A/N: Blame for this one goes to my long time partner-in-crime, embrace-your-inner-dork, for getting me into G Gundam in the first place. In doing so, I adopted one of Jay's headcanons concerning Chibodee, and as a result this oneshot was born. You know the drill; I don't own Mobile Fighter G Gundam or any of the elements contained therein. I will tell you right now I watched the entirety of the series in the English dub, so any mannerisms and speech patterns, as well as names and references used by the characters reflect that specifically. Further, I did not create the cover piece for this story; that again, is Jay's lovely doing.

George de Sand wasn't known for his subtlety of action or his ability to keep his nose out of his friends' business. It wasn't that he lacked the social understanding regarding these matters; far from it! He had been raised in such a way he was expected to keep the very idea of knighthood alive. But George had never expected to make genuine friends like those he had found in the Shuffle Alliance, and part of him felt that the way in which he connected with them had to be fundamentally different from his connections in Neo-France's high society. Perhaps it could be considered an overstepping of personal boundaries, but when one of the others was struggling, he felt the need to reach out.

This time was no different.

He knocked on the door, more so to announce his presence upon arrival than to ask permission for entry. Without waiting for any sort of response, he turned the handle and pushed the door inward slowly. Taking a few tentative steps, he entered partially and peeked in, spotting the person he was searching for sitting in the gloomy half-light. The other man glanced up as he entered and looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment.

"Chibodee? May I come in?"

"Well, you're halfway through the door anyhow," the American fighter replied dryly. "Might as well."

He stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind him. "Are you alright?"

"'course I'm alright," Chibodee answered a little too quickly, not meeting his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

George frowned, crossing his arms. "So then you just bolted out of the room and came here, where you're not likely to be disturbed, just because you felt like it?" he asked. The plastered fake smile on the boxer's face slid off and gradually morphed into a suspicious, irritated scowl.

"You got a problem with that?" Chibodee demanded. "Maybe I just wanted a breather."

George lifted his brows in challenge. "By a breather, you mean an escape from the topic before everyone tried to force you to answer the question?" he retorted. When Chibodee opted to chew his lower lip instead of answering, he continued, "My guess is right, isn't it?"

There was a fierce, green-eyed glare. "Why don't you mind your own business, Neo-France?"

George inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing back the indignation at the remark. He knew what he was asking about and this response confirmed his suspicion about Chibodee feeling uncomfortable at the topic of conversation.

It had started out innocently enough. Elated at the chance to reunite with one another, the new Shuffle Alliance had gathered together in the dining hall at a public hotel, eager for the chance to catch up. After a time with one thing and another, the topic of conversation had eventually shifted to the crests they'd inherited and the title passed down to them from the previous Shuffle Alliance.

Naturally Domon hadn't much questioned his position as the King of Hearts. He had been given the crest by his martial arts instructor, Master Asia, and his view of the resulting role it thrust him into was rather cut-and-dry. Sai Saici had leaped into the discussion with unbridled enthusiasm, smarmy and cocksure that his position of Ace of Clubs meant he was the best.

"The clubs mean power and strength in suits of cards, right?" he challenged. "And obviously the Ace is the best! I'm pretty sure I know what that's supposed to mean."

George had been rather surprised that the teenager knew anything about suits of playing cards, but had barely given voice to his astonishment before Sai turned right around and demanded to know Argo's thoughts on being the new Black Joker. Of course, if anyone had expected to get a prolific or clear-cut answer from the Neo-Russian fighter, they were disappointed in short order; Argo's commentary was as short and cryptic on this as it was on anything else. And then, perhaps a little too conveniently, Chibodee had suddenly announced a pressing need to dash off to the bathroom, making a vague remark that he would try to make it back to the table if his team didn't corner him first.

George was instantly suspicious. It wasn't like the boisterous American to avoid the opportunity to compete with the rest of them in any way. The young knight's instincts told him that something was up, but none of the others seemed to notice, or if they did, they gave no sign of it. Instead he had risen to the occasion to distract from Chibodee's sudden absence and waffled through a vague statement about being the Jack of Diamonds. He was unable to distract himself from speculating over his friend's reaction though, and resolved to find Chibodee and figure out what was wrong later.

I was right, he thought now. Our discussion was seriously getting to him. But why?

He had one suspicion. A hunch, really. Throwing caution to the wind, he gave it voice.

"Does this have anything to do with you inheriting the position of the Queen of Spades?"

Chibodee's eyes narrowed as he unconsciously covered the crest on his right hand. "No," he shot back sharply. George raised his eyebrows in disbelieving challenge, and after a second, Chibodee conceded, "Maybe."

"Very well," the Frenchman spoke cautiously. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was entering dangerous territory. "Then, may I ask why?"

Silence fell again, but this time it was am important sort of quiet, accentuated by the measuring stare Chibodee fixed him with. After a long moment, his friend spoke, but what he said was hardly what George had ever expected to hear from him.

"I want you to swear on your honor as a knight," Chibodee declared. "I want you to swear that anything said here doesn't leave this room. It stays between us until I'm ready and comfortable with telling other people."

The redhead's mouth fell open in surprise.

"Can ya do that for me, George de Sand? As my friend, can you swear ya won't tell anyone?"

He exhaled his breath, struck by the weight of the other man's words. The Shuffle Alliance had already gotten some measure of each other a short while ago in the Guyana Highlands; Chibodee had to know just how serious it was for George to swear an oath on his knighthood. If he was going to ask this of George, then whatever it was that was bothering him had to be incredibly serious.

A deep inhale, a slow exhale. His honor as a knight, huh? He could risk that much for a friend.

"Very well. I, George de Sand, knight and Gundam fighter of the proud nation of Neo-France do so swear, by my blade and my honor as a knight that anything discussed here between us shall henceforth not leave this room by my doing," he declared, saluting with a fist over his heart. Technically it felt somewhat crude and informal, but Chibodee would understand the sentiment and that was what mattered. For good measure, he added on, "At least until you're ready to share any of it with others."

Relief showed in the American's bright green eyes and he relaxed his posture a little more. "Thank you," he mumbled. "I'm glad I've got a friend like you, Neo-France."

"Likewise. Now, please… what's bothering you so much?"

There was a long silence in which he waited patiently for an answer as Chibodee stared at the floor, weighing his words most likely. Just when George was beginning to think he wasn't going to talk, his friend lifted his fist, staring at the crest beginning to glow on the back of his hand. The broad outline of a spade was just visible as Chibodee's mouth twisted bitterly.

"What's bothering me? Just look at this thing. It's mocking me. I feel like this is some cosmic joke. It's like the universe is freakin' laughin' at me," he scoffed.

"Joke?" George echoed. "What do you mean, the crest is mocking you?" Eyes hooded beneath angrily narrowed brows snapped up to glare at him.

"Don't pretend you don't know what 'queen' implies."

George raised a break, frowning. Apart from the obvious textbook answer, he had heard of only one other application for the term. Following that line of reasoning, he suddenly suspected this might be going somewhere completely awkward and that he wasn't suitably experienced to respond properly.

"I… have some notions of things it could mean," he answered, measuring his words. Is he trying to tell me he's a drag queen? Is he gay? Is this a coming-out confession of some kind? Or… was the previous Queen of Spades any of those things? he wondered. Does Chibodee know anything about his predecessor? Is that what's bothering him? "Why? Does this have anything to do with your predecessor?"

"Huh? Predecessor?" Chibodee echoed , momentarily puzzled. The light of comprehension shone in his eyes a second later. "Oh! You mean the previous Queen of Spades?"

"Yes. Did you learn anything concerning him that worries you?"

Chibodee furrowed his brow, uncertain. "No," he replied, shaking his head. A moment later the bitter expression returned as he clutched his right fist. "Be honest, Neo-France… what is actually the first thing that comes to your mind when someone talks about a queen?"

He still felt challenged, like he was being dared to try talking about drag queens. Still, Chibodee did ask for his honest thought. "A woman from a monarchy, typically the one in power," he answered. "That also applies to the playing card decks we still use today. Each suit has a Queen."

A mirthless smile twisted the other man's lips. "Like I said, it's the universe's idea of a joke, mocking me." Chibodee uncovered his right hand and turned his wrist so he could look down at his crest. "Like it just needs a chance to throw some shade over my entire career. Feels like it's laughing, just telling me 'hey, Crockett, you big phony; no matter how hard you try and how many people you fool, you're never gonna be good enough because you're not a real man.'"

The words fell into the empty space, slamming into the floor with such angry, damning assurance it left George stunned. Unfolding his arms, he asked uncertainly, "W-what… what exactly are you saying…?"

Chibodee sucked in a breath sharply and shoved his fists into the pockets of his blue jeans, shoulders hiking up nearly to his ears. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, like he couldn't look George in the eye.

"I… I wasn't born a guy, George." His voice was so soft it bordered on a whisper. "The original name on my birth certificate was Chelsea Crockett."

'A hush profound' were words the young knight had read in poetry and scripts, and heard some of the Neo-European aristocracy use, but in that moment he experienced them firsthand. Chibodee couldn't have just said what George thought he did… could he? Was he just messing with him? No… no, he was too upset and grave about what he was proclaiming. Nearly panicking, George racked his brains trying to make sense of the matter.

If I recall correctly, there was something in history archives about how sex change operations began in Europe in the 1930s and later grew to be more commonplace in the United States of America. Has Chibodee had such an operation then? He glanced at his friend again, trying to see if there were any recognizable feminine qualities in the Neo-American fighter, but a breath later, he decided it was pointless. Insofar as he could tell, Chibodee was all man and arguably far more masculine in appearance than he himself would probably ever be.

It doesn't matter, he told himself stoutly. Regardless of any of that, he's your friend. One of your only friends, if not your best friend at that! Chibodee is Chibodee and he always has been.

"When I was younger I had to figure out ways to hide the obvious giveaways that I was born a girl," he suddenly spoke up, the words tumbling out of his mouth like they'd been waiting for the perfect opportunity to escape. "I got good at it; I had no choice. If anyone I beat in a fight found out, it would have been hell. Then the guys from the colony scouted me. They wanted an underdog star, a new unknown to take title for the championship. Heh, the good ol' U.S. of A. has always loved our rags-to-riches underdogs."

George was unable to hold back a small smile; Chibodee was on the money with that one. The citizens of Neo-France were proud of their nation's grace and traditional elegance and often scorned Neo-Americans for being such an impulsive, scrappy people. And yet even so they admired their Neo-American cousins for that same underdog staple, that bold, undaunted dream everyone in America shared in their bright hope. And Chibodee Crockett was the very embodiment of that.

"My talent manager—my first one, that is—knew. Paid for the gender-reassignment operation and kept it on the downlow. Fed the tabloids and gossip rags some b.s. story about my needing an extended recovery from appendicitis or something. Nobody was any the wiser or pried too deep."

George worked to find his voice, asking the only thing that came to mind. "Does… does anyone else know? About this?"

Chibodee spun on his heel and faced away. Somehow his shoulders hiked up even higher than before, if that was possible. "Just the girls," he confirmed. "They can keep a secret. They're close; family, you know?"

"Of course," George agreed, rubbing an arm awkwardly. "I… Chibodee…"

"See what I'm getting at?" he grumbled bitterly.

"You believe that that's why you have the crest of the Queen of Spades..?"

The only response he received was a shake of the head, dismissive and emotionally conflicted. Chewing the inside of his cheek, George watched. It was something terribly wrong, seeing a friend in this state, much less a friend whose spirit stood nearly head and shoulders above them all. Small wonder Chibodee bolted from the conversation; it was doubtful he would want the rest of the Shuffle Alliance to see him like this.

So then… what can I do?

"Ya gonna tell me it's something else?" Chibodee snorted. "Some cosmic bond or connection to my predecessor? A sign that I'm the only one of the Shuffle Alliance who wasn't born a guy, so that should make me special somehow?"

"Actually…" George began, a thought occurring to him in that moment. "I've asked Raymond to help me research the origins and stories behind the crests, what their powers might be, why they were created, and what the criteria might possibly be for new wielders, and… I've been wondering if maybe the rank of the Queen of Spades isn't a way of signifying status of the second-in-command."

Chibodee's shoulders relaxed as he straightened up and turned around to look at him, green eyes wide. "Say what now?"

"Well, think about it," George urged, finally taking a seat in one of the chairs and spreading his hands open wide as he spoke. "In a deck of cards, most games that are played base power value on the notion that the kings hold the highest rank, with the queen as the second-highest." He inhaled and then blew it out, rolling his shoulders helplessly. "Maybe it's a way to maintain a chain of authority in the Shuffle Alliance, should the King of Hearts ever go missing for any reason."

Chibodee frowned in consideration, looking again at the floor as the wheels in his head turned. "Actually, I never thought about it being anything like that," he confessed.

George gave another helpless shrug. "Well, that's not to say it couldn't possibly somehow still link us to the previous crest wielders. There's always the possibility that the crests are passed down to an individual based on a certain criteria beyond leadership ability. If that's the case though, I've not found any evidence solidly proving it."

He trailed off, unsure what else to add. A long pause opened up again between them, though this was less tense than before. After several long moments, Chibodee finally spoke again.

"So... do ya hate me now? Knowing the truth?"

"Hate you?" George echoed incredulously.

"Yeah, you know," the other replied, looking away while making a very pointed sniff with his nose. "For... pretending to be one of the guys or whatever."

"Pretending? Preposterous!" George got to his feet, crossing the distance and putting a hand solidly on his friend's shoulder. "You've always been one of us since we met. I've never seen you as anything other than a man."

"And now?"

"You're still Chibodee, aren't you? You're a man, aren't you?" he challenged. "We're brothers-in-arms, like the three musketeers and d'Artagnan."

Chibodee looked up, blinking in surprise. After a second he smiled. It was a small, sad sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. "'All for one and one for all', right?"

George grinned toothily. "That's right."

"I read too, ya know." After a second, he reached out and pulled the Frenchman into a crushing bear hug.

"A-ack..." the redhead just managed to choke out, trying not to squirm too terribly. Heaven have mercy, he felt like his ribs might crack under the pressure. "W-what's this for?"

"Thank you, George de Sand," Chibodee declared, a slight wobble in his voice. "Thanks for being my friend. You have no idea what it means to me that you're still my friend after that."

After a bit of wiggling, George got a hand free and awkwardly patted him on the back. "Th-think nothing of it. Though, if you could loosen your grip a little—"

"Oh, right right! Sorry."

"Don't mention it. I hope you know though, I'm probably going to have a lot of questions."

Chibodee nodded, rubbing the back of his fist against his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Just don't go talking to anyone else about it, okay? Raymond's fine if he won't say anything—"

"Not if I ask him not to, he won't. Like your admirable team of young ladies, he's a fellow who understands the need to keep things a secret. But I promise you, Chibodee, on my honor as a knight and the bond of our friendship, I won't say a word to anyone else. And I'm here to help in any way I can... er, once I know a little more, of course."

The Neo-American smiled, and finally truly relaxed. "Thanks. You're a great ally, Neo-France, in more than one way."