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 : Raletha and Bast, for beta reading and their wonderful support and encouragement. Pete, for supplying the medical info, and Caroline for helping out with the French translation.
The knocking grew louder. Iria frowned, wondering who would be foolhardy enough to be out after curfew. If they were seeking medical help, they were fortunate that she'd had a rough day at the hospital. Usually, she'd have been home by now. She quickly crossed the floor of her small surgery and opened the door, intent of giving the caller a stern talking to, but the words died on her tongue.
"Trowa? What on earth?"
The young man glanced behind him, before stepping over the threshold, his companion leaning on him heavily for support. "It's all right." Tightening his grip around the other man's waist as he staggered and almost lost his footing, Trowa's tone was reassuring. "I've got you."
Helping the injured man onto the small examination bed at the side of the room, Trowa murmured a few soft words to him, as he swayed again, before turning to face her after the other man shook in head in answer. It was difficult to determine clearly what had passed between them, especially with the stranger's face hidden by the jersey that was wrapped around him as a make shift blanket.
"Iria," Trowa's voice hitched slightly, which in itself was unusual. He'd always amazed her with his inherent calmness; his ability to stay collected under any circumstances. "Iria," he continued. "I'm sorry…"
The man gave a slight groan, and she caught sight of blond hair as Trowa lowered his companion's head onto the pillow. "Iria," he said again, the tone in his voice reflecting a gentleness and regret she'd never seen from him before, as he moved quite deliberately to block her view of the figure on the bed.
"Don't Iria me," she started. "This man needs medical attention or you wouldn't be here in the first place. You don't have to worry about my safety, Trowa. I choose to do this, remember? I'm a doctor first and foremost."
Trowa reached out and laid a hand on her arm, "Quatre…"
"You're supposed to be watching him. Yes, I know that, Trowa." Iria stopped, her mind suddenly putting the facts together. Blond hair. He was standing in front of the injured man so she couldn't see him.
Oh God, no.
The blond groaned again, his eyes fluttering before he croaked out a single word. "Trowa?"
Cat? Iria pushed Trowa to one side, brushing her brother's hair off his forehead gently with her shaking hand. "It's all right, Cat. I'm here." Iria shot Trowa a glare, as she ran a practised medical eye over Quatre. "What the hell do you think you were doing? You're supposed to be watching him, keeping him safe. Not allowing him to end up like...like this."
"It's not his fault, Iria." Quatre cut across her thoughts, his voice no more than a whisper. "It was mine. If I hadn't…" He paused. "Iria? You knew Trowa was watching me?" The tone wasn't accusing, but instead more curious. Quatre glanced around the surgery, his brow creasing. "Trowa? Are we safe? Are you all right?" The fear in her brother's eyes visibly lessened as his eyes took in the presence of the other man.
"I'm fine," Trowa reassured him. "You fainted, and I brought you here. You needed a doctor, Quatre, and Iria is the only one we can trust." He turned to Iria. "His wound had been seeping for some time before we discovered it. I think the bullet has only grazed him, but I’m no expert."
Deciding the questions could wait for later, or at least until she'd made sure his initial assessment was correct, Iria gave him a nod. "No, you're not. Hand me my bag, and I'll take a look." She fixed Quatre with the glare she reserved for difficult patients – she knew him well enough to know he could be extremely stubborn once he set his mind on something. "Explanations later."
Quatre opened his mouth to argue, but then winced, laying his head back down on the pillow. "Later," she told him, hoping she sounded more in control then she felt. Calm down, Iria, she repeated a few times silently. Her mind went back to what her teachers had taught her in medical school regarding techniques to help relax when a doctor felt anything but. She hadn't needed to do this in years. But then she'd never had to treat her brother for gun shot wounds before, either.
Gun shot wounds? Some protector Trowa had turned out to be. When Quatre's injury had been dealt with, she was going to give the young man a piece of her mind. Iria hadn't told the resistance to keep an eye on her brother for this to happen. The undercover operative was supposed to seek assistance once Quatre's doubts about the project had reached the stage he could be approached, not try to take on the local Gestapo by himself.
"A.B.C," Iria said under her breath, working her way through the basics. Airways okay obviously, or he wouldn't be asking awkward questions. Iria took Quatre's hand in her own, and listened to his pulse - fast and thready, probably due to blood loss, though not as bad as it could have been. Chest moving symmetrically – she placed her stethoscope on his upper chest, listening for a few minutes before nodding. Strong heart beat in the right place. So far, so good. "You acted well," Iria threw a glance of approval in Trowa's direction. "Keeping him warm was the best you could have done under the circumstances." She noted the makeshift field dressing. "Pressure on the wound. Good. At least it would have helped prevent further blood loss." Iria frowned. Why hadn't Quatre noticed he'd been shot? And more importantly who was the bastard who had pulled the trigger?
"Sorry, Cat, this might hurt." Iria removed the dressing cautiously, ignoring the sudden hiss of pain from him. "Graze through the muscle; it appears to have missed the bone and vessels. You're very lucky, little brother."
Quatre made a slight noise of disgust, and Iria couldn't help but smile slightly. He hated it when she called him that, but this time it wasn't her problem; he had to learn there were consequences for worrying her like this.
Motioning him to be silent, Iria shook her head. "Very lucky. What calibre was it?" Quatre glared at her through clenched teeth.
"Luger 9mm." Trowa informed her calmly. Standard issue Gestapo? She was definitely having that chat with him, and sooner rather than later. The idea of the Gestapo firing at her brother was disturbing to say the least.
"I've seen the results of those weapons before," she replied, putting on her best lecturing tone. "A 9mm round to the shoulder will cause a huge amount of bruising, ruin most of the muscles, break most of the bones, and probably tear several large vessels. If that had happened, little brother, you would have bled to death in minutes, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"You wouldn't be having this conversation you mean," Quatre's hand gripped the side of the bed tightly, and he took a sharp breath.
"When I say lucky, I mean lucky." She examined the wound more closely, her mind working through the list of what she had on hand as she decided what use to sterilise and clean it with. "Don't argue with the doctor, Quatre."
Quatre looked shamefaced for a moment. "Yes, ma'am," he said, wincing again as she continued her examination. He was pale, and trembling slightly. Delayed reaction to what had happened, most likely.
"This looks and feels a lot worse than it is." Iria frowned, then gave him a small smile, before indicating a bottle on the shelf above her desk. "Trowa could you pass me the seventy percent surgical spirits solution, please, and the small tin next to it? Thank you." Quatre followed her eyes, and pulled away slightly from her touch. He knows what's coming, she realised, remembering the time he'd been here when he'd been younger and had watched her clean out a small child's badly infected wound. Quatre hadn't reacted well to the blood or the little girl's reaction. She'd been terrified and the procedure had upset him as much as her patient.
"I have to clean this, Cat," Iria told him. "If it gets infected it is going to become a problem." Iria swallowed. Now wasn't the time to lie to him. "And this is going to hurt. I'm sorry." She turned to Trowa. "Do you think you might have been followed?"
Trowa nodded, handing her the medical supplies. "I hope not, but it's likely, yes." He paused, before laying a hand gently over Quatre's. "It's important you don't make any noise. If you cry out and are heard, it will make it easier for them to find us."
Quatre grasped Trowa's hand firmly. "I'll…try. But…" He looked scared, and she didn't blame him. The poor boy was out of his depth; none of his life experiences or anything he'd read could have prepared him for the reality of what he'd gone through since she'd seen him at breakfast that morning.
Reaching into her medical bag, Iria brought out a leather strap. "Bite down on this when the pain gets bad," she suggested, observing the body language between the two young men with a raised eyebrow. Did this suggest what she thought it did? Pushing the idea away, she gave Trowa further instructions. "You'll have to be prepared to restrain him if need be. I need him to be still if I'm going to do this properly. Hold his hand, Trowa. Talk to him. Obviously he's taking some comfort from your touch. Use it to help him focus, to distract him from the pain."
Trowa nodded, moving closer to her brother. "Quatre…" he began, but Quatre gave him a small smile through gritted teeth and corrected him.
"Cat. Call me Cat…please." Iria almost dropped the leather strap she was handing to Trowa. Quatre was giving the other man permission to use that name? The only person he allowed to call him Cat was herself. She remembered the reasoning he'd given as she busied herself cleaning his wound.
"When you use that name I feel as though you accept me for who I am. I don't have to hide behind the facade of being who everyone expects me to be; I don't have to pretend any more." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "It's the name I like to imagine Mama would have called me. It's…special."
Quatre tensed as she carefully poured the sterilising solution over the open wound. It wasn't too deep but was still going to require packing. Iria nodded towards Trowa who was watching Quatre, his hand strengthening its grip around that of his friend.
"Iria tells me you play the violin…Cat." Trowa gave her brother a wistful smile before continuing. "I used to play the flute, but I haven't for a while. Maybe when we get through this, we could play something together. A duet."
Another musician. Interesting.
Iria hoped for Trowa's sake that he was telling the truth – she knew Quatre would want to hold him to that promise. His own love of music had taken second place to his work for far too long now. She missed the vibrant sounds of his violin in the house, the way he could touch her deep within with a touch of his bow against the strings. How could Quatre ever have followed a path leading him to being partially responsible for the creation of such a dangerous weapon of death? Somewhere you stopped listening to yourself - and what was right, she realised sadly. Hopefully if he got out of this alive, he could find his way out of the desert and back to the oasis he'd once called life.
Biting down on the leather strap, Quatre's eyes glazed over as he attempted to distance himself from the pain. Trowa continued speaking softly, but she couldn't make out all the words. She thought she recognised one or two - they flowed almost as though they were sung, not spoken, and Quatre began to calm, his eyes closing as he anchored himself with, and took solace in Trowa's voice.
Quickly finishing her task, Iria liberally sprinkled sterile sulphur powder into the wound with a silent prayer, before packing it with pre-prepared cotton gauze. Finally she bound it firmly with clean dressings, and hoped for the best. If it didn't become infected, he should be all right. He had to be all right.
Trowa grew silent after Quatre slipped into sleep, watching her carefully, although it was difficult to tell what thoughts were going through his mind. "Thank you," he said quietly. "He should be all right if the dressings are changed regularly and the wound is kept clean?" Even though it was phrased as a question, it sounded more like a statement. Trowa saw her reaction, and continued quickly. "We have to go, Iria. It's only a matter of time before they track us. I’m sure the dogs would have picked up our trail by now, and we don't want to place you in any more danger than we have to." He glanced towards Quatre, disengaging his hand from the other man's. Quatre stirred in his sleep, his brow creasing into a small frown, then settled again. "He would never forgive himself if something happened to you. I think we both know that." Trowa paused. "And I'm not prepared to run that risk either."
You know my brother a lot better than I ever gave you credit for, Trowa Barton. Iria nodded, then reached out her hand draw Trowa closer. "My brother trusts you, Trowa. If you do anything to betray that trust, I'll hunt you down and kill you myself. Do I make myself clear?"
Trowa attempted to pull away but she tightened her grasp. "I would never do anything to hurt him," the brunet promised.
"Not intentionally," Iria agreed. "Just be careful, be very careful. Quatre…he's got a hard path ahead of him, and I'd like to know he's not going to be alone." Did Trowa understand what she was trying to tell him? It was too dangerous to put what she wanted to say into words, but she suspected Trowa had a good understanding what she meant. Iria knew her brother well enough to know what inner demons he must be fighting – hopefully this time he'd find the courage to make the decision he needed.
Trowa glanced over at Quatre again, then spoke softly, the tone in his voice similar to when he'd spoken to him about the music, and the hope they might get the chance to play together. "I'll protect him with my life," he said. The silence hung between them for a few minutes until the young man spoke again. "We need to go."
"I understand." She wouldn't ask where they were going. It was safer for all concerned if she didn't know. The Gestapo couldn't retrieve information from her that she didn't know. "Trowa, I believe one of the doctors still on late duty leaves his keys in his car. If someone were to borrow that car…well let's just say he's been very lucky so far." Iria motioned him to wait, while she quickly got together the medical supplies he'd need and handed him a small duffel bag.
Nodding his appreciation, Trowa swung the bag over his shoulder before bending to lift her sleeping brother into his arms. "Thank you."
Iria walked towards the door, opening it slowly to check it was safe for them to leave, then gave him a quick nod of confirmation. "Both of you take care," she told him, giving Quatre a quick kiss on the cheek. Iria paused, and then asked him one last question before saying goodbye, maybe forever. "What did you say to Quatre before to calm him? It wasn't German, was it?"
Trowa wrapped the blanket Quatre had been lying on more firmly around the blond before answering. "It was French. A poem my sister used to recite to me when I couldn't sleep as a child. I thought it might help."
I think it helped more than you realise. Iria watched them disappear into the night. Take care, she thought. May God go with you. Both of you.
Heero edged closer to the café, cursing under his breath. Why the hell had Merquise decided to return? The building had been swarming with Gestapo for the last ten minutes and he still hadn't been able to ascertain whether Duo was all right, or even still in the building. You're a fool, Yuy, he chastised himself. A fifty-fifty chance as to which was the better entrance to watch, and he'd made the wrong choice.
The German soldiers' first priority had been Winner and Barton. The logical assumption had been that if they did return - even though that scenario was highly unlikely - he would have heard them approaching and would have been able to warn Duo in time. Merquise must have entered through the back door; making his way towards the café by foot - there'd been no sign of any vehicle – until the Gestapo had arrived in force, and by then it had been too late.
Voices sounded from the café, and Heero strained to hear what was being said. "He said what?" Merquise sounded annoyed, although there was an edge of disbelief in this voice.
"Winner said that the plans were incomplete, sir. He implied that we still needed him, and proposed that a trade…" The voice paused. "He proposed trading his services for Barton's life…Sir."
Merquise laughed. "That's an interesting proposition, although I doubt it would work in practice." His voice became very calm, and Heero shivered. "When we find the Herr Doktor I think we need to show him that the Gestapo do not trade with traitors."
A muffled cry of pain came from someone in the room - followed by a muttered "Go to hell." Duo. Heero raised his glasses again but it was difficult to ascertain what exactly was happening in the dimly lit building.
"I think you will change your mind about co-operating with us, priest," Merquise told the American pilot.
Duo's voice carried clearly across the still night air. "I don't have any information to give you." There was another muffled cry, then nothing.
Damn, he needed to know what was happening, but risking discovery wouldn't help Duo at this stage. The best plan would be to observe, then determine a suitable rescue plan, after rejoining the rest of his team. Heero couldn't achieve anything on his own. He was vastly out numbered, and out gunned, and he knew it.
"If you hurt Duo, you won't live to regret it, Merquise," Heero muttered under his breath, before taking cover as a transport truck pulled up in front of the building. "I will kill you slowly and painfully. That's a promise."
The door of the café swung open; two soldiers escorted a hunched over figure in black between them. Duo's arms were cuffed behind him; his feet dragging as though walking were an effort. The injured man stumbled and one of the soldiers prodded him in the ribs with the end of his rifle while the pilot struggled to regain his footing. Duo glanced around him, eyes darting in all directions as he desperately sought a way of escape. Heero stepped forward slightly, catching his friend's gaze, and attempted to give him a small smile. It came out more as a grimace, but Duo shook his head very slightly and mouthed the words 'leave me' before his eyes glazed over, and he turned away.
One of the soldiers butted Duo with his rifle again, before following his gaze, and Heero quickly took refuge in the shadows again. "Probably a good idea to admire the scenery, priest. I doubt you're going to see it again, once Merquise has finished with you."
Duo let out a small choked laugh. "May God have mercy on your soul, my child, because no else will." The soldier opened the door of the truck, pushing him roughly inside, before slamming it shut and starting the engine.
Duo might have given the order to leave him, but as far as Heero was concerned, he was no longer running this operation, and the original mission parameters had not changed.
Retrieve the plans, and return home.
Odin Lowe would have never left a colleague in the hands of the enemy and neither would his son. Heero stepped out of the shadows and tilted his head towards the sky, remembering the words Duo had used in St Michael's church earlier that day to outline the so called simple mission.
Meet the contact, retrieve the plans, head for home, giving the Nazis a good kick where it hurts if needs be, type scenario.
"I'll retrieve you along with those plans, Duo," promised Heero. "And we'll head for home, giving the Nazis a good kick where it hurts. And more if necessary."
"If there's anything else you require, Herr Bloom, be sure to let me know." Trowa gave a small nod of appreciation to the nun as she turned to leave the small room.
"Thank you, Sister. I…we appreciate the risk you are taking in allowing us to shelter here."
Sister Helen smiled. "God doesn't turn away those in need. Your friend needs a place to rest until he has recovered fully from his…illness. Until then you are welcome to stay." She paused in the doorway. "Sleep well. Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable using the bed in the room next door? You'd still be able to hear him if he wakes."
Trowa shook his head. "I'll be fine." It was important that he be here if Quatre woke. "Thank you for your concern. Good night." He watched her go, carefully closing the door behind her. Then he locked it with the key she'd given him, before extinguishing the only light in the room. Quatre had done very well to stay on his feet as long as he had. The sides of Trowa's mouth turned up into a small smile, as he recalled the events of the past twenty-four hours. You're a good man, Quatre Winner, he thought. Even though you need to learn to think of your own needs too. Iria had been right in her assessment of her brother. He was stubborn - and extremely strong willed.
Pulling the chair which would serve as his own bed for the night, closer to the small bed Quatre was occupying, Trowa puffed up the pillow Sister Helen had left him. He adjusted the blankets over his friend, ensuring the blond was properly protected from the cold night air, then brought his hand up to gently brush a stray lock of hair off Quatre's… Cat's face. Trowa knew that giving him permission to use that name had been an enormous step of trust on the part of the other man. Hopefully it had been the first of many to come. Iria had been right in urging caution. It was sad that the world had come to this; that it was dangerous even to admit the truth to those who needed to know.
The moonlight shone through the small window, illuminating Quatre's hair in its pale light. Trowa brushed his lips across Quatre's cheek, and the blond stirred in his sleep, smiling as though giving his approval to the act of affection, before wriggling further down into the blankets. The arm Quatre had tightly gripped around his pillow fell to lie limply at this side as he relaxed into deep sleep.
Trowa smiled, before settling himself into the chair, and pulling the blankets firmly around him. "Goodnight, Cat," he whispered, "Prenez soins, mon cher ami." [1]
[1] Take care, my dear friend.
While I was writing the first and last scenes of this chapter, I had the song "Touch of Your Hand" by Glass Tiger, playing on loop. The words are just perfect. *sigh.
This is the first in the seven part arc, "Echoes of the Rising Sun". I realise there are many unanswered questions at this point, particularly regarding the fate of Duo. These will be answered, in part, as the story continues in 'Sins of the Fathers'.
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