by Anne Olsen
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai,Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the boys (and other characters) more or less intact when I'm finished, honest.
Thanks: To Bast for support and beta reading, and to Maureen for your feedback and encouragement.
Send comments to anneo@paradise.net.nz
"My plan?" Quatre tried to control his annoyance regarding the underlying inference of Corporal Barton's words. "I don't have a plan." He changed his tone to one of sarcasm. "Do you honestly think I would be standing here waving a piece of broken glass if I had a plan?"
"Good point," Barton admitted, his hand still outstretched as he waited for Quatre to surrender his weapon. His brow creased, the earlier look of disbelief changing to curiosity, as he indicated the room. "Surely you must have realised what would happen?"
Quatre attempted to back up further, fully aware it was an exercise in futility considering his total lack of acrobatic skills. He decided instead to stand his ground, giving the other man what he hoped was an icy glare. "Have you come to hand me over to the Nazis? Because if you have I'll make it clear now that I don't intend to go easily."
The corner of Barton's mouth turned up into a half smile, before he shook his head. "I've come to help you, Doktor Winner," he explained.
Quatre glanced behind him, wishing the desk would disappear into thin air, giving him a much needed escape route. "And you expect me to believe you? I know you've been following me for the past week." He noticed the slight look of surprise on Barton's face with a degree of satisfaction.
"You need to trust me, Doktor Winner." The initial surprise disappeared quickly, the tone of his voice not faltering even for a moment. Quatre felt a momentary pang of envy, wishing he could control his feelings to such a degree. Yes he often projected an air of indifference, usually using it to cover his inner turmoil, but Barton had it down to almost an art form. Watching him, one could believe that calmness wasn't an act but an extension of the man himself.
"Give me one good reason."
"The Nazis will be here in," Barton consulted his watch, " approximately ten minutes. Either you trust me or you attempt to explain to them what exactly has happened."
Quatre had to admit; that was a good reason. He studied the other man for a moment, wanting to trust him, wanting to be able to trust anyone. And Barton had a point; the choices available were limited. He remembered how concerned the Corporal had seemed when he'd lost his footing a few days previously and came to a decision. He'd fought his instincts then, maybe that had been a mistake. He'd always had strong feelings as to whether a person could be trusted, ignoring those misgivings often preceded disaster, Dr J being a case and point.
Quatre placed the glass fragment on the desk, pressing the crimson stained cloth against the cut on his hand, as the blood resumed its flow for a moment in response to the lack of pressure on the wound, then trickled to a stop. Only a small flesh wound, he noticed, with a degree of relief. "Alright," he said, "I'm going to take a risk and hope you are telling the truth. As you say I have nothing to lose and everything to gain."
Barton nodded. "Doktor Winner," he began but Quatre interupted him.
"Quatre," he said, scanning for a reaction, hoping for a confirmation that his trust wasn't going to be misplaced. "If we are going to work together I'd prefer it on a first name basis."
"You can call me Trowa." The green eyed man seemed to take a sudden interest in Quatre's appearance, and the blond felt himself blush under the unexpected scrutiny. Not exactly the expected reaction, he thought, wondering if he'd grown a third head.
"Take off your shirt."
Quatre felt himself grow even warmer as he replied, his voice coming out in a stammer as he tried to hide his shock. "I beg your pardon?" What the hell was Trowa playing at?
"Your shirt is covered in blood. The guards will notice." Deliberately ignoring the other's expression, Quatre's eyes followed Trowa's gesture toward the wooden chest of drawers in the corner behind the door. He had the distinct impression Trowa was enjoying this on some level. Or maybe he still hadn't gotten rid of his earlier paranoia concerning the SS officer? "Dr J keeps a change of clothing in his office, find something suitable while I keep lookout."
Quatre glanced down at his shirt then stripped quickly as he rummaged through the drawers for something that might fit. He quickly buttoned up the clean shirt, filling the gap in the drawer with his old one. Grabbing Dr J's woollen coat off the stand, he threw it on top, completing the outfit. It was cold outside and he didn't think it would be sensible to detour to his own office to retrieve his coat. Luckily he and his former mentor were a similar height; the clothes hung on his slender frame, although not too noticeably.
Trowa poked his head around the door, gave Quatre a small nod of approval and indicated he should follow. The scientist stuffed the project file inside the overcoat, and joined the other man in the corridor, taking one last glance at the scene inside.
One last glance at what his life had been.
He gave Trowa a questioning look, wondering what came next. The officer seemed confident, much more than Quatre himself, but then under the present circumstances, that wouldn't take much. He hoped Trowa had the contacts they needed; but at least now he, Quatre was no longer alone. Trowa had placed himself in danger with his offer of assistance; if anything happened to him because of Quatre's actions, the scientist would never forgive himself.
Straining his eyes, he joined Trowa in surveying the corridor for possible adversaries, catching a glimpse of long blonde hair in the distance as he heard the light step of female footsteps heading their way.
Dorothy Catalonia.
Quatre shivered. He didn't like that woman, but had never been able to put his finger on the reason why. Something about her unnerved him; she seemed demure enough but he suspected that she had less than pure intentions towards him. The few times they had been alone in the same room, she had reminded him of a predator, and he had the uneasy feeling she viewed him as her prey. In hindsight there hadn't been anything untoward in her behaviour but he couldn't help but wonder why she'd had to rest her hand quite so firmly on his knee or why that hand had started to move before they'd been interrupted.
Trowa began walking slowly towards the exit, and Quatre followed, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible. Did he think they were just going to walk out the front door? Quatre snorted. And Trowa had the nerve to complain about the lack of a so called plan on his part?
"Heading home early, Doktor Winner?" Dorothy arched one forked eyebrow at him as she came to a standstill, catching his arm in hers. He pulled free, sending an icy glare in her direction. "Aren't you feeling well?" she continued, the false tone of concern evoking a shudder from him. "Poor dear. I'm sure I could help if you'd give me a chance."
When hell freezes over, thought Quatre.
Trowa interupted. "Duke Demail was looking for you, Fraulein Catalonia." Dorothy glanced over her shoulder, the expression reflecting what Quatre decided could only be guilt. He was certain she was only part of the project because of her grandfather's influence. Being related to one of the financial backers had its advantages.
"Make sure you contact me if you need any help." The tone in Dorothy's voice as she made her departure made Quatre all the more sure that she would be the last person he'd call.
"Thank you for your concern, Fraulein, but I will be fine." Quatre was careful to remove all emotion from his voice as he answered her question in a flat monotone. If she suspected what the true cause of his less than well appearance was, both he and Trowa would be in grave danger.
He waited until she had turned the corner and out of sight before turning to Trowa. "It won't be long before she puts two and two together. Dorothy might be creepy but she's not stupid. The sooner we leave, the better."
Trowa nodded and picked up his pace, Quatre increasing his step to keep up. As they approached the gate, and the guard station, Trowa glanced around the compound, weighing up the situation ahead. The two guards on duty were both heavily armed, the MP-40 submachine guns they carried far outweighing the fire power of Trowa's 9mm Luger.
Quatre silently cursed his limited knowledge of hand weapons; his information came from a soldier Iria had once dated who had been only too happy to explain the attributes of the 'beautiful but deadly' Luger to her younger brother. He remembered too, his sister's reaction. Poor John; it hadn't paid to get on the wrong side of Iria when she was in protective mode. He was probably lucky that Iria hadn't come home earlier and caught her soon to be ex boyfriend expressing his admiration for the speed on which Quatre had learnt to actually use the weapon. Those few lessons five years ago, had been his only exposure to something he could use to defend himself with. The years spent at the fencing club at the university didn't count; that had only been in fun, and besides it wasn't as though he'd actually been any good, he'd only joined to see what David found so enthralling about the sport.
Quatre shook his head to clear it. He needed to keep his wits about him, not get distracted by a trip down memory lane. It would be two against one if they were challenged, odds which weren't in their favour, especially as it would draw attention to them, something they couldn't afford until they were well clear.
"Is there a problem, Corporal?" asked one of the men.
Trowa shook his head. "No problem, Sergeant Mueller. Herr Doktor Winner is feeling unwell and has requested I help him to his car." He reached out in a gesture of support and Quatre followed his lead by swaying and clutching at his arm, as he pretended to lose his balance. The guard glared at them with what could only be termed suspicion and Quatre swallowed, offering up a silent prayer for help.
"Should you be driving in that state, Herr Winner?" a new voice asked, as Quatre fought the urge to run. Both men turned to see the head of security for the project, Colonel Merquise. Damn. Just their luck that he should choose this time to decide to make a spot inspection of his forces manning the front gate. The Colonel would be hoping to make an impression on the important expected visitors, the blond surmised.
"Barton, escort the Doktor to his home."
Quatre let out the breath he'd been holding, unable to believe their luck. "Thank you, Colonel," he said. This was too easy. Merquise was good at his job, and thorough. Quatre hadn't expected him to fall for a ruse like this.
Merquise nodded and saluted. "Barton, when you return I wish to see you in my office." What could he possibly want to see Trowa about? A dozen different scenarios went through Quatre's mind at a frightening speed as he tried to stay calm. After all, the Colonel would hardly let the soldier out of the compound if he were under suspicion. "Good day, Doktor Winner."
Quatre allowed Trowa to lead him out the small side gate, glad of the other man's support. Once through Trowa tensed, then pulled him into the shadow, as Quatre felt fingers over his lips motioning silence. Moments later the big main gates swung open and a large black staff car, flying the swastika flag of the Nazis slowly drove through, stopping briefly at the guard station before continuing towards the main complex. The staff, unlike privileged visitors such as those affiliated with the Nazi party, were not permitted to bring their vehicles through the front gate. The few who could actually afford and obtain petrol under the current shortages used the small carpark directly in front.
Quatre shifted Trowa's hand, noticing how gentle he'd been with the earlier gesture, even with the urgency of the situation. The more he saw the more he realised his new friend didn't fit the stereotype of the other SS officers. This was a person who cared, however much he was trying to hide it. There was definitely more here than met the eye, but he couldn't work out what. "I hope you know what you're doing," he asked Trowa. "You have had experience in smuggling out people and information before?"
Silence.
"Trowa?"
Trowa replied with a small shake of his head. "No," he stated. "Never."
Quatre's peace of mind, or rather the little remaining decided at that moment to make a run for it. He stared at Trowa, searching for a sign that he wasn't serious, but didn't find anything. Wonderful. How was he going to get out of this alive? How was he going to get the plans to the people who needed to know?
Trowa seemed to be watching him just as carefully, letting out a small cough as he turned to lead the blond to hopefully somewhere a good deal safer than where they were at present.
"Quatre?"
"What?" Trowa had better not be making another crack about his lack of planning. Quatre snorted. At least he'd admitted from the start that he didn't know what he was doing. Quatre blushed. Be fair, he told himself. Trowa had only admitted that he hadn't had any experience with this kind of situation.
"You can let go of my arm now."
Trowa knocked briefly on the solid wooden door and waited. Quatre shivered as he realised his companion had led them to the back entrance of the same café where he'd had that final conversation with David. Was it only a week ago? If only he'd known at the time that meeting his old friend would be the catalyst for his current situation, the unravelling of what had passed for the normality of his life. He shook his head. Poor David. If only he, Quatre, had been more approachable maybe it wouldn't have come to this. If only… There was no point crying over spilt milk. The past was gone, and even though his mistakes were clearer now in hindsight, he had to look forward, to try to fix this mess somehow. It was probably too late to save David, but he had to think about his safety and Trowa's. Quatre's hand moved under his coat pocket, checking, not for the first time, that the precious files were still there. He could not allow the Nazis to use his ideas. His hands were covered in enough blood, there was no way he was prepared to add more innocents to the list of those he'd already unintentionally hurt.
A dark haired girl poked her head through a slight crack in the door, eyes widening as she took in the situation. Green eyes, though a lighter shade than Trowa's, Quatre noticed absently. "Trowa?" Reflecting her disapproval, her gaze flickered between the two men, finally settling on Quatre, even though her next question was directed to his companion. "What are you doing here?"
Trowa placed his foot in the door. "I didn't have an option. Hilde, this is Quatre. He needs our help."
Hilde wasn't impressed. "I know who he is. Are you trying to get us killed?" Quatre bit back a comment of surprise, wondering how she knew his identity. He supposed being the only son of one of the richest men in Berlin would have been enough to get him noticed. He only hoped too many people didn't realise who he was, it could be a liability in his present situation.
"I didn't have a choice." Trowa reiterated his earlier statement, standing his ground as he refused to move.
Quatre moved forward, holding out his hand in what he hoped was a friendly greeting. "Please, Hilde. Trowa's right. I need your help." He glanced at Trowa quickly, then directed his attention back to Hilde; her decision could make the difference as to their chances of survival. By now the body would have been discovered and too many people had seen them together not to put two and two together. Even if Merquise hadn't been suspicious of Trowa's loyalty to the Third Reich, he would be now. Quatre amended his original statement. "We need your help."
Hilde hesitated for a moment, eyeing Trowa cautiously before opening the door fully. Even disregarding her small stature, her body language and tone enforced the initial impression Quatre had received of her; she wouldn't stand for any nonsense. Any sign that she'd been lied to and they would find themselves back on the street. "Up the stairs quickly," she told them. "Everything's in the usual place. Keep it quiet. I'll be up in a few hours after closing." She disappeared through an inner door and Quatre heard the background noise of the busy café before it closed leaving him to follow Trowa in silence.
"I don't think she trusts me," Quatre noted, as he took in his new surroundings. The old double bed filled most of the floor space, leaving room only for a small table, a chair and the old wardrobe in the corner. Mid morning sun streamed through the one tiny window, although it did little to add much warmth to the room. How long would they be safe here?
"Hilde can't afford to trust anyone, and neither can you." Trowa walked over to the window, checking the street below momentarily before indicating the door to his right. "There's a sink in there. Have a wash. You'll feel better."
"Thanks." Quatre paused, looking the Corporal straight in the eye, as he brushed past him. "I mean it, Trowa. I know you've taken a risk to help me and I want you to know I appreciate it."
"I'm not the only one taking a risk. Make sure you remember that," replied Trowa, bending down to undo the catches on the battered leather case he'd retrieved from under the bed. Quatre waited for him to continue but after a few minutes of silence, decided he was wasting his time. Trowa had said all that was needed and the conversation was over. He made his way into the small bathroom, closing the door behind him.
God, I look awful. Quatre rubbed at the mirror with the threadbare towel he'd found hanging over the back of the door, and examined his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot due to lack of sleep, his face flushed, his hair hanging limply over his forehead. He filled the basin with cool water, and splashed his face, hoping the liquid would help him to feel more human.
His mind raced, trying to make sense of everything so far. When he'd decided to confront Dr J he knew his life would change but the reality of it hadn't really sunk in. Even standing over the body he'd been too shell shocked to truly comprehend how much trouble he was in. The adrenalin rush he'd had earlier which had enabled him to make his escape with Trowa was beginning to wear off, leaving in its place a sense of …nothing.
Quatre groaned aloud. To be honest he didn't know how he felt. Yes, he was scared but part of him was still reacting as though this day had been a dream and that any minute he would wake and find himself in his bed at home.
Home. Iria. To him the two were interlinked, the refuge he could return to at the end of each day when reality became too much. She was the only person he had ever felt truly comfortable and relaxed with. In her presence he could be himself, Quatre…Cat. Not Quatre Winner, wayward son of Paul Winner, not Herr Doktor Winner, prodigy of Dr J, but Cat. Without that what would become of him?
He finished wiping his face with the thin yellow towel. At home it would have been replaced with a new one without thought, but here the situation was different. He glanced down at the expensive dress trousers he wore, and realised he'd always taken his social and monetary standing in life for granted. There would no longer be a meal provided at the end of each day without question, everything he needed handed to him on a platter.
Quatre laughed, then stopped, surprised at his reaction. After all, weren't those the very things about his life he had resented? In a twisted way, fate had provided him with the opportunity to move on, maybe become the very person he had always yearned to be but had never been able.
"First things first," he muttered to himself under his breath, reminding himself of the reason he was here. On the run for murder, theft and God knows what else and he was planning his future. Winner, you're losing it.
He stood for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, his hands twisting the towel over and over as he attempted to still his mind. There was no point alarming Trowa. He had enough to worry about. Quatre hung the now damp towel on the wooden rack on the back of the door, drew himself up straight and walked back into the small main room.
"Understood. Zero three out." Trowa's head came up in response to Quatre's arrival. He was sitting at the only table, hunched over a small valve radio set, obviously the contents of the large suitcase. Quatre couldn't help but wonder what exactly his superiors had been told. Surely the scientist's unexpected presence would have affected the Corporal's original orders to a significant degree? "Feeling better?" Was that concern reflected in Trowa's eyes? Still, with the information Quatre would be able to supply the allies, he supposed he would now be an asset worth protecting.
"As much as I’m going to be," he answered, giving a small smile in reply. Maybe Trowa truly did care what happened to him? After all what he'd seen so far seemed to suggest that scenario. Or was it merely wishful thinking? He hesitated, indicating the wireless that Trowa was carefully packing away. "Is my being here going to be a problem?"
Trowa shook his head. "I pointed out the risks you've taken to get this far, and they agreed with me that the priorities of this mission have changed to include your safe passage out of Germany." He slid the heavy case back under the bed, then stood for a moment, giving Quatre the once over. "You need to change your clothing into something less conspicuous."
Trowa walked over to the other side of the room, flung open the wardrobe, and pondered its contents for a moment. He pulled a pair of corduroy trousers and a nondescript plain shirt from a hanger, holding them out in front of him as he obviously attempted to gauge the sizing. "These might fit you. Try them on and let's take a look."
Quatre took the clothing from him, and headed back to the bathroom. "See you in a minute." He changed quickly, cursing slightly at the small space he had to dress in, re entered the room and …stopped.
Trowa was standing by the bed, clad only in a pair of very form fitting boxers. The earlier assumption that Quatre had made about his uniform hiding a well-developed physique had been quite an underestimation on his part. The other man was well…. gorgeous; there was no other way of describing him, and ….
Oh God.
Quatre blushed, stammered his apologies and ran, seeking refuge in the small bathroom he'd just vacated. He splashed himself with cold water. What the hell? One look at Trowa and he'd felt his heart speed up, and a physical reaction he hoped like hell the other man hadn't noticed. He glanced down, willing the bulge in his trousers to disappear. What was wrong with him? This wasn't right, it wasn't natural, and certainly not in response to seeing another man in a state of undress.
Quatre groaned.
No, he wasn't going to let himself react. He couldn't, not after putting all this behind him the last time. Think about it, Quatre, a small voice whispered. The only other time this had happened had been because of another male. But he wasn't that way inclined. He couldn't be. He'd always been taught that it wasn't natural, that it was wrong. The assumption that those teachings had to be correct had been the reason he'd backed away from David. There was no way he could continue to see his friend, knowing he was harbouring sinful thoughts towards him. If he was going to burn in hell, it was better he do it alone rather than drag someone he cared about down with him. David had been hurt, of course, when Quatre had deliberately become cold in an attempt to end their friendship. But it was better in the long term for both of them, or so he had convinced himself at the time.
"Quatre, are you alright in there?" Trowa sounded concerned. Poor Trowa, it wasn't the Corporal's fault he'd been stuck with him.
"Fine. I'm fine. I…um….my underwear got stuck in my zipper. I'm just fixing it." Quatre hated lying but there was no way he could ever admit the truth. There was no way he could cope with seeing the disgust he knew would be reflected in his new friend's eyes. Trowa didn't need to know; no one needed to know. He'd just ignore it and make sure it didn't happen again.
He was under a lot of stress; that must be it. Getting out of Germany and the danger it represented would make all the difference. No wonder his body was reacting in ways it shouldn't. After all it wasn't every day one discovered that everything they'd believed in was wrong, that the ideals they'd spent their life working towards weren't worth the paper they were written on.
Quatre exited the bathroom, making a big show of redoing his belt. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, hoping he hadn't made a total idiot of himself.
"It's not a problem. These things happen." Trowa was now fully dressed much to Quatre's relief. The dark jeans hugged his figure snugly, and the skivvy peeking over the crew neck of the contrasting cream jersey matched his eyes, eyes that Quatre was careful to avoid. The blond swallowed, glancing back at the bathroom door. He couldn't spend the whole time they were here hiding in that room. Could he?
"So, what happens next?" Finding something else to focus on seemed the sensible approach, the correct strategy to attempt to correct his current predicament. "Are your superiors sending in backup or are we on our own?" He paused. "And should I be presuming you are permitted to tell me? You keep telling me I should be careful who I trust, yet I'm making the assumption you trust me, although I’m not sure why."
"Because I know you," Trowa answered almost absently as he lifted the corner of the curtain and peered out into the street below.
"You've only just met me." The answer came automatically, before Quatre had time think. How could Trowa know him? Unless…
"Exactly how long have you been watching me?" The question came out almost as an accusation, as the feelings he'd been trying to unsuccessfully to suppress disappeared, only to be replaced by a growing coldness.
"Long enough." Trowa's answer was deliberately vague and extremely annoying. The SS officer, or whoever he was, had been assigned to the project only recently. Had he, Quatre, been under observation the entire time?
Quatre sat down on the bed with a loud thump as his mind raced to try and digest this new information. "Why were you watching me? Who are you working for exactly?" His voice rose in pitch as he let his earlier frustration channel itself into anger. "How do I know you didn't have something to do with Dr J's death? There are poisons available which can mimic the symptoms of a heart attack. Maybe this whole scenario is a intricately thought out plan to get me to trust you?"
Trowa rolled his eyes. "Quatre, your paranoia is getting the better of you. You've been under a lot of stress during the past few days and you're not thinking clearly." He crossed the room to sit on the bed next to the blond. "You can trust me. I give you my word on that." Their eyes met for an instant before Quatre turned away.
"I'm sorry, " he said. "I'd like to able to trust you, but…"
"It's alright." Trowa's voice had a gentle quality to it, but tinged with a certain degree of sadness. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "I have to go meet my contacts, but I shouldn't be long. Get some rest, and we'll talk later. And Quatre…"
"Yes?" Quatre didn't even look up from his examination of the knots in the floorboard as he heard the door creak open.
"Be careful." The door closed quietly behind him and he was gone.
"You be careful, too, Trowa." Quatre whispered his response to an empty room, and buried his head in his hands. Why had he just alienated the one person who was willing to help him out of this mess? He hoped they would get the opportunity to have the talk Trowa wanted, although he had no idea what he was going to say. He knew what he should say, but they were words he dare not speak, thoughts he could never permit himself to acknowledge, a subject that could never be broached.
He crawled under the bedclothes and lay staring at the ceiling, examining the cracks in the plasterboard until he was familiar with each and every one. How was he going to get out of this mess? There would be no happily ever after in the story of his life, of that he was sure. Even if he and Trowa escaped with their lives, what then?
Maybe the people Trowa was meeting with had some answers, at least for their safe passage out. After that…he'd worry about it when the time came. And hope by then he'd know the correct path to take.
You be careful too, Trowa. His final words to his friend repeated in his mind as he slowly drifted off to sleep, unable to fight the exhaustion of both mind and body any longer.