Disclaimer: Just letting everyone know (if they didn't know already!) that I don't own a single thing that pertains to Gundam Wing. I do however own this very AU plot as well as two of my original characters and my bad guys. And I also don't own this title. The words of the title that is. It's from my favorite Rob Thomas song.

Summary: Quatre is a known telepath, but when his strange powers start evolving, they draw the attention of some not so good people. (the wording of this summary will probably change—hope it's good enough!)

Rating warning: There is 3x4 in this, but that doesn't mean there are any hardcore scenes—unless you consider light kissing (like on the forehead) hardcore! And I suppose I could say 1+2+3+4+5 because they all get along. And at the end if you really squint and look extremely hard you might see 1x2 (even though I don't some might ).

The night was cold. With clouds covering the midnight sky, there wasn't even a moon or stars to light the way. His chest hurt. He had been running from his attackers for over an hour now. Holding back his coughs as he sprinted around the corner, he heard other footsteps hitting the wet pavement. Footsteps other than his own. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment wishing he could just wake up from this nightmare. He snapped them open again suddenly though as he felt himself pitch forward. The small hole in the ground had tripped him up. Throwing his hands forward, he tried to stop his face from smacking into the ground. He wasn't fully successful though. Gingerly he touched his forehead and felt the warm blood from the new gash he had there. He ignored it and took two heaving breathes before pushing himself up again. He shakily stood and moments later began to run again. After another 20 minutes, he rounded a slippery corner into a short alleyway. He leaned his head against the cold, wet brick and tried desperately to get air into his lungs. It sounded more like high pitched wheezing, but he was trying hard to remain quiet. Clearing his mind, he forced himself to calm his breathing and listen. No pursuing footsteps could be heard. All of a sudden he heard a fwip fwip fwip…then a sickening thwack. The boy had turned to find the source of the noise.

Now the knife was embedded to the hilt in his chest.

With his back pressed up against the brick wall, his knees began to give way. He felt his butt hit the ground. Yet he couldn't take his now fright widened eyes off the corner of the alleyway. This is where his attacker stood. Whoever it was, was wearing a floor length cloak covering their large body. The face was covered in shadow—no identification could be made.

To the boy, the night was becoming increasingly darker—especially around the edges of his vision. There was only way slight possibility at survival. He must not be taken prisoner again. Closing his eyes and fighting to control the pain, he feigned unconsciousness. Then by controlling his breathing and heartbeat he willed them to stop. Therefore faking his own death. The madmen hadn't been able to take away all of his powers. This was such an instinctual one, it would've been near impossible to take it away from him. In this state, he could still hear his surroundings, but that was absolutely it. It wasn't possible to keep it up for more than 3-4 minutes though at the most. Or else he could risk brain damage.

"The kid is dead," a harsh, deep male voice spoke up from the corner. It sounded strangely familiar. The young man could only imagine this was his attacker. The voice seemed to match his attacker's physical description. Another voice, this one also deep and cunning replied,

"Go make positive. We need no mistakes." A rough hand suddenly touched his neck and felt for the pulse he thought he had taken from the boy.

"Yeah, the kid is dead. The knife hit him right in the heart. Right where I aimed. We should've done this in the first place" the threatening voice stated.

"What are we going to do with the kid now? We have no use for a cadaver!"

The boy wished they would hurry up. His time limit was slowly depleting. Coins were suddenly sprinkled on his lap.

"What are you doing with that money!" the second deep voice asked dangerously.

"Placing it on the body. Whoever comes by here later will think it was a simple robbery that went wrong," the other voice said deadpan.

"Finish and let's go. It's cold out tonight," the second voice commanded. Listening with still keen ears, the boy listened to the footsteps leave the alleyway and splash through the puddles on the roadway. After he deemed them out of earshot, he slowly began his heart again and breathed precious oxygen into his lungs. Then the pain struck him. He gasped and arched his back in an attempt to futilely escape from the pain.

The knife wound in his chest was like a fire exploding in his chest. He wanted to remove it, but a voice in the back of his head told him that would cause more damage. His only chance of survival would be to find the others. He needed to get to them. Weakly, he pushed himself to his knees. Once on his hands and knees, his choked cries of agony mixed with his tears on the cold unforgiving ground. Coughing suddenly racked his slight frame and he coughed up blood on the pavement. It mixed freely with the rain and his tears. He needed to get up. If there was any chance of survival, this was it—getting to his feet. Struggling he placed his left hand on the brick wall as a sort of support. His wound flared once more at this movement and he grimaced as he tried to fight back his cry. His eyes were squeezed tightly against the immense pain. He finally pushed himself vertical and put one foot in front of the other. He walked sloppily, staggering with every step. He made his way out of the alleyway and looked both ways. He didn't know which way would get him out of the small town he was in. Now he had tears of panic as well as ones of pain—panic because he needed to get out quickly but was lost. He wished he still had his powers—then he could call the others to him. Futilely he tried to make contact with them, but he didn't feel the familiar tingle of their presence.

Shivering and panting, he made his way slowly down the now cobblestone street. His once loose white shirt was now red and clinging to his wet and bloodstained chest and back. It offered absolutely no warmth. Similarly, his linen green pants were too covered in a mix of blood and water. His boots had been taken from him so he had been all this way in bare feet. He knew they were horribly torn up and most likely bleeding but the knife wound in his chest was taking all of his attention.

His vision began going black so he blinked a few times. It cleared but the world was still tilted at an unusual angle. With a light thump, he fell to his knees. His body felt like giving up on him, but his mind screamed otherwise. One last time he pushed himself to his feet and began his stumbling again. He got only another 15 feet before the pain took him to his knees again. Breathing heavily, he placed his hands down on the ground too. He slowly felt himself losing his consciousness—he tried to stop it but his body wouldn't comply. With a convulsion, he fell to his side with his back up against a wall, and before his eyes slid shut, he whispered, "Trowa…"

"Why does she ask me to go out and get apples at midnight. For goodness sakes, next time I'm going to be the one to get pregnant," the young man of 26 grumbled as he strode down the road of the small town. The walk was dark and slightly rainy, but he entertained himself by juggling the three apples he held in his hands. His black cloak started to whip around his knees as the wind began to pick up. He ceased his juggling and began walking quicker. He tied his cloak around his neck tighter to block out the weather. Something caught his eye. There was a small bundle curled up on the sidewalk. The man walked by. Taking a quick glance, he realized it was a human being laying there. 'Stupid night to fall down drunk. They need to shut down that tavern,' the man thought to himself. He walked a few steps further before stopping. He, in all good conscious, just couldn't leave that person to the elements. Deciding quickly, he went over to wake the person up and tell them to get to shelter. He knelt down in front of the person, put his apples down on the ground, and gripped the unconscious person's shoulder. After giving the shoulder a shake, a small moan of pain escaped the small figure causing the older man to look at him quizzically. Gripping the shoulder tighter he slowly began to roll the younger person on to his back.

He gasped and quickly took his hand away to cover his mouth when he saw the knife extending from the bundle's chest. "Dear spirits…" he whispered. It was then he noticed the small pool of blood he was kneeling in and that the victim was only a young boy. He couldn't have been older than 16. With a mop of curly blond hair that went down to his ears, soaked with rain and edges tinged with blood. The face was pale white and twisted in agony. In one swift movement, the older man whisked off his cloak and gently placed it around the young boy. Feeling for a pulse, he found a faint one and placing his hand to the boy's mouth, felt light breaths against the back of his hand.

He slowly stood up—fighting a moment of indecision. Here was this stranger, who had obviously been in some form of confrontation, and was very injured. But what if this young and seemingly innocent boy had been the aggressor? What if he was dangerous? Should he bring him back to the home where his pregnant wife waited for him? The slightly older man placed one hand on his hip and brought the other up to his chin. He weighed the possibilities, knowing full well that his taking his time could cost this boy his life. 'Well,' he thought to himself, 'Even if he was the aggressor, that knife wound will surely put him out of commission for awhile. He wouldn't be able to do any damage whatsoever. And by the spirits, I can't just leave him out here!'

With his mind made up, Michael kneeled back down in front of the boy. "All right, kid you're going to be fine. I'll take you back to my house," he tried to speak soothingly. He didn't know if the boy could hear him, he doubted it, but by speaking he relieved some of the tension he was feeling. As carefully as he could he lifted the boy and cradled him in his arms. The blond head lay limply against his shoulder and forgetting the three apples lying neglected on the ground, began walking toward his home.

TBC…

I'm not going to beg you to review, but if you'd like to feel free! And if anyone has any ideas for titles later on, feel free to suggest them. I'm not too good at titling things!