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Enjoy!

Poison One - Beginnings

Chapter One

Colonel Treize Khushrenada, scion of aristocratic blood as blue as his uniform coat, got to his feet, leaving his drink on the small table beside his chair, and began to cross the ornate ballroom of the Luxembourg base in graceful, measured strides. As he moved, passing through the lavishly dressed dignitaries without so much as a ripple, he exchanged polite nods but never once stopped to talk. At the far end of the room, he mounted the few stairs to one of the side entrances two at a time and pushed open the heavy, reinforced wood door to vanish into the chill of the October night. The ballroom, set as it was on the first floor, was surrounded on its two outside walls by expansive balconies overlooking the gardens and the mountains – balconies off-limits to the attendees of the ball for reasons of security.

Unless you were the twenty-three-year-old, titled, General of the Specials.

The door swung closed behind him and he took a moment to inhale the cold, clear air before walking the length of the balcony to the far corner. The view from here was spectacular, even in the early hours of the morning, but Treize wasn't inclined to notice as he gripped the wrought steel of the safety railing in his gloved hands, leaned forward and vomited into the gushing black water of the river below.

His stomach went into a spasm, lancing pain through his body as it tried to rid itself of contents it didn't have, and the strain caused a fine sweat to break across his skin, his vision fading to sparkles.

"Sir?"

Treize dug his fingers into the sharp edges of the metal as he fought to remain conscious, somehow warmed by the cool voice of the officer behind him.

The urge to faint ruthlessly suppressed, he turned around, rested the small of his spine against the railing, and tried to smile. "Your turn, is it?" he asked.

Zechs Marquise smiled beneath the silvery metal mask that hid the upper part of his face and stepped forward to hand his commanding officer a flask of water and a clean handkerchief of soft linen. "Lady Une is caught up with the diplomats from L4 and I believe she thinks any attempt to follow you, again, would be noticed. I am… less likely to be missed."

Treize nodded, folding the handkerchief and wiping it across his face before drinking the water to ease the burning in his throat. The liquid was chill relief as it flowed down, until it hit his stomach, where it immediately ended the temporary relief from nausea he had gained and began the build up to another such performance. "I believe I prefer your company anyway, my friend," he murmured.

Zechs, not for the first time, was glad of the mask he was forced to wear; between it and the gloom surrounding him, his reaction to such innocent words from the other man was well hidden. "How… do you feel, sir?"

Treize waved one long-fingered hand dismissively. "How many times must I ask you not to call me 'sir' when we are alone, Zechs? Such formality is… silly. Especially given the state I'm in."

"I am sorry, Treize. It's habit, by now. How are you feeling?" he repeated.

The older man sighed. "Truly? Terrible."

Zechs came a step closer. "I'm not entirely sure the Cognac you've been drinking all evening is helping," he pointed out gently.

"Ah, no, most probably not. But I thought the aim was not to give the game away – it would look more than passing strange if I were to sip water all night, would it not? I doubt I'm known for my temperance."

Zechs chuckled. "Likely not. You drink enough to shame any man."

"Practice, my friend, practice. When you have to face as much paperwork as I do, then perhaps you, too, will learn to appreciate fine – and strong – liquor."

"If I do, who will you find to help you to your bed?"

The young general smiled. "We should simply have to help each other. You will be eighteen in few more months – I have no intention of letting you pass your birthday without suitable celebration. It's a time-honoured tradition, and you may as well accustom yourself to the idea now."

For the second time in not so many more minutes, Zechs was glad his reaction was hidden. "Perhaps Lady Une would help us?" he offered.

Treize shuddered delicately. "What a dreadful thought!"

"What is?"

"The idea of allowing Une to see in me in such a state!"

Zechs scowled. "Is it? I had thought she was rather accustomed to seeing you in… less than formal circumstances?" The younger officer allowed his tone to convey the full weight of his meaning.

Treize gave a startled laugh, "My God! No! Where did you get that idea?"

"You and the Lady seem quite close. She has been most worried about you, tonight." Zechs chose not to mention that he, himself, was long past worrying, and had reached the point of outright fear.

Treize sighed gently. "The Lady is more than competent in her duties, however unusual they may be. She is a friend, nothing more."

Zechs took another step closer to the older man. "You've surprised me. I'd thought you and she were… lovers."

Treize raised one of his so-distinctive eyebrows. "Do you consider me so unprofessional?"

"Sorry?"

"To make a lover of a subordinate. Would that not compromise my authority – to become emotionally involved?" He thought for a second. "Although, perhaps, you do not think so?"

"No… I do," Zechs agreed, his heart beating erratically as he realised the death of a dream – he, too, was Treize's subordinate. "Why would I not?"

"Your Lieutenant Noin?"

The blond shook his head, a strand from his sheet of platinum hair falling over his shoulder. "Is a friend."

"Only a friend?"

Zechs smiled slightly. "I return your question."

Treize smiled outright. "Ah – delightful tactics. I will make a diplomat of you yet."

"I hope not!"

The senior officer laughed, the rare sound falling into the air between them. "Am I so cruel? I wouldn't do that to you. I have Une for paperwork – you, I need as a pilot."

"Good!"

Treize let his amusement bubble over a moment more and then pushed away from the frost-covered railing. "Charming as the evening is, I believe I must return inside."

Zechs frowned. "I wish you wouldn't."

"Why not? You told me once that you thought I suited such things."

"I was ten," Zechs replied, "and you do. But I…"

"Yes?"

"I cannot keep you safe in there."

"Would you want to?"

"Of course I would!"

"Zechs, it is as safe as anyone could make it."

"But not safe. One person, one bullet…"

"Such risks come with my job, my friend. I am well-used to assassination attempts."

"None so subtle as this morning's."

Treize re-draped his cloak over his arm. "No – true. This one was particularly well executed."

"Is that all you have to say? Someone tried to poison you and all you can say is that it was a well-executed plan? I am only grateful that it was not well-executed enough!"

"So am I – but I am fine. Can you not admire the type of person it must take to doctor my drink?"

"I will admire their corpse. Until then, you aren't safe. What was tried once will be tried again."

"I am aware of that. I have orchestrated my share of assassinations."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because to do anything else would be to allow them victory. If such attempts hinder my behaviour even slightly, they will become a means to my control."

"Allowing yourself to be killed would give them all of that and more. Anyone in that room could be hiding a weapon."

"It is not so great a risk. The mind which could conceive of tainting my wine would not stoop to something so sensationalist."

"If you were anyone else…"

"If I were anyone else, they would not have bothered," Treize put in.

"…You would have died," Zechs finished. "I couldn't taste the poison."

Treize shrugged. "The wine was bitter. Even a tasteless poison would have unbalanced a wine as delicate as that one. You may take it as a clue of sorts – I would have tried for my spirits."

"I wouldn't say that so loudly!"

"Oh, stop fussing! I am fine!"

"So fine that you need to leave an important state function to lose your dinner into the river?"

The general smiled. "As opposed to the flower beds?" he inquired.

"It isn't funny!" The younger man snarled and turned away.

Treize felt surprise wash through him. "Zechs?"

"You joke now, but you might have died this morning! I could not taste anything in your wine and neither could Lady Une."

"Neither of you is me."

"No – and between us we could have finished that bottle of wine and come to no harm. This assassin knows you, Treize. Knows things about you that I do not."

"It was only a matter of reading my medical records – my reaction to morphine is listed."

"And that is even more disturbing! Who would have access to your medical records?"

Treize shook his head, closing the distance between them. "Zechs, security will answer these questions, and my dignity, whilst suffering, will survive. I have left state functions to lose my dinner before and I am sure I will again. They have a habit of producing truly inedible food."

"Will you stop? I do not find anything about today amusing!"

"Not even that I am behaving like a cadet after his first drink?"

"No!"

"Zechs," Treize murmured, laying a hand on the other's shoulder and turning him gently around. "What would you have me do?"

"I don't know!"

"I cannot prevent people from trying, Zechs. I can only hope to survive their attempts. It is far more likely that you and I will go out in a blaze of exploding mobile suit."

"I don't want to think about that, either!"

"I am mortal. I have to die someday."

"Yes, but not yet! I have already lost one family to assassins!"

Treize stilled. For a moment the man before him was replaced with an image of the way he had first seen Zechs, ten years before: a wide-eyed, wraith-haired child with dirty skin and bloodied clothes. "Ah, is that the problem?" he asked, keeping his voice gentle.

Embarrassed, Zechs gave a single nod and tried to pull away.

Treize held him, those long fingers far stronger than the narrow bones looked. "Take this off," he instructed, using his free hand to indicate the mask the other wore.

"Why?"

"I want you to. No one will see."

Slowly, Zechs reached a hand to the edge of the mask and then hesitated, unwilling to reveal his face after so many months of keeping it hidden. Treize made a noise low in his throat and, with a gentle smile, pushed the younger man's fingers away to lift the helmet clear himself.

"I know why you have to hide," he murmured, setting it on the floor at his feet, "but I wish that you would leave it off occasionally. I do miss looking at you."

His left hand settled on the younger man's slender waist and drew him forwards.

Zechs tensed; Treize had been tactile as a youth – had frequently thrown his arms around his younger companion – but age and increasing rank had caused him to ruthlessly squash the tendency. The closest to physical contact they had shared in recent years had been the occasional brush of gloved fingers against sleeve.

"Let me, my friend. Then you will know I am alive."

Cautiously, the blond relaxed into the embrace.

Although Treize was sure that Zechs, at seventeen, had yet to reach his full height, for the moment the two of them stood eye to eye, and each could rest his head easily on the other's shoulder.

The younger man was warm in his arms, the fine wool of his uniform jacket soft against skin cooled by the chill air and by a day of ongoing illness. His hair, a mere shade or two darker than the snow covering the land around them, was heavy satin, carrying some indefinable scent.

Treize shivered and the arms holding him changed instantly from tentative to supporting.

"I don't want you to go back into that ballroom, but you shouldn't be outside…" Zechs murmured.

Treize shrugged. "I had little choice."

"You should be in bed," the blond continued.

Treize shook his head and stepped back. "All these references to my bed, Zechs… are you trying to proposition me?" he asked with a small smile.

The younger man stiffened instantly, his face becoming a mask without the aid of the metal. "I…"

Treize took a second step backwards, shaking his head, "Ah, no. I shouldn't have said that."

Zechs drew a deep breath, trying to still his whirling thoughts. For a moment he had thought…

He felt woefully off-balance tonight, shaken to the core by how near he had come to losing the older officer. In truth, he didn't think he could tolerate much more of Treize's verbal fencing and unintentional flirting, not without risking exposure.

The other man was waving his hand again, that elegantly dismissive gesture that could convey so much. "Do you know, I do believe I'm actually drunk!" he murmured. "So sorry, my friend. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"No, of course not. It's just that, well, you know how fast scandal can fly…"

"Yes, yes. Of course. It was a jest in poor taste and I apologise…"

They looked awkwardly at one another and then Zechs forced a smile. "It was worth it to hear you admit to making a mistake. 'Tis a rare event!"

"Indeed. You should be honoured! Now, I really must return to the ball. Shall I see you again before the evening ends?"

"That would entirely depend upon the whims of your stomach, would it not?"

"Ah, yes. Most likely you will, in that case. I shan't bid you good night now then…"

"No."

-------------------------------

Lady Une glanced across the room carefully, observing her superior officer without appearing to do so.

The evening was drawing rapidly to a close, with only the truly persistent – or the truly drunk – guests remaining. She calculated that it would take her another half an hour at the most to get rid of them all, but from what she could see, she had to wonder if that wouldn't be half an hour too long.

Her commander was a damn fine actor – consummate in his skill to appear his usual cool, elegant self regardless of the circumstances – but the façade was beginning to crack. He was sitting with Zechs, and had been for the last half hour – the two of them leaning over the small table Treize had occupied all evening, seemingly conducting a spirited conversation on some mutual hobby or other.

Une's sharp eyes hadn't missed the fact that it was Marquise who was doing all the talking and that he had set himself between his friend and any direct lighting, so that the general's too-pale face was perpetually in shadow. She watched covertly as some vapid diplomat's aide approached the two of them and was given polite but pointed brush-off by the blond.

She smiled. There was no love lost between herself and the young pilot – they were rivals in a game that neither of the men yet realised was being played – but she could trust him to look after the general when she herself was not able to.

She turned her attention to the man she was dancing with and began to work on getting him to leave.