style. When it did need cutting, the hair was white and gray. And then there was the things he couldn’t see: the arthritis and the joint pain. Nizar was finally showing his age, and it infuriated him. He still had his build, though, and his steady shot. There weren’t many in their sixties who could boast that.

“Sir?” Nizar closed his eyes; now what? “Sir, you might…want to look at this.”

Whatever nasty thoughts or words Nizar had flitted from his mind in a whirlwind as he crouched beside the body. He tilted his head. They had gotten it to a shirtless state before stopping. They’d never seen or heard of a corset before, so it had served as no fair warning to the strangeness to come. Nizar lifted the fabric from the discard shirt. It barely gave beneath his pull, it was so tight. He dumped it back into the shirt. With a frown he looked from chest to face and back again, noticing the light dusting of bruising along the ribs and the beginnings of gooseflesh.

Straddling the legs, Nizar undid the jeans with astoundingly steady hands. He yanked them down to the knees, and paused. After hearing his pulse for a minute, Nizar spread the thighs and rested his hand lightly between them.

“…Finish stripping him,” he ordered, rising. “and get him in the shower.”

The probing had roused him--her--it--enough to start struggling, but Nizar didn’t pay attention. As long as Hamid continued to hold the hands down above its head, they’d be fine. He trained his eyes on washing his hands, turning over the information and finding none of it rational. It had an Adam’s apple, and a penis; that made it a boy. It had breasts, and a vagina; that made it a girl. What the hell sort of creature had them together!?

Transgender was almost immediately eliminated as a choice. It appeared to have both sets of genitalia, coexisting and assumingly functioning together, but they looked underdeveloped. Nizar had both sons and daughters, thanks to Allah and Lamis, and remembered well the evolution of their bodies. It looked severely prepubescent for its age, and he had never actually heard of a transgender opting for genitalia of a tween. Nizar glanced over his shoulder at the struggling three. Now it was awake and kicking as best as the hangover would let it. The breasts wiggled and bounced, as best their small size allowed, with his thrashing, and he flashed Nizar--unwittingly--with every kick. Water soaked the bottom of his coat and shirt before he realized how full the sink was and yanked it off with a curse.

Nizar knelt by the pile of discarded clothes. By the time he found all that there was to find--a set of keys and a wallet--Hamid and Raif had wrestled/dragged him into the stall. The pitch of the yelp as his body hit the water decided for Nizar that masculine pronouns were probably (hopefully, maybe?) best. He watched, mentally noting the dry cleaning bill, the continued struggle. Hamid, despite the bloody nose, split lip, and black eye, trapped the thrashing body through arm pins and leg holds, snarling over the hisses and cries as Raif subjected it to cleaning. Rolling his eyes, Nizar leaned against the sink, ignoring the rise in profanity.

A lot could be revealed about a person by their wallet. Dollar bills reflected neatness, the presence of junk magpie habits. And of course, the particulars of the items spoke volumes about tastes and hobbies. So, when he found nothing but a photo-less ID, forty-seven dollars, and a single, expired credit card, Nizar was immediately suspicious. Contents like that meant either he had the most boring man in history, or someone with much to hide, currently cursing and sputtering in the shower. The names on the ID and card didn’t match. Great, the latter.

Eventually the pair finished with him and tossed him roughly onto the rug. The boy barely managed to get his feet under him before Hamid pounced him, dragging a towel over his head while Raif did the rest of him. They glanced at him for further orders through their struggles.

“Take him to the prince’s bedroom. I’ll be there shortly.” he ordered. They seemed almost surprised by the sound of their own tongue. Like hell he was going to let the boy understand. Now, anyway.

Nizar took his time gathering the clothes, folding each piece meticulously. He planned on washing them, thoroughly, but the chore gave him time to think. What exactly did Fahd bring home? It could be just a simple thief, who was on the wrong side of lucky picking up an expired credit card. Nizar doubted he was that fortunate.

There was also something that made him sincerely believe he wasn’t handling a simple petty crook. The boy exuded danger. Nizar had expected drunken punches, easily blocked and dodged, or hysterics based in hangover and confusion--neither of which had been there. Though sluggish, every move had been calculated and as precise as inebriation had allowed, explaining Hamid’s face. Although Nizar had plenty of complaints about the idiots’ personalities and mental capacities, there were only few he could make about their physique--and even less about their physical prowess. Hamid and Raif had earned top marks in hand-to-hand and weapon combat. Hamid had seventeen assassinations, twelve completed without a sniper rifle, knife, or other weapon.

And the boy had bloodied him. If he fought that well drunk, Nizar could only imagine the havoc he’d inflict sober.

“…What the hell did he doom us with?”

Nizar continued his musings as he dumped the soiled, reeking clothing into the small laundry room just off the kitchen and poured the drunk a glass of water. Vomit’s aroma, and remnants, lingered on the clothing, which made dehydration a real possibility. He passed Hamid and Raif in the hall. He stopped them from returning to their posts--the struggle had worked wonders on their work ethic, at least--to examine the damage. Arming them with one of the numerous first aid kits set strategically throughout the penthouse, Nizar sent them on their way and continued to the bedroom where he paused. There was a frantic shuffling which immediately put him on the defense. He imagined him searching the room, frustrated by hangover and the lack of windows, doors, or a ventilation system. Frowning, Nizar left him to his pacing as he returned to the kitchen to scrounge for something small. Food, after all, was the best way to placate a wild mongrel. Crackers should do, and not upset his stomach again.

“So.” he began lowly, opening the door with tray in hand. “Shall I call you ‘Aubrey’ or ‘Mikhail,’ or is there an ID that I missed?”

While Nizar hadn’t expected him to be sitting on the bedspread, complacent with fear, he also hadn’t expected a heel to explode out of his peripheral vision. It connected like a sledge hammer. Dropping to the carpet, cursing his own stupidity, Nizar saw through lopsided and blurred eyes the quick and staggering movements of naked legs. There was very little that would fit the bastard; he would either stop and search for his own clothes or run out completely naked. Nizar counted on not only his assumption of his preference but also the boy’s assumption that Nizar was completely subdued.

Which he wasn’t.

Cursing breathlessly, Nizar pulled himself up with the dresser conveniently placed alongside the doorway, ignoring the vertigo and black spiraling of his vision. The naked footfalls had made it almost to the end of the hallway by the time Nizar calculated, and dismissed, two equations factoring in distance traveled, time took to chase or phone, and the speed and proximity of something the bastard could use as an effective weapon. Nizar searched the dresser top quickly. He was almost at the end and about to turn. If Nizar didn’t stop him now, there would be hell. I can’t take that chance! The round, glass paperweight was ungodly heavy but fit perfectly in his palm. Fahd never used the ugly thing anyway. He wouldn’t miss it.

The boy’s head snapped back with a sharp cry, and Nizar’s lips curled despite his headache. The glass slammed into the junction of head and neck. Legs tangling as the body shutdown from impact and sensory overload, the boy collapsed at the end of the hall. Sixty-three, and his aim was still damn-near perfect.

Maybe it was the fall, or the blow, but Nizar’s arthritis was even more annoyingly debilitating. He staggered towards the body, pain shooting through the suddenly stiff, ancient joints and a hand out along the wall for balance. When he reached the bastard he had successfully focused every ounce of discomfort and anger on him. Everything--absolutely everything--was this abomination’s fault and the look of abject pain frozen to its face through unconsciousness was immensely satisfying. It didn’t stir when Nizar prodded the skull with his foot. He crouched with difficulty and measured the breaths and pulse, peeled open on the eyes to watch the iris and pupil roll backwards. Good. Not faking it.

Cracks spidered across the paperweight’s surface, deep and long. It would be out for quite a while.

Nizar waited, seated against the wall, for the vertigo to lessen before getting up and relocating the body, kicking the side of it every so often under the pretence of checking the level of consciousness. There was probably a new bruise to add to the collection by the time he deemed himself “ready” to get up. It was an uncomfortable weight on his shoulder but he managed to lug the dead mutt back to the bedroom. He had no problem finding Fahd’s horde of manacles and chains of varying lengths in the second dresser drawer and storage bin in the closet.

“Well, I suppose there is some reason to praise Allah for the boy’s tastes.” he muttered while looping the chain around the bedpost and fastening metal adorned wrists together. Ankles were restrained in a similar manner before Nizar rose from the satin-covered mattress. The stretching flattened out the small breasts and pressed ribs against bruised flesh. Nizar had crossed the ankles before binding them, so only the flaccid penis was visible. If one or two pieces could be swept away, it wouldn’t be so disturbing. As it was, though, the hodgepodge of anatomy grew more defined with the position.

“…Not even my resources could come up with this…”

Nizar spent the remaining time in the living room, after having double checked the locks and shutting the door. He tried to enjoy the “holiday:” finish some long overdue paperwork, write letters to the comrades he maintained after the war years, catch up on his reading. But the vertigo had morphed into a numbing headache that not even something as mindless as television could stand up against. Four in the afternoon found him stretched out on the couch, wincing as the headache pounded from the left temple and eye. The five aspirin had yet to kick in. Cursing the mutt, Nizar found consolation in the condensation and cold radiating from the bottle of wine he’d pull from the freezer.

“Forgive my ignorance, but isn’t frozen meat the classic remedy for black eyes?”

Nizar lifted his head from the couch. He pulled the bottle from his face, shivering at the cold paths the water left, and glared at him. Fahd, jacket over one arm and folders in the other, tilted his head.

“This is your doing.”

“Mine? I wasn’t even home.” he reminded. Tossing both folders and coat on a chair, he sat on the coffee table across from him. Wryly Fahd smiled while examining the bruising Nizar could feel forming. “That’s quite a shiner. How did you manage that?”

“Your fucking mutt.” he sneered. Fahd frowned at the angry tone.

“You fought?”

“You could say that.”

“I hope you didn’t hurt him, Nizar. For your sake.”

He pulled his head from the curious fingers. “Your concern is touching, really. No, I didn’t hurt your precious little abomination. I got it clean, dropped it off in your bedroom, went to get it something to eat and drink--”

“All the necessities for a prisoner.”

“--and was rewarded with a heel to the head.” he continued bitterly, glaring through the wine.

Fahd nodded. “You probably upset him.” He smiled at the rage welling visibly. “He is very self conscious.”

“I can see why…”

“Then what? I assume you wouldn’t let him get away with such rudeness…”

Nizar removed the bottle. Smirking, he wiped the trails of condensation off his temple and pried out the cork. “I do hope you weren’t attached to that paperweight.” he said after a small swig.

“Is it broken?”

“Cracked. Severely.”

“He is still alive, isn’t he?”

“He was when I checked on him last.”

“When was that?”

Nizar looked up from his second swig to take in the time. He calculated the hours in his head momentarily before shrugging and sipping again. “This morning.” Fahd frowned, rising with a huff. Gloating inwardly, Nizar was about to return the cool glass to his head when one of the folders he’d returned with landed with a messy flop in his lap. Habit found him shuffling edges and corners back into the manila before asking about the contents.

“Consider it something of an owner’s manual, complete with pedigree.”

“You are not seriously considering keeping him.” Fahd smiled over his shoulder. Leaning against the molding, arms crossed, he gave a noncommittal shrug Nizar didn’t believe for a second.

“Well I obviously can’t, seeing as you are clearly not babysitter material. And we can’t possibly leave him alone, who knows the trouble he’d cause. There’s also the little fact that I would feel horribly responsible for denying him not only his high profile career but also the comfort of his former comrades.” Sighing dramatically, he shook his head. “No, no he won’t be staying with us, but I do believe he’ll be visiting us surprisingly often from here on out.”

“And what makes you think so?” He asked. The smile curled into a leer.

“A hunch. So, I thought it would a nice gesture to provide you with some information about his idiosyncrasies. We can avoid situations like this in the future that way.”

He growled at the low chuckle Fahd left him with. Damn the boy! Taking a longer swig, Nizar sat the bottle on the floor (there was no way he could read through wine) and examined the folder. Surprisingly thick…what sort of baggage is he carrying?

Thankfully, Nizar had swallowed the mouthful of wine before opening the folder, or else there would be a horrible large burgundy stain on not only the page but the off-white carpet as well. It started innocently enough: a standard profile page complete with a three-by-four of the boy, pre-beating. The several N/As didn’t necessarily bother him--a lot of people didn’t reveal birth dates or places, or even know them. He didn’t start to worry until Nizar connected the name--Trowa Barton, actually listed under “alias” with N/A glaring out from beside “name”--and the list of “occupations” and “pastimes.”

Apparently, fading into anonymity among circus performers was not appealing to pilot 003. He joined the Preventor organization several months ago, and had just recently attempted his first operation: an undercover job at an address Nizar was quite familiar with. They had been found out, the mission was deemed a failure via leakage, and 003 was back on desk duty. Fahd had kidnapped not only a former pilot, and current Preventor, but that one?!

Groaning, Nizar tossed the folder on the table--he couldn’t bear anymore--hoisted the bottle into his hand and drank. With his head back against the couch and the now half-empty bottle resting over his throbbing eye, he glared into the ugly tiled ceiling.

“I hate you.”

*---*---*

Trowa should have trusted his instincts, turned his bike around in the gravel and driven back off into the night. Of course, by the time he had gotten home, he was too cold, tired, and irritated to pay attention to instinct. The SUV trying to run him off the road had been the last straw, so Trowa simply ignored the fact that not only the porch light was out but every light in the house (something Heero’s militant mind refused to allow). He wanted to crawl into bed, not wonder about the unusual darkness seeping through the drapes. So, while he was pushing the bike up to the house and covering it with the tarp he used regardless of the weather, Trowa did his best to convince himself nothing was wrong.

That light’s been flickering for days. He thought, putting down the kickstand. It was bound to burn out, or the wiring could be getting faulty. Heero’s probably going to look into it tomorrow after work. Trowa glanced at the dark house while fitting the water resistant cloth over the bike and checking it. And that was a pretty nasty storm… Maybe the transformer blew again? It’s still relatively early, maybe they went out with Wufei and Zechs. Dinner or something.

Perfectly believable, if he ignored the cars in the driveway. Carpool?

While he was fishing his keys out his pockets, Trowa finally deciphered both the deja vu sensation creeping along his spine and the equally disturbing notion of being watched: he was dreaming. On the one hand, the realization was good. It meant the Arab hadn’t killed him--yet. The blow was for submission, not homicide. Unfortunately, it also meant that Trowa (the one not cursing under his breath because the keys failed to appear) was unconscious somewhere and extremely vulnerable. The horrors flitting through his mind over what could be happening passed from unconscious to dream; the Trowa on the stoop shivered and looked around with the briefest look of alarm.

Never mind. That, unfortunately, had actually happened, he reminded himself. Such was the problem with his dreams--the real “other hand.”

The blow had been hard enough to keep him from rousing himself, leaving him, once again, the specter in his own life.

“There it is….” he muttered, puffs of white drifting slowly before vanishing into the dark. He felt carefully for the lock, and hesitated, Catherine’s voice in his ear. "Trowa, look at me." Groaning sleepily, he lay his head on the wood and tried to drown it out. Not again. He just wanted to go to bed, damn it. The memory had demanded enough of his attention to slow him to the actual, posted speed limit. Which, of course, prompted the SUV to attempt to pass him, hitting the black ice Trowa had been avoiding subconsciously. Wasn’t the near death experience enough torture?

Apparently not.

“I know this has been a…distressing week for you.” Distressing? There was an understatement if he had ever heard one. He had snorted his derision, which she tactfully ignored, instead removing one of his hands from the vice it had on the bike’s handle. “But I want you to promise me something, and really promise me. This isn’t an ‘I’ll-be-careful’ kind of promise, either. It’s the ‘I-won’t-attempt-suicide-in-front-of-you-again’ kind.” Considering how infrequently they referred to that instance, and the bitterness it always brought, the reference caught his attention. Trowa had known exactly what she wanted, but still he listened attentively.

“Promise me you will talk to them. Don’t say it, I know. That is the absolute last thing you want to hear from me, and the last thing you actually want to do, but I want you to sincerely promise me that you will talk to them. Doesn’t have to be today, tomorrow, or even next week but please. Sometime soon, for not only your sake but theirs too, talk to them.” Even now, he felt the ghost of the caress of her slight fingers on his bruised cheek. “You all went through so much, together. You depended on them then, can’t you depend on them now?”

That was then. That was war: blood and violence, explosions and bullets. Brushes with death. It was a different situation. Trowa depended on them then because they had been the same. Warriors, they experienced the same events, just under different circumstances. They fought, they fled. They won, they lost. They bled, they killed. They had been predictable. On the battlefield, they all had styles, preferences, and habits Trowa had meticulously catalogued out of both habit and necessity. It was easier to stay alive if he could know, with reasonable certainty, exactly what they would do in every situation.

They weren’t so predictable now.

None of which he had actually said. Trowa simply knew better than to entertain the notion that “predictability” would fall anywhere acceptable for Catherine. “An excuse” was even too much to hope for. So, swallowing the tongue that wanted to shout just that reason, Trowa returned the tight hug she captured him in and muttered something that in his head sounded like “I promise.”

The scary thing was, he meant it.

Just like on the ride, Trowa pushed everything--even sleep--from his mind and wrapped entirely around the thought. He sat on the stoop, breath lightening the dark so imperceptibly, and considered it. He meant it? How could Trowa sincerely consider such an inane promise? All the secrecy, all the hours and arguments, his vehement protests--against her and himself--an entire lifetime and now he was actually considering discussing this with them? Had he lost his mind?

No. No, Trowa was finally coming to understand the realization he hadn’t seriously acknowledged lying half conscious and naked in bed. This--the house, the job, most importantly them--was tittering on the edge of loss, and was not something Trowa could afford to lose. It wasn’t because Trowa knew he couldn’t pick up and start again without large amounts of trouble. It wasn’t even because he was exhausted, in so many ways, and wouldn’t make it down the driveway. Trowa was comfortable, in ways that nothing, not even Catherine and circus life, could provide. He was happy here, when he really sat down and considered everything. Life here was calm and stable, mostly, and he was surrounded by the soothing presence of kindred spirits. People who understood and accepted him despite his faults, because they understood and accepted their origins in blood and war.

Which blew the “predictability” argument to pieces.

Of course, that was before everything fell apart with a botched sting and a rape Trowa was glad he couldn’t physically remember. Secrecy had been the best option up until then. Now the tension was so thick and pressing it was damn near palpable. Crushing, dragging all of them deeper under. That was the problem with secrecy though, wasn’t it? The awkward aftershock, which in their case had been dragging on for over a week and that he had probably just made much, much worse. Trowa rubbed his temples slowly. This weekend was not going to do him any good. If anything it had probably made things a good deal worse.

Trowa wasn’t going to bother to think he wasn’t damaging his only chances of staying; that was a level of lying he was beyond uncomfortable with. He wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow, or tonight, they confronted him. It simply wasn’t working out. He was making things too difficult. They couldn’t live with a liar. Any number of viable excuses. A vice tightened around his chest. Trowa gasped and gripped his ribs with shaking fingers. That was a conversation he didn’t want to face. It was a conversation he would do just about anything--anything!--to prevent.

Even take the initiative like Catherine wanted? If it meant Trowa would be allowed to stay, absolutely. There was something redeeming about honesty, after all. At least, that’s what everyone claimed. He could endure a serious grilling over his abnormality couldn’t he? It would only be a couple of painfully uncomfortable hours of exposure that could so easily backfire or go horribly wrong in any number of ways. Perfectly doable and well worth it for one microscopic shred of hope.

“Maybe I’ll shoot myself.” he muttered into his palm.

The house was pleasantly warm, after he had found the lock again and let himself in. Not that Trowa really appreciated it. He was too confused by the profuse amount of candles. They were everywhere, flickering from their paper towel doilies and casting cheerful red glows into the shadows. Between Duo and Quatre, Trowa knew they had a lot, but not this many. Tilting his head, he peered into the kitchen towards the microwave, frowned at the blank display, and looked at the nearest candle. It was a messy lump of wax. They must have been burning for a while.

God damned transformer.

Trowa paused only a few feet from his bedroom door. He peered up the candle-dappled stairwell watching the brighter patterns at the top flit from the right side of the second level hallway. Duo and Heero’s side. The left, Quatre’s bedroom, was dark and still, and silent. Trowa’s brow furrowed as he recognized the muffled noises that had drawn his attention in the first place: voices. Three of them.

So they were all home and upstairs. Trowa glowered at his foot, inching itself closer to the first step. He yanked it back. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t turn back towards the bedroom door nor lift from the carpet to take him there. He sighed. Gripping the molding, he looked and listened. He was too far away to make anything out, until he heard the familiar chime of Quatre’s laughter. A faint smile spread as Duo bit out a very audible curse, widening as he pinpointed the deeper rumbling of Heero placating him. From heavy to light, Trowa listened to the soothing tones for several long minutes, head dipping finally to thunk softly against the wall. Was he really so desperate, so addicted to pain and humiliation he wanted to do it now? Tomorrow would be better wouldn’t it? They would all be well rested and--

Trowa knew himself better than that. If he didn’t do it now, he never would. Well, he supposed he should consider himself lucky they were awake. There was no way he could bring himself to rouse them for this.

Mutterings turned audible the further up the stairs and down the hall Trowa went. Fingers gliding along the wood, he listened sidestepping the worn patches hidden beneath the carpet effortlessly; espionage, after all, had been his specialty. Outside the door, he paused. The light spilling here was sharper. Artificial. Probably one of the camping lanterns from the basement. The voices, too, were sharper and Trowa felt his curiosity spike. With his back against the wall, he leaned into the partially opened doorway, protected by its inward swing, and listened to the half started conversation.

“--simply isn’t fucking fair.” Duo griped. Part of the bed was clear to Trowa, as was one of Duo’s legs tapping itself against the bedspread. Quatre’s hand flickered in and away in a pacifying gesture.

“I’m sure it was just an accident, Duo.”

“Bull.”

“Duo--”

“You’ve been going behind my back, haven’t you Quatre?” he accused. Trowa’s eyes narrowed.

“But I haven’t.”

“Have so.”

“Duo.” Heero cut across. Trowa shrank back instinctively as his back slid into view. Trowa noticed immediately the lack of tension in his back and shoulders, the casual--almost playful--crook of his stance. His eyes slid down to the relax hold he had on the neck of a bottle. It sloshed noisily when Heero tipped it to fill Duo’s, then Quatre’s, empty glass. “You can’t win every match.”

Great. They were drunk.

While Trowa’s mind recalculated the risks and possible horrors that any level of inebriation added to his situation, the three had shifted to allow Heero’s presence at the bed. Trowa compensated and welcomed the opportunity to see and not be seen. Squatting, he watched with a trained eye as Heero, seated on the floor with his back to the mattress, and Quatre, cross-legged just above, clinked glasses over whatever victory Quatre achieved. Duo, lounging on his side, took a sulky sip. The movements were a little sluggish and their personalities variously warped, but they weren’t wasted, if Trowa was any sort of judge. That was good--probably.

Duo sat the glass on the board between him and Quatre. It was moderately empty, the pieces scattered on the bedspread and catching the light. Except for the black piece closest to Duo, tipped on its side. That explains a lot.

“I know I can’t win every match, Heero, but he never beats me.” Duo bit playfully. Quatre scowled at him.

“You never lose this gracelessly to me.”

“That’s because you’re a challenge. Usually.”

A wry smile slipped across his lips. “And Wufei?”

“Yes, I really want to beat a man who would love nothing better than to gut me like a fish if he loses. I let Wufei win--”

“--which he knows.”

“…He so does not know, Quatre.” Quatre grinned, surprisingly wolfish, and sipped his drink. “He doesn’t. And that’s not the point. The point is that Quatre couldn’t beat me even if I let him win.” Heero and Quatre wore matching eye rolls at the logic. “Which means that he’s been playing behind my back.”

“And just who am I going to play with behind your back considering we live together and you have possession of the only chess board?” Duo grinned, gesturing with the mouth of his glass.

“I’ll just bet you and Tro sneak in here all the time to play.” he purred. The mention of his name shocked the three of them, much to the apparent obliviousness of Duo who took a long sip. Silence dragged. Heero had finished a third of his drink and Quatre half anyone moved. Quatre, setting his glass on the board, leaned over and took Duo’s left wrist. He brought it close to his face and stared.

“Another thirty minutes and it’ll be a full 24 hours.” Quatre sighed, releasing Duo’s wrist. 24 hours of what?

“Time flies when the electricity’s shot.” Duo sighed.

“I still say I could fix that damn transformer myself.” Heero growled into his glass.

Smiling, Duo reached over and stroked his hair. “We know you could, love, but I really don’t think Une would appreciate having to pull rank on the local precinct, again.”

“If they had come out when we first called, I wouldn’t have had to climb the pole myself. And I did fix it.”

“Yes you did, and pissed off the electric company enough to press charges.”

He snorted. “Who steals electricity?”

“Apparently you do. Which is probably why they still haven’t come out yet.” Duo added thoughtfully.

“So now it’s my fault.” he bit out.

“It’s also the weekend, Duo.” Quatre offered.

“The power blew yesterday. People work on Saturday.”

“The power blew last night after we got home, they don’t work that late.”

“They’ve had all day. We called them last night and this morning.”

“But it’s Sunday, Duo. Most businesses aren’t open on Sundays.”

“Electric companies aren’t like most businesses. I think they’re being spiteful. They took one look at the number and thought ‘it’s the crazy electric thief, lets let them suffer’.”

“But the whole block runs on one transformer.”

“Even better! They’re going to turn the neighborhood against us. It’s a conspiracy.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Heero sighed.

“You never should have climbed the pole.”

He growled. “It is not my fault.”

“You’re the one who pissed them off.”

“They should have replaced that transformer years ago, and certainly after the last time.”

“They might have if they hadn’t caught you up there.”

“This is not my fault.”

“I hope he’s alright.”

It was soft and absent sounding and if Trowa hadn’t been starting to tune out the ensuing argument just like Quatre he would have never heard it. The comment was such a change it drew Heero’s and Duo’s attentions as well. They stared, watching him look blankly to the side, out one of the dark windows.

“…I’m sure he’s fine, Quatre.” Heero assured. Quatre nodded vaguely. “We would have gotten some word if he wasn’t.”

“Besides, maybe a spill on the highway will pound some sense into his head.” The look Quatre gave Duo’s comment was particularly nasty. “Non-lethal, of course.”

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.” he shrugged. Heero frowned at him, gesturing with his head as Quatre nearly broke the glass on the board in his haste to get off the bed. Sighing Duo pulled him back by the wrist. “Oh come on Quatre.”

“Let go, Duo. I’m going to bed.”

“I’m not letting go now, Quatre. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Quatre glared astoundingly coldly. “No? And just how did you mean it, Duo?” Duo opened his mouth once, closing it just as quickly on the answer. He swallowed the words, glancing away as Quatre’s expression darkened with his hesitance. Duo sighed finally and ran a hand through his bangs.

“I dunno,” he said to the bedspread. Trowa recognized the tone and felt a spike of irritation. “I guess I’m just--”

Apparently, Quatre was just as disgusted with the phrase as he was.

“If the word ‘bitter’ comes out of your mouth, I swear I’ll fucking hit you, Duo Maxwell.” He growled. Trowa blinked, feeling the slight weight of his jaw dropping a few centimeters. He wasn’t sure which was more surprising: the threat or the vulgarity. Quatre was in no way a prudish person, but he always felt physical threats were the least productive way of getting anywhere. And that swear, in Quatre’s opinion, was the most vulgar and least needed in any situation. For him to actually say it he had to be beyond angry.

Heero and Duo shared his surprise, wearing equally shocked expressions (though Duo’s was the more blatant). He also recovered first, snapping his mouth closed and letting it turn down with his own irritation.

“I think,” he spat back. “that I have every right to be bitter considering Trowa lie--”

“Oh yes, that’s right. He ‘lied’.” Snorting derisively, he snatched the glass from the board. Three gulps and a gasp was all it took to drain it. “Is it lonely on the pedestal, Duo? Trowa didn’t lie. How could he, considering we never asked? Now, if we had said ‘Trowa, is there something disturbing about your physical appearance that we should know about?’ and he said ‘no,’ then you could accuse him of lying. But that’s not what happened. He kept a secret, Duo, that’s all so your fucking bitterness is pointless and petty. We can’t be bitter anymore about secrets, not considering we all keep them.”

Trowa would have been more genuinely delighted with Quatre’s reasoning abilities if “disturbed” hadn’t stung so much. While it was better than he deserved, there was no denying it hurt nonetheless. Still, it was the best he could, or should, hope for. Duo for his part blinked, lips parted as if he had never considered that perspective. Which he probably hadn’t. Trowa felt himself frown as a smile began to flick across his face. He was grimacing in confusion by the time it had reached full wryness. Tsking, Duo plucked the empty, fragile glass from Quatre’s gripping fingers.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Damn it, Duo, this isn’t funny.” Quatre spat.

“I never said it was supposed to be, Cat.” Duo assured. He handed the glass to Heero, who set it on the carpet at his side and watched with just the faintest showings of curiosity. With his lips pursed, Duo ran a hand up the back of his neck. “Do you know how much I hate it when you’re right?” he sighed. “I haven’t been very fair--” he smiled sheepishly at Quatre’s glare. “Okay, okay, even remotely fair, to Trowa. You’re right, we’ve all had and have our secrets. I guess…” Duo dug his fingers into his braid pulling with his mounting frustration. “…I don’t know. Being bitter just made it a little easier to understand. I felt like it made sense, on some level.”

“Trowa is probably still trying to make sense of it himself.” Quatre murmured. Heero and Duo exchanged brief but somber looks as Quatre turned his attention to the bedspread.

“…We always expected secrets.” Heero rumbled first with the glass dangling from his fingers. His blue eyes glittered from candlelight and his own intensity. Trowa, disturbed by the absolute focus, shrank deeper into the black hall. His face was free though of its usual cresses and tensions so Trowa felt relatively sure Heero was merely looking in his direction, not at him. “…They kept us safe, so we kept them close. And although we don’t necessarily,” he struggled with the word, fingers tightening. “need them now, it was never expected, never required, to give them up with this life.”

“But we can.”

“Yes, Quatre, we can but we won’t force it. It’s still all right to have them.” Odd. Heero’s voice rose, just a fraction, at the end. He glanced at Quatre momentarily with such a minute questioning in his glance.

Quatre sighed. “No, I would never make any of you tell me something you didn’t want to.”

Trowa shivered suddenly, with a cold and restlessness he couldn’t place. He assumed it was from the black anger rolling across Duo’s expression. His unconscious assured him it wasn’t. Still Trowa stayed, confused by the violent sneer pulling taunt Duo’s features.

“Trowa didn’t even get the chance for you to make him tell.”

Oh. That.

“Lady Une really thinks the leak was internal?” Quatre asked. Trowa was thankful for the quick change.

Duo snorted. If he suspected Quatre’s discomfort over the almost conversation, he didn’t mention it. “Oh she knows it, and she’s furious.”

Furious because no other words existed that were close enough to describing the absolute rage emanating from Lady Une o
on a daily basis. Duck-and-cover games were becoming more and more routine as her foul mood and short fuse sent even her veterans cowering. Leaks, although uncommon, still happened (humans were fallible, after all), but never at this magnitude. Fahd Kader was a priority, not only because of his status and origins but because of the information that everyday confirmed his hand in gendering a new war. And now there was a leak. It compromised everything.

“I hope that whoever it is can either run very, very far very, very fast, or has a wife and two kids being held hostage.” Duo grumbled. “Une’s gunning for him, whoever it is.”

Heero nodded. “Prison is not an option.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Her choices are narrow,” Heero explained, leaning back into the mattress. “but not that narrow. There are, of course, those of us who were on the sting--”

“There was a fun hour.” Trowa snorted his agreement, inwardly. He had had torture sessions more enjoyable than those sixty minutes of fine grilling from Une.

“--but there are others. People with access to some quantity of the information. Une was very particular on who gets to see what, went all out on security measures just to avoid a situation like this. So whoever it is high up or intricately involved, or both.”

“People don’t even know about this. There are rumors, of course, but no one actually knows we’re after Kader, or that there’s a leak. They just know we set up a sting, and messed up.”

Thanks to Trowa, judging by the continued looks from his coworkers.

Quatre sighed, rubbing his eyes. He slid down on the bedspread and curled, carefully, keeping from upsetting the glass on the board. He was openly exhausted. It pulled his thin face gaunt. Starved. Heero and Duo exchanged glances again. Heero rose after a moment to sit on the edge of the bed while Duo slid around the board. Trowa shuddered again but ignored the unconscious pull. There was no cause for warning.

“I haven’t noticed anything.” he muttered into the cloth. “No new faces, no unusual calls or guests. Kader’s perfectly composed, as always.”

“Quatre, no one’s asking you to spy on Kader. Don’t wear yourself out over this.”

“He’s mocking me.”

Duo tilted his head; Trowa mirrored him. “Mocking you?”

“He knows I know.” he grumbled. Quatre fisted some of the cloth, gritting his teeth. “And he makes no show of it. Perfectly composed, and then he’ll catch my eye and, god, that fucking grin.”

“Cat…” Duo sighed. “Quatre, don’t…” It was so hard to watch, and they always tried to stop him before it progressed. They knew the tone, knew the signs of an impending attack of heart. Of course, they hadn’t caught him early enough to do any good. Quatre pulled his knees to his chest. His fingers dug around his heart, and he appeared to break apart, cracks spreading. Damn his empathy.

“He…and him…and I…I just can’t do anything.” he groaned.

“Quatre, no one is asking you to do anything.” Heero tried.

“It probably wouldn’t be a good idea even if you could. God forbid you mess up Une’s already messed up operation.” A halfhearted glare was all he got from Quatre before he buried his face against his knees; Heero’s was potent. “Quatre, don’t do this to yourself.”

Trowa assumed, when Duo bent over Quatre’s coiled body, he was trying to hear whatever Quatre had murmured. He was sure he had heard something, garbled by cloth and his own body. So the onslaught of shivering and the sudden desire to run only irritated him. The unfounded paranoia was getting ridiculous. When Duo took too long, however. When he slid his hand across Quatre’s blonde hair, it stopped being so irritating.

But of course that was ridiculous. Even if there wasn’t the blaring evidence of their noisy activities every other night creeping through his bedroom walls and keeping him awake, Duo wasn’t that tactless. And Heero would never quietly accept such a blatant display of affection from an ex, let alone a boyfriend. So the fact that he wasn’t lashing out verbally or otherwise, or at least glaring, meant that it simply could not be exactly what Trowa’s mind was shrieking at him. Unfounded paranoia, completely ridiculous. His imagination was getting out of control—

“Quatre…” he sighed.

Unfounded, my ass!

Trowa gasped, sharp pains flaring up his arms. They spread across his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. Gripping the doorframe, he covered his mouth with his hand. If they heard him choking, gagging, whimpering as he was. Oh but they wouldn’t hear him. Not with them so occupied with each—

No! Not again! Get out of there, you idiot! Go!

Black clouded his vision. Trowa’s knees sank into the hall carpet and he wheezed. Unfortunately it wasn’t loud enough to block it out. His hands, his echoing gasps for breath. Nothing could block out Quatre’s—

Get out!!

He could only stagger. The fact Trowa could do even that much was a feat. But he’d never make it down the hall. There simply wasn’t enough oxygen in his blood. Even with his mind screaming him on, he’d fall somewhere. Like the stairs. Wouldn’t that be his luck, taking the stairs one body width at a time? What a wonderful way to be uncovered! If they even heard him.

Shut up and move! I don’t want to hear it again!

“Heero!”

You can’t make me remember this!

Trowa shot out of bed—or attempted to. The white-hot pain dancing down—or up?—his arms strangled a breathless cry from him. It ebbed, at least a little, when he fell back to the mattress. Of course, then Trowa was distinctly aware of the warm and wet something slipping along his skin, tickling his wrists, which were somewhere stuck above his head. When he squirmed, hoping to twist out of the hold, the second restraint snagged and scratched his ankles.

The unfamiliar ceiling and the double set of cuffs holding him in the compromising position should have had Trowa bucking, and threatening to tear his limbs off with the struggle. But he simply stared at the blood staining the silver. Everything was too confusing for him to panic. It wasn’t until he realized just how incomplete his memory was that the first twinges started. Twinges turned to stabs when he felt, through the headache pounding his temples, the slick caress of bed sheets on his back and rear.

Naked. Bed. Cuffs. Blanks. Bad.

“You’re finally awake? Good. All that thrash and moaning, I was afraid I would have to wake you myself.” Fahd said with almost genuine concern. The bed dipped where he sat, rolling Trowa’s hips uncomfortably towards him. His large, warm hand patted his quivering thigh. “How do you feel?”

“…You son of a bitch.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hello to you, too.” Leaning over Fahd brushed stray strands from Trowa’s eyes and attempted to examine his head, pretending Trowa wasn’t panting as heavily as pain allowed. “How’s your head?”

“Don’t touch me.” Trowa wrenched his head away with a growl. Smiling enduringly, Fahd twisted the strands around his fingers and pulled him back. “Get these things off of me.”

“No. You gave Nizar quite a shiner—” Good! “--And have no desire to be elbowed or kicked or whatever mean spirited thing you’re planning. Now how’s your head?”

That part he remember: the Arab with the scarred face, who had stood over him as he struggled wet, cold, and furious, dropping like a rock. Trowa supposed he had to give the old man some credit; whatever he hit had him with hurt, and his aim was impeccable. The base of his head still throbbed.

“…How do you think?” Trowa sneered.

“I think, between the alcohol and the paperweight, that you have a very bad headache and would like some aspirin.”

Trowa grit his teeth at the thought of liking anything from him. “No, thank you. I’ll manage.”

“Mhm. Well then, for my own amusement, I’m going to go and get it anyway. And a glass of water, too.” Fahd rose, knocking Trowa’s hips back to center, and sauntered to the door. “I’ll be back shortly, so just relax.”

He waited until he was out of the doorway before trying, again, to free either of his hands or feet. When that got too frustrating and painful, Trowa tried to piece together the missing portions of his memory. He quickly got annoyed with the drunken haze that blocked everything. Panic sapped his attention, his thudding pulse filling his ears. Trowa shook his head wildly as heat prickled the corners of his eyes and focused on the unfamiliar area.

Bed. Well that was a given. He flexed, finding no edges immediately. Despite knowing what he’d find, Trowa glanced towards his bound hands then his bound feet. There was half a foot, give or take, from either set to the bedpost. His head fell back to the sheets, with an annoyed sigh and a spike of pain, and he measured the sides. So: a large bed with him stretched across it from left post to right. The posts were moderately ornate, curled engravings in peculiar designs, and stopped just short of the ceiling. Trowa shifted his hips; the sheets were slick and cool. Expensive.

On his right, there was a squat dresser of the same wood as the bed. Standard looking: six drawers; three on each side; black handles; polished top with standard occupants. There was a handgun still in its holster between the hairbrush and a bottle of cologne. Trowa caught his reflection in the mirror over it, bruises, manacles and all.

There was a desk just to the right of the dresser (an excellent distraction). Same material, same typical design but its visible contents were at least a bit more interesting. Beneath the clutter peeked a phone cord and the cord to the lamp. There were several folders of varying thickness, most with their contents spilling out at least part way, and a couple of thick books Trowa distinctly recognized as manuals of some sort. Large sheets of paper hung off the edge. They were either maps or schematics judging by the size. He couldn’t be sure. Trowa couldn’t see the actual print, which was probably why he was interested. It was the pilot in him, still obsessed with espionage.

But as he couldn’t satisfy his curiosity, Trowa took in the left side of the bed. A bedside table was closest, complete with lamp and a book with its place marked. The corner nearest to the bed was lined with books, a plush chair sitting in the open space between the two cases. He squinted at the titles; less than half made any sense. Most of the titles looked like squiggles. There was a closet, but it was closed, and the door which was still opened but did Trowa very little good.

Trowa frowned. There was something wrong, well something else wrong. He swept the room one more time. Windows. There were no windows breaking the glossy finish of the bronze paint. There was only one vent that he could see and that was just above the off-white carpet. He frowned. No windows to get his bearings or escape through. No vent to squeeze into, either. His thigh wouldn’t even make through that narrow a slot.

“You’re in my most current residence.” Fahd clarified. He balanced a tray in one hand and wore an irksome smirk. “In my bedroom, of course.”

“…I noticed.” Trowa replied with what little bit of a nod he could manage. Observation and focus had done their duty: the panic was safely under his control and shoved as far back as possible. His voice had dropped back to its normal octave. It surprised Fahd a little more than himself. He arched an eyebrow delicately, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

“Rest assured, you’re still within driving distance of your house and your business. And your bike is in one piece.” He explained casually.

A fuzzy memory of cracking his head on the roof of an expensive car in an empty parking lot flickered in and out. Trowa frowned. So that meant he left his bike…at the bar.

“You look like your head is starting to hurt again. Are you sure you won’t take the aspirin?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well, that explains the pain.” He snickered despite Trowa’s black expression. “Perhaps I can be of assistance. Are you perhaps thinking about what you’ve forgotten in the last,” he glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. “twenty-four hours or so?” Trowa felt his mouth twist into a small sneer. “That would be a yes?”
Fahd pretended not to notice Trowa losing his grip on his emotions, tugging angrily on the restraints again. “Well, let’s see.” He started, lifting a glass from the tray and sipping its scarlet contents thoughtfully. “When I found you, you were exceedingly drunk after having finished of six or seven something-or-others that you couldn’t even name. The bartender had gone off to call you a taxi but decided to come back and argue with me about taking you home. You couldn’t stand up, or understand most of the conversation probably, but agreed to come with me. I got you out of the bar and into the parking lot before finally just carrying you—you should eat more, by the way.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.” He muttered.

“Anyway, you were violently ill by my car, and then cracked your head on it. Then you were sleeping and still sleeping when I left.”

There was a faint churning to his stomach, now that he actually thought about it. So the story was possible, but Trowa still couldn’t actually remember.

“Now.” he said into the drink, glancing at him. “What happened before I found you at the bar, I can’t tell you. You’ll have to remember that on your own.”

Oh. That. Trowa had no problem recalling those memories; it was getting rid of them that was the issue. Hence the alcohol, and wouldn’t you know it? Alcohol failed in the only thing Trowa had ever asked of it. With his luck, it probably made it worse. Fahd noticed the sudden increase in tension. Was he really grinding his teeth that loud?

“Stop being stubborn and take the aspirin. I assure you, it will do nothing except help the pain.”

“It’s not the fucking pain.” He snapped. Trowa regretted the slip of his control instantly. Fahd’s curiosity was blatant.

“No? Then what is it? Something about before the bar?”

Trowa was not that easy, or that upset. Forcing some semblance of composure to his face, he stared at him and rattled the cuffs. “Why am I here?”

“You would probably feel better if you just told me.”

“Why am I here?” he grit out, pulling a little harder. The easy smile melted off his face. Trowa inhaled sharply as Fahd moved too quickly for his growing anxiety, covering his body with his wide shadow. He gripped Trowa’s chin tightly and smirked at the sudden stillness of Trowa’s chest.

“I would have thought that was obvious, Trowa Barton.” He purred. Eyes locked, not without struggle, Trowa found his breath again as he waited for the large hand on his face or the one next to his head to move. Nothing new. He was expecting it. He could handle it. He would definitely be able to handle it better than last time, anyway. Trowa braced himself for the fingers to follow the path of the old touches now assaulting him. So Fahd’s sudden departure, rocking him on the mattress, startled a gasp from him.

“You’ll find I have very obsessive tendencies when it comes to things which intrigue or challenge me. You do both, so naturally I’ve found myself with a preoccupation with you since last time.” He explained, lifting up some of the folders from the desk and rifling through them. Trowa sifted through the political tone easily: he was stalking him because he was a freak. “Of course, I didn’t, and don’t, expect your cooperation with my wants—” Well, how perceptive of him. “—so I took the liberty of providing some incentives.”

Sheets of paper, some slick and others coarse, fluttered from the folder Fahd emptied over him. Trowa raised his head as far as allowed, and scowled. High-resolution photos—of the house, the headquarters, his comrades and their lives, their hobbies—glistened off his chest. Between a photo of Une pacing during a classified debriefing and another of himself and Heero pulling apart the car’s engine when it failed was a detailed report headed “Millardo Peacecraft.” Quatre’s was next to his right knee, Duo’s his left. Heero’s and Wufei’s were probably closer to his head, since his own was nestled above his abdomen over a shot of him bent over his desk.

“I was in a bit of a rush for our meeting, so this was all I managed to throw together. There will be plenty more, if you’re interested.” He assured, grinning at the rapid widening of Trowa’s eyes as he absorbed the magnitude of the situation.

“…How?”

“I’m leading a terrorist organization, Trowa. I have to know everything about everyone, including the Preventors, and you.” Brushing aside some sheets, Fahd sat again by his waist. “I know where you live, where you work, where you buy your lunch, and where you visited your sister two days ago.” Blood thudded in his ears. “All your coworkers, all your friends, I can find them at any moment. And order a missile launch in the next.”

“There is no way you have such capabilities.” Trowa murmured after a loud silence. There was nothing—nothing!—about weapons’ operations in any of the reports. The group was still in its youth: growing, planning, building both alliances and strength. He was in bed with weapons manufacturers and marketers on the black-market but nothing was coming to fruition. Not yet, anyway, with the country’s king, figurehead as he was, ailing and causing a minor state of panic. The bastard’s bluffing. There is no way in hell he could attack us. He has no weapons, certainly not here anyway. And if there were in his damn country, there is no way they could have that far a range—

“I assure you, Trowa.” He explained, waving a new photo in front of his face. The safe house, now just the house, painted in the gold and sapphire shades of twilight, was stamped with a blood-red sight. Trowa could almost hear the sustained tone of the missile as it honed in and locked on the front door. The time stamp wasn’t even a week ago; they had all been home. “I could, if I wanted to.”

“If?” Trowa asked, begrudgingly and not without hesitance, taking the bait. Fahd smiled, stroking back his hair. He fought down the urge to bite. He wouldn’t be able to crane his head enough anyway.

“I don’t want to blow people up, Trowa.” So says the man who assaulted him in an alley and left him to freeze. “Especially not your friends. It’s disrespectful.” Trowa’s brows raised then knitted at the most unexpected of reasons. “I would much rather kill the Gundam pilots face-to-face. Firing a missile from long range is an insult to your former skill. A bullet would be more fitting, but also very cumbersome to my other duties.”

It was times like this Trowa really wished he hadn’t destroyed Heavyarms.

“And as much as I want you, and would prefer to deal with the former pilots directly, I really cannot jeopardize everything I’ve worked for. That’s a selfishness I simply cannot condone. So, some sacrifices and compromises had to be made. Thus,” he smiled, waving the photo again before setting it on his chest.

“…You still didn’t answer my question.”

His smile grew. “Indeed I haven’t. I could blow them up, on a whim, if it pleased me. Now if you cooperate, then I do believe I will have no desire for that whim.”

A fist twisted in his stomach. He had an idea of what it all meant—a very good idea—but Trowa still felt some masochistic (or naively hopeful) urge to hear it.

“Cooperate how?” His words ended with a hiss. The spare hand, not still stroking his hair, had slithered its way between his legs and waited exuding unwanted warmth.

“I already told you.” Fahd purred into his ear. Trowa’s muscles tightened as the hand moved ever so slightly. “I want you, and I will have you. The question is: do I have to kill them first?”

Trowa focused on the extortion to keep the blood from rushing to his face; the hand was becoming quicker and more insistent. Extortion. The sadistic son-of-a-bitch was resorting to such vile tactics just to rape him again? Wouldn’t it have been easier just to do him when he was unconscious? Of course not. I have no room to say no then, and where is the fun in that? He was apparently banking on the sexual thrill guilt was going to award him.

And damn it all if it was working. Trowa squirmed his hips, gritting his teeth. Extortion, successful extortion. A Part of him, betrayed and vindictive, did want them to burn. Whether it was because of the backstabbing, the slinking, or just the bitter taste of what he could not have, he neither knew nor cared. His battered pride demanded blood.

Unfortunately, that voice was weak. The logical part of Trowa understood. Like-minded individuals so often come together; sufferers depend on the strength and comfort they can draw from other victims of the same. So how could he expect them to be any different? It was for these very reasons, no doubt, they decided to live together after the war. How could Trowa be surprised at the polygamy? It was probably a more frequent occurrence than he knew, especially before he was invited to stay. Going behind his back? They were probably just trying to be mindful of his feelings. Even if they weren’t going to invite him, or let him know, they couldn’t wave their relationship in his face.

And if the taste of the forbidden was the root of the anger, Trowa already knew how stupid that was. What had he ever done to deserve affection? How many opportunities to share with them had he spurned? He could never honestly expect them to continue such a fruitless endeavor; Trowa had shut himself down and away too much. For survival, and for fear, he wouldn’t open himself, not even to them. If they asked, if they begged, Trowa would have shuddered and rejected them. He had no other reaction. His desperation for secrecy had bitten him much harder than he thought.

That is, if they wanted him. Impossible. Even if Trowa had gotten, or ever got, the privilege of that position—Quatre’s gasp echoed, partnered with his own, wrangled by the fingers—there would be nothing. Regardless of who, or why, or whatever, there was no ignoring the fact that Trowa was a freak, an abomination complete unfit for affection. That had been made very clear to him, many times. There was no way they could ever forgive him for being warped, damaged goods.

What sort of selfish monstrosity was he, if he wished them pain for doing what was natural? How could he live with himself if he spat at their happiness? If he loved them (was he capable of it?), could Trowa honestly deny them?

Fahd would rape him, anyway. Shouldn’t some good for someone come out of it?

Trowa’s face burned. Jaw clenched, he twisted fitfully and felt the blood trickle down his wrists and feet. His pulse pounded. His fingers and toes raked the sheets as Fahd’s fingers pushed in, hard. A low whimper crept out of his throat, bared to Fahd’s lips. Echoes and white noise crashed in his ears as the ghosts rose out of his nerves to join the play. The chains rattled as he thrashed.

He shouldn’t have to do this.

He didn’t know the rules.

“Heero!…”

It was so stupid.

It was so unfair.

“Duo!…”

Blindly, he was selling his soul.

“Quatre!”

For nothing.

“D…D-Deal!…aaah…”

To be continued...

A/n: Please allow me to begin by apologizing with the utmost sincerity--and I will continue to apologize. Not only has it taken me over twelve months to produce chapter 9--and almost a year to the day to even post a note--but I have been extremely rude.

My readers, at least I hope I can still call you mine, I have slighted you. So many of you professed your concern over my health and wished me luck in everything I did. And I did not respond. For this, I apologize. There is no excuse, and I hope you will forgive me, and believe me when I say that it was your kind thoughts that helped me through. There were many times, as I fought off the grips of a hormone that almost drove me to suicide, that I wanted to give up. On both this story and everything, but you wrote to me. You told me to push on. You echoed the words I heard from my family and friends everyday. And it gave me strength. So, I hope you forgive me for my ignorance of you, for not responding to you directly. But your words meant the world to me.

And here I am. Still alive, still stressing but getting better. The last twelve months have been very hard; the medicine has permenantly changed me. Its presence has made everything so much harder. I am much more..cynical and angry than I used to be. My tolerance has greatly diminished. But I'm seeking help, and speaking out. I try not to leave anything inside, as that quickly spirals out of control. My family situation has changed. I think it's finally starting to look up, although I am still waiting for the bottom to drop out again. I think I will be for a long time, but now my sister and brother-in-law will be moving out. And things should finally calm down.

School is school. I'm a third year, still English and still doing creative writing classes. My conference (last november) went extraordinarily well. Out of a competition of 25 undergraduate papers, I was awarded second, and my paper was still very highly praised by the panel. I'm attending my third conference (I went to another in spring) this December. Pretty soon, I should have some original pieces completed. I think I will post them here.

I apologize for the choppy quality of this chapter. Twelve months of turmoil and writer's block--and a dying laptop--does that, it seems. But I'm glad that I continued on. Now, I can begin the next chapter (when I have the time) and start to really dive into the juicyness I plan for Trowa.

When I will post next, I don't know. When I have free time, I'm always thinking and jotting notes for this story. I will not put down a date, as I tend to break them. I promise you though, if it gets too long I will let you all know. And I will let you know why. I appreciate you too much to not.

Thank you, all of you, for everything. For your reviews, your praises, and your critizisms. For your patience with me. For looking out for me and hoping for me. I can never tell you enough how much it means to me, and how sorry I am for the abuse I feel I put you through. It wasn't fair of me, and I hope you forgive me.

Still, your most humble writer (planning the next bout of torture)
~*~LadyYeinKhan~*~