We All Go the Same Way Home
by Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Much thanks to Alithea for offering up the challenge for me to write this and then giving it a read through. Much thanks to those people who originally created these characters, and then left them as obvious targets for fanfiction. Especially Nichol . . . who has so much potential. *hint*hint* I suppose I should put the rather regular "Nichol-overdose warning" on here . . . just in case. Enjoy.)
***
Now
***
He shifted gears in order to pass through the yellow light. Given the time of day, all of the traffic signals on the way to the lake were going to work against him. One extra stop wouldn't have made him any later for the rendevous, but Nichol knew the compounding aggravation was giving him nervous indigestion. Recklessly braking so that his tires squealed at the next uncompromising intersection, Nichol tried to untangle the pressure building behind his temples by drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel--just off beat from the heavy metal that he could hear more clearly without the wind rushing through the open windows.
"Damn." He cursed the green arrow, as he could see the lake directly ahead. The sun-toasted breeze carried the aroma of sand and the premonition of further anxiety.
Quite sure he'd left skid marks when parking, Nichol tried to exit the car with an appearance of grace even as two young women jogged past him. Smoothing back his hair for a moment, before letting the coarse curls settle into their wiry places. He did not hurry for other people. He did not lose his composure. He did not panic at the expense of others. He was not walking double quick toward the line of trees separating the beach from the bike path.
The shade brought immediate coolness to the sweat on his skin. He was still wearing the same cut off jeans and old t-shirt he'd put on for the afternoon's yard work which had been shortened by a telephone call. Dirt and weeds lined the muscle of his lower arms, and, as he slowed to a cautious trot, Nichol felt immediately self conscious that he had the lingering smell of freshly mowed grass and gasoline hovering over his clothes.
The wind blew the wisps of loosened hair away from her forehead, and she didn't look over but continued to stare at the lake as Nichol sat next to her on the bench. Her expression forever aloof and secure, which he expected but it made him no less frightened of her inner strength.
"I came. I'm late." He heard himself apologize, awkward with how easily the extra words slipped from his lips. How insincere they sounded from his inexperience, and how earnestly he meant them regardless, "I'm sorry, Sally."
***
Then
***
"You're late." Sally Po picked up her text book from the tabletop and continued to skim the assigned reading glancing at him from over the top. She continued to purse her lips together indifferently; although, she could hardly keep from smiling at her study partner's irritated expression. The library was just beginning to come alive as the last undergraduate students from the cafeteria were dismissed because breakfast was ending. Nichol was a prime procrastinator, claiming that his short term memory worked better and was just that--short term.
What made matters worse was that their degrees were a second for both of them, making them several years older than their classmates: children who had grown up during the war, but had not participated in it. Putting aside their differences (and using a great deal of good-natured patience on Sally's part), the two veterans had forged a small alliance understanding the strain of work and juggling the skeletons of one's past over top a mountain of school work.
"Late?" Nichol muttered, his tone good natured but weary, "Take that up with Une. She's the one who had me running the training scenarios for the field Preventers. Not like those little Gundam Pilots and friends need much in the way of training."
"Just because they survived as miscellaneous, yet vital mercenaries during the war: they were children. I'm sure your training is invaluable." Sally reassured as expected, while fighting back memories of elaborate pranks initiated by Agent Maxwell and almost always at Nichol's expense.
"I don't think they have any idea how valuable," Nichol propped his head up as he sat across from Sally, the pile of books he unloaded from his satchel were just the right height for a pillow. He let his head slip from the arm to rest his cheek against the mountain of philosophical text. "I just need to finish this degree that the military is paying for and go teach at the University. Then, then . . . everything will be perfect."
Sally did smile at his familiar mantra, "Yes, absorbing the text in through your ear is much more reliable than actually reading it. Hurry, so we can review. You do know that Professor Ripley is going to quiz us on the last chapter."
"I hate you." Nichol said toward the wall, and she noticed his face turn a richer shade of red.
"Don't shoot the messenger."
A few minutes later, Nichol spoke again. "You're chewing your pencil again."
Sally licked her lips a bit off guard as she set the mechanical pencil on the table. While she fancied herself intuitive about others, she would never have given Nichol credit for being as observant as he was if she hadn't spent so much time with him. Like most others, she'd been initially put off by his self-confident posturing which she more affectionately labeled "Nichol's Enormous Yet Endearing Ego." She wondered for a while if he had some deeply hidden insecurities, but, finding relatively none, Sally reasoned that Nichol had an universal justice meter that immediately separated people into two categories: unbearable fools and bearable fools. But even as he separated the sheep from the goats, Nichol did not arbitrarily dismiss the individual. He knew intimately and specifically why and what people annoyed him.
"You're chewing the end of your braid." He smirked in a gentle fashion that served to hide a more genuine smile, "Oral fixation, Sally?"
"Are you ever going to finish reading?"
***
"Please tell me there is something unwholesome and liquored up at this boring party." Duo Maxwell prowled toward the table where Nichol was trying to appear invisible. "Nicky! You're old enough for both of us. Please tell me they brought you something, a light beer . . . anything."
"I'm sure this is the sort of conversation you want our political supporters to hear." Nichol pointedly ignored the young man, addressing the ranking officer who was smiling around the rim of her wine. When Une said nothing, he turned to the blonde woman between them, "Sally?"
"I don't know why you're waiting for the first of the year." Duo flirted shamelessly, spinning an empty chair around so that he could balance his arms across the back of it. Somehow the braided youth made his fully decorated uniform seem as casual as if he were barefoot and trolling the beach for anything in a bikini. "Realistically, I might already be twenty-one. Just because I can't remember exactly when my birthday is . . ."
"He has a point." Sally's comment only fueled Nichol's agitation. But he suspected as much from her. She took every opportunity to tease him, but her attacks were immeasurably less hostile than others'.
"It's not like I can't handle the stuff." Duo's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Hornitos, Canicas, Porfidio . . ."
"Tell Howard I said you could have one. One." No sooner had Une made the offer than she was nodding her consent to the volunteer bartender across the hall.
With some effort for civility, Nichol vented, "You let these children have full reign over you, ma'am. I don't see how it brings about anything but disorder."
Une's eyes narrowed, "These are different times, soldier. The future can endure a little levity."
"Trust her." Sally interjected, letting her fingers rest lightly over Nichol's arm. Then she laughed, unexpected for the conversation but not unexpected for her temperament, "You two sound just like parents quarreling over something like curfew."
He tried not to think about how Sally's hand lingered, even as Nichol scanned the growing unruliness of the young Preventers with displeasure. Duo had an oversized, crude mug to his lips and sloshing most of the bright liquid into his mouth while the boys in particular egged him to continue. Hilde and one of the newer recruits, Dorothy, were standing close by and talking behind their hands. They were all wearing their Preventer's attire, but after the initial speeches and most of the diplomats had left a few buttons near their collars had been undone and Wufei had his jacket tied by the arms around his waist.
He was about to turn back to the conversation at the table, when he noticed Trowa Barton sitting with the rest, only he surveyed past the lively antics of his peers and was intently watching the older table. Nichol drew his brow into a frown and turned his back on his trainees. He spoke with exaggerated cheerfulness for the rest of the social gathering.
***
"Sir?"
"Not now, kid. I'm in a hurry."
Sally, however, paused when she heard Trowa's voice. She and Nichol were on their way out for that evening. They had the weekend to study for a Monday exam, but both of them regularly surrendered their Friday evenings to the text since the flexible Preventer schedule often had them working hours on the weekend they might not have otherwise expected.
Nichol continued another few feet, before he realized she had waited. After Nichol turned halfway, the determined jaw over clenched teeth startled her. Trowa must have noticed as well, since the younger man pulled up short to stay parallel to herself.
Watching the him curiously, she knew that she understood Trowa less than the other boys. Unlike them, Trowa often took weekend leave to visit the colonies since he still had strong familial connections to maintain. Sally felt closer to Quatre or Wufei who would often come to her office for entire afternoons simply to talk. Quatre said she comforted him since she reminded him of his sisters who also had medical backgrounds and could only visit infrequently as their time became available. Wufei, she suspected, came because he also felt comfortable with her. Perhaps only comfortable with her.
Trowa, therefore, had struck her as someone independently comfortable in any situation, but his indefatigable resolve seemed slightly cracked in just that moment. The boy fidgeted until he stuffed both hands into his back pockets, "May I have a word with you, sir?" Sally could almost hear the nervousness that she suspected even as she watched Trowa's face turn significantly pale under the olive complexion.
Nichol glanced at Sally sharply, as if trying to get an excuse from her.
"I can go on ahead." She smiled at Trowa hoping to offer reassurance, but wasn't certain that he shouldn't be on guard as Nichol thundered back, each of his foot steps echoing in the sterile hall. Offering a small avenue toward peace, Sally added, "I'll just bring the car around for you."
"We won't be long." Nichol said, then turned to confront Trowa with a strange expression close to frustration. With a start, she realized that an uncharacteristic twitch had strained the false smile Nichol tried to put on for her.
Her body hummed with curiosity all the way to the car and back. Even though, she felt a small measure of disappointment when Nichol was already waiting outside for her. No trace of Trowa was visible from what she could see through the side exit doors into the hall. Once Nichol was settled into his seat, she confronted him with her pressed intrigue.
"What did Trowa want?"
"Drive." Nichol leaned against the car door, then sighed heavily, " He simply has some peculiar notion that my opinion counts for something."
***
Nichol watched Sally closely as they drove away, but she never appeared to suspect anything. The relief released the vice grip around his heart and the organ began to pump normally again. Oxygen filled his system with calm regularity. He doubted that he attracted much attention at all, and Trowa Barton was more discreet than a monk under the vow of silence. But he wanted to say something to her, any understanding solely shared between himself and young Barton was enough to make his joints ache from stress.
During the war, Nichol felt that his life had been much more simple. Honor and, therefore, true self preservation came first. He never felt the confusion of loyalty brought by dividing factions. His world hinged on the universal scale of justice, black and white, order and disorder, not some self-oriented notion or quest for righteousness that tormented those like Wufei. Regardless, Nichol knew his clinically detached worldview would not naturally win as many friends as the Chinese boy's passion did.
The untethered dislike from a short few months on Barge was enough for Nichol to justify blasting the OZ traitor Trowa Barton from this life, except that they had unintentionally ended up on the same side using their redundant skills as soldiers within the Preventers. Only, feeling no special bond or usefulness to the new unit, Nichol was desperate to leave the first chance he got.
Staring out the car window, he remembered how the first confrontation came one evening when he had been stuck with an excess of paperwork in his office. Relatively new to the facility, Nichol had barely had time to socialize before rumors and opinions about the new instructor had shuffled through the Preventers. The first person to offer some degree of companionship, Trowa, had knocked on his door, and Nichol had to swallow the memories of rivalry and remind himself that the kid was an ally. Surprisingly talkative when he wanted to be, Trowa had rambled through some speech that Nichol suspected was rehearsed in content if not delivery. His gut reaction was to expect Duo Maxwell's Cheshire grin to seal some juvenile prank at any moment.
"I'm sorry, Agent Barton," Nichol had leaned forward on his desk, catching a strangely anxious gleam in the young man's expression, "Why aren't you discussing these matters with your friends?" Nichol waved his hand over the desk, "Unless you want to do my paperwork for me, are we done here?" As soon as he made the sarcastic offer, fear gripped Nichol that the boy would accept it simply in order to stay in the same room. Trowa's fingers were curled around the arm rest of the chair in a tight grip and his lips were froze in the middle of whatever he had been saying before Nichol's interruption. In a moment of clarity, Nichol felt a suspicion surface. Throughout training, Trowa had always been more receptive to new tactics and, compared to the others, he was surprisingly willing to adjust his strategy to Nichol's specific instruction.
Nichol rather insensitively mumbled, "You don't . . . fancy . . . me, do you?"
"No, sir." The reply was quite quick, although held every evidence of insincerity. Foremost, Trowa Barton's exposed and burning ears betrayed everything his veiled eyes did not.
As if feeling Une's omnipresence testing him, Nichol tried collecting himself to respond with every fiber of politeness he could muster, "Kid, there's a reason why I'm not popular here. My bad attitude. And if you haven't noticed, I'm already sick of this damn puppet army–even if it's got a few good people." His voice reached new levels of condensation, "Now we might have gotten along, except it wouldn't work out with me planning to teach the history of philosophy to college freshmen half-way across the world, now would it?" Then he hurriedly cut off the half-hopeful lightening of Trowa's eyes, with his own panicked conclusion, "Alright, this conversation is over."
"I'll gather from this that you're not interested in helping with the recreational soccer team, sir?" Nichol watched a tad puzzled, as Trowa seemed to have the upper hand, unfolding his lanky form from the chair and casting his shadow over the desk like a slender tree. After a moment, the retired pilot added, "You're not the only one who feels like he's in the wrong place, sir."
Nichol could feel the boy bottling up like aquifer water against him, "Trowa. Wait, I . . ."
"Don't apologize." Trowa breathed a small, indifferent laugh.
"I wasn't, I . . ." Nichol floundered a bit at the boy's magnanimity, trying to find a renewed sense of responsibility which he had momentarily lost.
Trowa surmised, "You still see me as a rival?"
"I see you as . . . something," Nichol had cast about for any comparison and found he'd never bothered to think that far about any of his relationships within the Preventers. He'd never intended to form any entangling relationships in order that he could eventually break free.
"Something . . ." Trowa had repeated, "Well, sir, for whatever it matters, I do like you."
The boy had slipped out then, almost as if he'd never come, except for the pounding headache Nichol felt forming just behind his eyes. He hated awkwardly uncertain situations, preferring to either bully the other party into retracting any unwanted declaration or deliberately taking charge and letting himself out. "Little punk." The tone of affection over the admonishment scared him most of all.
Distracted, his paperwork that evening had taken three times as long as normal.
Her voice brought him back from the daydream of memories while the car pulled up to her apartment where they had planned to study, "Nichol? You've been staring out the window forever."
He turned back, accepting the distraction from his wandering thoughts, and felt the warmth of Sally's curious smile as if he were basking in the sun.
***
An idea, once introduced, can become a powerful thing. Sally felt it's pull whenever she would think back to each slightly variable expression that passed over Trowa Barton's features. With growing certainty, she knew the boy had a crush on the Preventer's ill-tempered instructor. And that Nichol knew about it.
Nichol's darker personality had been held in check even though he was not happy in the peacetime uniformed position, but Trowa often carried the full weight of Nichol's frustration during training.
"Forgive me, Barton," Nichol snapped during one late afternoon, informal debriefing, "I do believe we lost you, Catalonia and Yuy on that last mission. Care to explain to the rest of us what went wrong?"
The electricity between their stares for the next moment could have crackled with unreleased power, Trowa, like the others, had removed most of the covert combat gear . . . a good portion of his hair curled into damp, frizzy ringlets and his arms and neck shone with sweat. "It appeared to me . . . sir . . . like our intelligence officer neglected to collect all the pertinent information regarding the infiltration. The fourth floor sweep was unsuccessful because the timing of the locks was inaccurate." The accusation lingered in the silence as Trowa swiped the back of his hand across his lips.
None of the others were quite able to breathe or respond after Nichol conceded with a sharp nod and scathing tone, "Everyone on the team was too trusting, since I'd imagine no one verified the intel prior to the mission?" Sally leaned back against the wall creasing her brow with a frown.
Heero and Dorothy walked in then, a bit breathless and very late. Dorothy started by muttering a few excuses. Heero interrupted her, "Are we dead?"
Nichol turned on them, and said dryly,"Yes, Yuy. Very dead."
"It's his fault, sir." Dorothy insisted, "I won't let it happen again." She had the least experience of them all, but the young blonde girl had a different spirit about her than the others did that quite qualified her for service. Dorothy's struggles earned her well deserved attention.
"Excuse me?" Nichol asked, still impatient.
Sally felt the need to interrupt, but did so by simply pulling on Nichol's jacket long enough to get his attention and maneuver him into the hallway. Pulling the door securely behind her, Sally looked up to see the nervous twitch again as he stared into the corner even as he stood too closely to her own personal body space.
He spoke first, very quietly. "It was my fault."
She felt immediate sympathy at the tremble in his voice, "No, Nichol. It wasn't your fault, actually." Taking a moment to pause, she added, "And it wasn't Trowa's fault either." The obviously quiet between them let her continue, Sally did so, "Apparently, Agent Yuy decided mid-mission to declare some rather . . . heartfelt . . . physical attraction to Agent Catalonia. You can check the surveillance logs. He must be rather smitten to act so irrationally." She let a certain lilt of gentle admonishment linger on the last phrase.
Nichol closed his eyes, refusing to look at her even as she stepped to the side and faced him.
She continued, "A bit awkward actually being fond of someone, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't be in such denial. You're getting attached to him. Which is perfectly alright. You wanted him to be safe. Which is perfectly alright." Sally chuckled, "You're not very good at expressing affection, are you?"
He stopped her with a word, "Sally."
She stiffened as he said her name. Premonition hitting her like the overly-bitter aroma of a fortune teller's parlor, making her shiver.
"I wasn't supposed to want to stay. I don't want to stay. I still don't." He sighed, "But I can't seem to pry myself away . . . from you."
She felt his fingers start beside her ear, tracing downward until he had a hold of her braid, not unlike someone very small and vulnerable. Except that he suddenly loomed by her appearing very large and intimidating.
"I'm sure you'll find someone else to be all academic with." Sally delayed, trying not to appear uncomfortable and kept her tone deceptively light, thankful her voice didn't betray her with a squeak.
"I wonder if this is how he felt." Nichol pulled away, then pounded his fist into the wall and rested there. "I'm just not myself today, Sally. I didn't mean that."
"What's wrong?" She let her body fold in on itself a bit with relief. In passing, she hoped that the younger Preventers were cooling down as well. They had all reacted very strongly to their Instructor's disposition.
"I was accepted at Victoria. Victoria. They have a Master's program set up for me, full scholarship and teaching. I only sent my application there as a lark," Nichol smiled weakly, "Apparently my references came through very well for me."
"Especially after that last test," Sally slugged his shoulder, trying to reforge their more typical friendship. Then she added, a touch slyly to hide her nervousness, "Any chance a certain Barton is making you doubt the move?"
He looked away, and attempted a laugh that sounded like a prairie dog barking, "I guess that must be it. I can only dream of ways to kill him then, rather than running actual simulations of it."
"Well, if you're going to leave us, or leave him, you should let him know. Directly or indirectly." Sally added for good measure while she played with the ring on her finger, "Don't leave him wondering."
"Sally," Nichol's face drained of energy.
"This was my good-bye gift." She pulled the ring off and studied it a moment, "But I was a silly girl at the time."
"I can't picture that."
"Why, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
***
"Sir?"
"Have you forgotten to knock, Trowa?" Nichol looked up from his laptop, to see the boy's worried expression which consisted of a blank look and a small downward pull of his lips, "Something the matter? Heero and Dorothy monopolizing the couch in the rec room again?"
"No, sir." Trowa took a seat in the wooden chair, restlessly shifting. Nichol noted the a slight furrow of his brow.
"Are you sitting comfortably?" Nichol allowed himself to lean amiably against the desk, hoping that it would let Trowa relax a bit, even though he apparently had no qualms about coming into the office unannounced. Trowa was the oldest of the field trained Preventers at twenty-two and closest in age to Nichol, but a respectful temperament kept a distance between them.
Except when they disagreed, then all bets were off.
"Not really," Trowa slouched so that his arms rested between his knees as he studied the old, pilled carpeting.
"Please tell me that you didn't come to apologize about last week. It was hard enough listening to the real culprits cow-towing for my forgiveness." Truth be told, Nichol couldn't imagine having one more thing to hold over Trowa's head.
"I don't have anything to apologize for, except perhaps," Trowa stopped, looking over as if to check and make sure Nichol was listening, "I would really like to meet up with you outside of the unit."
"I guess we'll have time for that," Nichol leaned back into his seat, "Although, I'm going to be pretty busy . . ."
"Victoria?" Trowa offered, a little sharply and his eyes dropped.
"Well, well, bad news travels fast, doesn't it?" Nichol chuckled, clicking the end of his pen a few times. At Trowa's confused expression (bland face, one raised eyebrow), Nichol added more quietly, "Victoria and I weren't really a good match. I can't exactly trade one military school for another and accomplish the complete separation from the system that I wanted, can I?"
"Then where?" Trowa asked, sitting up with his shoulders inclined forwards.
"Professor Ripley here in town is retiring," Nichol replied, appreciating the bewildered smile that Trowa couldn't hide. He walked around the desk and leaned on it from the front, "This way I also get to keep my house."
"Were you ever going to tell me?" The younger man asked, obviously reigning in his expectations.
Nichol took a moment to reply, knowing that he had a long, confusing change ahead of himself. He reached over and picked up a letter, glanced at it and then back at Trowa, "I just found out myself. You're the first person to know."
"Nichol?"
"Hmm." He stopped re-reading the letter to find Trowa standing.
"May I kiss you?"
Nichol groaned, "You are so damned proper, Barton." He added after a moment, "And cautious." Taking the initiative, Nichol pulled downward on Trowa's uniform tie.
***
Now
***
"I came. I'm late." Nichol heard himself apologize, awkward with how easily the extra words slipped from his lips. How insincere they sounded from his inexperience, and how earnestly he meant them regardless, "I'm sorry, Sally."
He watched as her smile faltered, "How did you know I was here?" Then quickly, "I don't care how you knew, I'm glad."
"It was Trowa actually," Nichol replied, sheepishly, "He's better at usefully putting together my observations, more so than I am."
"I suppose it works since you tell him everything now. And he obviously must tell you." Sally's chuckle was feebly light, and almost lost on the wind. Her hands twisted involuntarily into the dress folds on her lap, one finger still wearing the ring.
Nichol stretched out his far hand to cover hers, "You didn't keep hope all this time, did you?"
"No, and yes." Sally replied, "I would forget about her, and then at other times I had these wild fancies that she would come back to me. That he would turn her away for the last time. Give her something definite. When all along, she had already given me the definite answer."
"You're stronger than most. I wouldn't have gone to the wedding," Nichol pulled his hand back and turned to better appreciate the view across the lake, which was dotted with a small number of sailboats. "In fact," he injected as means of humor, "I didn't go."
"Just because you've never really met either of them," Sally retorted, "I'm sure that Trowa's invitation was for two." She shared a look with Nichol and noticed his clothing, lessening her inward reflection, "Or maybe you preferred working in the garden?"
"You're always right on target with me," The shade of the trees was shallow enough that he could easily recline with his crossed legs outward into the direct rays of the sun. "Look at me now. If you hadn't given me the nicest rejection on the planet, I wouldn't have had this opportunity or the satisfaction of picking up Trowa and rejecting the wedding invitation. Not that they would have missed me, I'm sure."
"You would have sorted your feelings out eventually." Sally shook her head, "Or Trowa would have resorted to having me hijacked to some other country."
Nichol laughed, "I doubt it, he's too polite."
"Maybe so," Sally revealed, "I suppose he hasn't told you that he inquired of my intentions toward you soon after the Yuy-Catalonia situation?"
"Barton," He groaned, feeling pleasantly warmed by Trowa's boyish determination.
"There it is," Sally turned halfway from where she sat to catch Nichol mid-fuzzy thought, "You're crazy about him and don't even think of me that way anymore. But it was there before, wasn't it? That feeling of desperation, like you had to have me or nothing would ever be right . . . where did that go? Can you tell me honestly?"
He'd never heard her ask something so personal, let alone bring up an intimate subject. For all of her openness, Sally neither inquired for nor gave much advice about private feelings. Which was why she made people feel comfortable, she might have seen inside them, but it didn't keep her from accepting them without question.
"You don't forget," Nichol answered, "That's really the best I can offer without Trowa to make sense of me, as usual. And you shouldn't forget someone like her, just remember that you tried. That you gave without measure. Even when she wanted you to let her go."
"Nichol?"
"Hmm."
"I hate you."
"Don't shoot the messenger."
"Now we're even." Sally twisted the ring around her finger again, but her voice started to fizzle with imitation sauciness, "It was so cute how you rushed out here to check on me. I wonder what Trowa would think if I didn't send you back to the garden, if I just kept you instead?"
Nichol swallow could be heard quite well as he started to slide away, "Seriously? Uh, Sally . . ."
***
the end.
by Jillian Storm
(Disclaimer: Much thanks to Alithea for offering up the challenge for me to write this and then giving it a read through. Much thanks to those people who originally created these characters, and then left them as obvious targets for fanfiction. Especially Nichol . . . who has so much potential. *hint*hint* I suppose I should put the rather regular "Nichol-overdose warning" on here . . . just in case. Enjoy.)
***
Now
***
He shifted gears in order to pass through the yellow light. Given the time of day, all of the traffic signals on the way to the lake were going to work against him. One extra stop wouldn't have made him any later for the rendevous, but Nichol knew the compounding aggravation was giving him nervous indigestion. Recklessly braking so that his tires squealed at the next uncompromising intersection, Nichol tried to untangle the pressure building behind his temples by drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel--just off beat from the heavy metal that he could hear more clearly without the wind rushing through the open windows.
"Damn." He cursed the green arrow, as he could see the lake directly ahead. The sun-toasted breeze carried the aroma of sand and the premonition of further anxiety.
Quite sure he'd left skid marks when parking, Nichol tried to exit the car with an appearance of grace even as two young women jogged past him. Smoothing back his hair for a moment, before letting the coarse curls settle into their wiry places. He did not hurry for other people. He did not lose his composure. He did not panic at the expense of others. He was not walking double quick toward the line of trees separating the beach from the bike path.
The shade brought immediate coolness to the sweat on his skin. He was still wearing the same cut off jeans and old t-shirt he'd put on for the afternoon's yard work which had been shortened by a telephone call. Dirt and weeds lined the muscle of his lower arms, and, as he slowed to a cautious trot, Nichol felt immediately self conscious that he had the lingering smell of freshly mowed grass and gasoline hovering over his clothes.
The wind blew the wisps of loosened hair away from her forehead, and she didn't look over but continued to stare at the lake as Nichol sat next to her on the bench. Her expression forever aloof and secure, which he expected but it made him no less frightened of her inner strength.
"I came. I'm late." He heard himself apologize, awkward with how easily the extra words slipped from his lips. How insincere they sounded from his inexperience, and how earnestly he meant them regardless, "I'm sorry, Sally."
***
Then
***
"You're late." Sally Po picked up her text book from the tabletop and continued to skim the assigned reading glancing at him from over the top. She continued to purse her lips together indifferently; although, she could hardly keep from smiling at her study partner's irritated expression. The library was just beginning to come alive as the last undergraduate students from the cafeteria were dismissed because breakfast was ending. Nichol was a prime procrastinator, claiming that his short term memory worked better and was just that--short term.
What made matters worse was that their degrees were a second for both of them, making them several years older than their classmates: children who had grown up during the war, but had not participated in it. Putting aside their differences (and using a great deal of good-natured patience on Sally's part), the two veterans had forged a small alliance understanding the strain of work and juggling the skeletons of one's past over top a mountain of school work.
"Late?" Nichol muttered, his tone good natured but weary, "Take that up with Une. She's the one who had me running the training scenarios for the field Preventers. Not like those little Gundam Pilots and friends need much in the way of training."
"Just because they survived as miscellaneous, yet vital mercenaries during the war: they were children. I'm sure your training is invaluable." Sally reassured as expected, while fighting back memories of elaborate pranks initiated by Agent Maxwell and almost always at Nichol's expense.
"I don't think they have any idea how valuable," Nichol propped his head up as he sat across from Sally, the pile of books he unloaded from his satchel were just the right height for a pillow. He let his head slip from the arm to rest his cheek against the mountain of philosophical text. "I just need to finish this degree that the military is paying for and go teach at the University. Then, then . . . everything will be perfect."
Sally did smile at his familiar mantra, "Yes, absorbing the text in through your ear is much more reliable than actually reading it. Hurry, so we can review. You do know that Professor Ripley is going to quiz us on the last chapter."
"I hate you." Nichol said toward the wall, and she noticed his face turn a richer shade of red.
"Don't shoot the messenger."
A few minutes later, Nichol spoke again. "You're chewing your pencil again."
Sally licked her lips a bit off guard as she set the mechanical pencil on the table. While she fancied herself intuitive about others, she would never have given Nichol credit for being as observant as he was if she hadn't spent so much time with him. Like most others, she'd been initially put off by his self-confident posturing which she more affectionately labeled "Nichol's Enormous Yet Endearing Ego." She wondered for a while if he had some deeply hidden insecurities, but, finding relatively none, Sally reasoned that Nichol had an universal justice meter that immediately separated people into two categories: unbearable fools and bearable fools. But even as he separated the sheep from the goats, Nichol did not arbitrarily dismiss the individual. He knew intimately and specifically why and what people annoyed him.
"You're chewing the end of your braid." He smirked in a gentle fashion that served to hide a more genuine smile, "Oral fixation, Sally?"
"Are you ever going to finish reading?"
***
"Please tell me there is something unwholesome and liquored up at this boring party." Duo Maxwell prowled toward the table where Nichol was trying to appear invisible. "Nicky! You're old enough for both of us. Please tell me they brought you something, a light beer . . . anything."
"I'm sure this is the sort of conversation you want our political supporters to hear." Nichol pointedly ignored the young man, addressing the ranking officer who was smiling around the rim of her wine. When Une said nothing, he turned to the blonde woman between them, "Sally?"
"I don't know why you're waiting for the first of the year." Duo flirted shamelessly, spinning an empty chair around so that he could balance his arms across the back of it. Somehow the braided youth made his fully decorated uniform seem as casual as if he were barefoot and trolling the beach for anything in a bikini. "Realistically, I might already be twenty-one. Just because I can't remember exactly when my birthday is . . ."
"He has a point." Sally's comment only fueled Nichol's agitation. But he suspected as much from her. She took every opportunity to tease him, but her attacks were immeasurably less hostile than others'.
"It's not like I can't handle the stuff." Duo's eyes sparkled mischievously. "Hornitos, Canicas, Porfidio . . ."
"Tell Howard I said you could have one. One." No sooner had Une made the offer than she was nodding her consent to the volunteer bartender across the hall.
With some effort for civility, Nichol vented, "You let these children have full reign over you, ma'am. I don't see how it brings about anything but disorder."
Une's eyes narrowed, "These are different times, soldier. The future can endure a little levity."
"Trust her." Sally interjected, letting her fingers rest lightly over Nichol's arm. Then she laughed, unexpected for the conversation but not unexpected for her temperament, "You two sound just like parents quarreling over something like curfew."
He tried not to think about how Sally's hand lingered, even as Nichol scanned the growing unruliness of the young Preventers with displeasure. Duo had an oversized, crude mug to his lips and sloshing most of the bright liquid into his mouth while the boys in particular egged him to continue. Hilde and one of the newer recruits, Dorothy, were standing close by and talking behind their hands. They were all wearing their Preventer's attire, but after the initial speeches and most of the diplomats had left a few buttons near their collars had been undone and Wufei had his jacket tied by the arms around his waist.
He was about to turn back to the conversation at the table, when he noticed Trowa Barton sitting with the rest, only he surveyed past the lively antics of his peers and was intently watching the older table. Nichol drew his brow into a frown and turned his back on his trainees. He spoke with exaggerated cheerfulness for the rest of the social gathering.
***
"Sir?"
"Not now, kid. I'm in a hurry."
Sally, however, paused when she heard Trowa's voice. She and Nichol were on their way out for that evening. They had the weekend to study for a Monday exam, but both of them regularly surrendered their Friday evenings to the text since the flexible Preventer schedule often had them working hours on the weekend they might not have otherwise expected.
Nichol continued another few feet, before he realized she had waited. After Nichol turned halfway, the determined jaw over clenched teeth startled her. Trowa must have noticed as well, since the younger man pulled up short to stay parallel to herself.
Watching the him curiously, she knew that she understood Trowa less than the other boys. Unlike them, Trowa often took weekend leave to visit the colonies since he still had strong familial connections to maintain. Sally felt closer to Quatre or Wufei who would often come to her office for entire afternoons simply to talk. Quatre said she comforted him since she reminded him of his sisters who also had medical backgrounds and could only visit infrequently as their time became available. Wufei, she suspected, came because he also felt comfortable with her. Perhaps only comfortable with her.
Trowa, therefore, had struck her as someone independently comfortable in any situation, but his indefatigable resolve seemed slightly cracked in just that moment. The boy fidgeted until he stuffed both hands into his back pockets, "May I have a word with you, sir?" Sally could almost hear the nervousness that she suspected even as she watched Trowa's face turn significantly pale under the olive complexion.
Nichol glanced at Sally sharply, as if trying to get an excuse from her.
"I can go on ahead." She smiled at Trowa hoping to offer reassurance, but wasn't certain that he shouldn't be on guard as Nichol thundered back, each of his foot steps echoing in the sterile hall. Offering a small avenue toward peace, Sally added, "I'll just bring the car around for you."
"We won't be long." Nichol said, then turned to confront Trowa with a strange expression close to frustration. With a start, she realized that an uncharacteristic twitch had strained the false smile Nichol tried to put on for her.
Her body hummed with curiosity all the way to the car and back. Even though, she felt a small measure of disappointment when Nichol was already waiting outside for her. No trace of Trowa was visible from what she could see through the side exit doors into the hall. Once Nichol was settled into his seat, she confronted him with her pressed intrigue.
"What did Trowa want?"
"Drive." Nichol leaned against the car door, then sighed heavily, " He simply has some peculiar notion that my opinion counts for something."
***
Nichol watched Sally closely as they drove away, but she never appeared to suspect anything. The relief released the vice grip around his heart and the organ began to pump normally again. Oxygen filled his system with calm regularity. He doubted that he attracted much attention at all, and Trowa Barton was more discreet than a monk under the vow of silence. But he wanted to say something to her, any understanding solely shared between himself and young Barton was enough to make his joints ache from stress.
During the war, Nichol felt that his life had been much more simple. Honor and, therefore, true self preservation came first. He never felt the confusion of loyalty brought by dividing factions. His world hinged on the universal scale of justice, black and white, order and disorder, not some self-oriented notion or quest for righteousness that tormented those like Wufei. Regardless, Nichol knew his clinically detached worldview would not naturally win as many friends as the Chinese boy's passion did.
The untethered dislike from a short few months on Barge was enough for Nichol to justify blasting the OZ traitor Trowa Barton from this life, except that they had unintentionally ended up on the same side using their redundant skills as soldiers within the Preventers. Only, feeling no special bond or usefulness to the new unit, Nichol was desperate to leave the first chance he got.
Staring out the car window, he remembered how the first confrontation came one evening when he had been stuck with an excess of paperwork in his office. Relatively new to the facility, Nichol had barely had time to socialize before rumors and opinions about the new instructor had shuffled through the Preventers. The first person to offer some degree of companionship, Trowa, had knocked on his door, and Nichol had to swallow the memories of rivalry and remind himself that the kid was an ally. Surprisingly talkative when he wanted to be, Trowa had rambled through some speech that Nichol suspected was rehearsed in content if not delivery. His gut reaction was to expect Duo Maxwell's Cheshire grin to seal some juvenile prank at any moment.
"I'm sorry, Agent Barton," Nichol had leaned forward on his desk, catching a strangely anxious gleam in the young man's expression, "Why aren't you discussing these matters with your friends?" Nichol waved his hand over the desk, "Unless you want to do my paperwork for me, are we done here?" As soon as he made the sarcastic offer, fear gripped Nichol that the boy would accept it simply in order to stay in the same room. Trowa's fingers were curled around the arm rest of the chair in a tight grip and his lips were froze in the middle of whatever he had been saying before Nichol's interruption. In a moment of clarity, Nichol felt a suspicion surface. Throughout training, Trowa had always been more receptive to new tactics and, compared to the others, he was surprisingly willing to adjust his strategy to Nichol's specific instruction.
Nichol rather insensitively mumbled, "You don't . . . fancy . . . me, do you?"
"No, sir." The reply was quite quick, although held every evidence of insincerity. Foremost, Trowa Barton's exposed and burning ears betrayed everything his veiled eyes did not.
As if feeling Une's omnipresence testing him, Nichol tried collecting himself to respond with every fiber of politeness he could muster, "Kid, there's a reason why I'm not popular here. My bad attitude. And if you haven't noticed, I'm already sick of this damn puppet army–even if it's got a few good people." His voice reached new levels of condensation, "Now we might have gotten along, except it wouldn't work out with me planning to teach the history of philosophy to college freshmen half-way across the world, now would it?" Then he hurriedly cut off the half-hopeful lightening of Trowa's eyes, with his own panicked conclusion, "Alright, this conversation is over."
"I'll gather from this that you're not interested in helping with the recreational soccer team, sir?" Nichol watched a tad puzzled, as Trowa seemed to have the upper hand, unfolding his lanky form from the chair and casting his shadow over the desk like a slender tree. After a moment, the retired pilot added, "You're not the only one who feels like he's in the wrong place, sir."
Nichol could feel the boy bottling up like aquifer water against him, "Trowa. Wait, I . . ."
"Don't apologize." Trowa breathed a small, indifferent laugh.
"I wasn't, I . . ." Nichol floundered a bit at the boy's magnanimity, trying to find a renewed sense of responsibility which he had momentarily lost.
Trowa surmised, "You still see me as a rival?"
"I see you as . . . something," Nichol had cast about for any comparison and found he'd never bothered to think that far about any of his relationships within the Preventers. He'd never intended to form any entangling relationships in order that he could eventually break free.
"Something . . ." Trowa had repeated, "Well, sir, for whatever it matters, I do like you."
The boy had slipped out then, almost as if he'd never come, except for the pounding headache Nichol felt forming just behind his eyes. He hated awkwardly uncertain situations, preferring to either bully the other party into retracting any unwanted declaration or deliberately taking charge and letting himself out. "Little punk." The tone of affection over the admonishment scared him most of all.
Distracted, his paperwork that evening had taken three times as long as normal.
Her voice brought him back from the daydream of memories while the car pulled up to her apartment where they had planned to study, "Nichol? You've been staring out the window forever."
He turned back, accepting the distraction from his wandering thoughts, and felt the warmth of Sally's curious smile as if he were basking in the sun.
***
An idea, once introduced, can become a powerful thing. Sally felt it's pull whenever she would think back to each slightly variable expression that passed over Trowa Barton's features. With growing certainty, she knew the boy had a crush on the Preventer's ill-tempered instructor. And that Nichol knew about it.
Nichol's darker personality had been held in check even though he was not happy in the peacetime uniformed position, but Trowa often carried the full weight of Nichol's frustration during training.
"Forgive me, Barton," Nichol snapped during one late afternoon, informal debriefing, "I do believe we lost you, Catalonia and Yuy on that last mission. Care to explain to the rest of us what went wrong?"
The electricity between their stares for the next moment could have crackled with unreleased power, Trowa, like the others, had removed most of the covert combat gear . . . a good portion of his hair curled into damp, frizzy ringlets and his arms and neck shone with sweat. "It appeared to me . . . sir . . . like our intelligence officer neglected to collect all the pertinent information regarding the infiltration. The fourth floor sweep was unsuccessful because the timing of the locks was inaccurate." The accusation lingered in the silence as Trowa swiped the back of his hand across his lips.
None of the others were quite able to breathe or respond after Nichol conceded with a sharp nod and scathing tone, "Everyone on the team was too trusting, since I'd imagine no one verified the intel prior to the mission?" Sally leaned back against the wall creasing her brow with a frown.
Heero and Dorothy walked in then, a bit breathless and very late. Dorothy started by muttering a few excuses. Heero interrupted her, "Are we dead?"
Nichol turned on them, and said dryly,"Yes, Yuy. Very dead."
"It's his fault, sir." Dorothy insisted, "I won't let it happen again." She had the least experience of them all, but the young blonde girl had a different spirit about her than the others did that quite qualified her for service. Dorothy's struggles earned her well deserved attention.
"Excuse me?" Nichol asked, still impatient.
Sally felt the need to interrupt, but did so by simply pulling on Nichol's jacket long enough to get his attention and maneuver him into the hallway. Pulling the door securely behind her, Sally looked up to see the nervous twitch again as he stared into the corner even as he stood too closely to her own personal body space.
He spoke first, very quietly. "It was my fault."
She felt immediate sympathy at the tremble in his voice, "No, Nichol. It wasn't your fault, actually." Taking a moment to pause, she added, "And it wasn't Trowa's fault either." The obviously quiet between them let her continue, Sally did so, "Apparently, Agent Yuy decided mid-mission to declare some rather . . . heartfelt . . . physical attraction to Agent Catalonia. You can check the surveillance logs. He must be rather smitten to act so irrationally." She let a certain lilt of gentle admonishment linger on the last phrase.
Nichol closed his eyes, refusing to look at her even as she stepped to the side and faced him.
She continued, "A bit awkward actually being fond of someone, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't be in such denial. You're getting attached to him. Which is perfectly alright. You wanted him to be safe. Which is perfectly alright." Sally chuckled, "You're not very good at expressing affection, are you?"
He stopped her with a word, "Sally."
She stiffened as he said her name. Premonition hitting her like the overly-bitter aroma of a fortune teller's parlor, making her shiver.
"I wasn't supposed to want to stay. I don't want to stay. I still don't." He sighed, "But I can't seem to pry myself away . . . from you."
She felt his fingers start beside her ear, tracing downward until he had a hold of her braid, not unlike someone very small and vulnerable. Except that he suddenly loomed by her appearing very large and intimidating.
"I'm sure you'll find someone else to be all academic with." Sally delayed, trying not to appear uncomfortable and kept her tone deceptively light, thankful her voice didn't betray her with a squeak.
"I wonder if this is how he felt." Nichol pulled away, then pounded his fist into the wall and rested there. "I'm just not myself today, Sally. I didn't mean that."
"What's wrong?" She let her body fold in on itself a bit with relief. In passing, she hoped that the younger Preventers were cooling down as well. They had all reacted very strongly to their Instructor's disposition.
"I was accepted at Victoria. Victoria. They have a Master's program set up for me, full scholarship and teaching. I only sent my application there as a lark," Nichol smiled weakly, "Apparently my references came through very well for me."
"Especially after that last test," Sally slugged his shoulder, trying to reforge their more typical friendship. Then she added, a touch slyly to hide her nervousness, "Any chance a certain Barton is making you doubt the move?"
He looked away, and attempted a laugh that sounded like a prairie dog barking, "I guess that must be it. I can only dream of ways to kill him then, rather than running actual simulations of it."
"Well, if you're going to leave us, or leave him, you should let him know. Directly or indirectly." Sally added for good measure while she played with the ring on her finger, "Don't leave him wondering."
"Sally," Nichol's face drained of energy.
"This was my good-bye gift." She pulled the ring off and studied it a moment, "But I was a silly girl at the time."
"I can't picture that."
"Why, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
***
"Sir?"
"Have you forgotten to knock, Trowa?" Nichol looked up from his laptop, to see the boy's worried expression which consisted of a blank look and a small downward pull of his lips, "Something the matter? Heero and Dorothy monopolizing the couch in the rec room again?"
"No, sir." Trowa took a seat in the wooden chair, restlessly shifting. Nichol noted the a slight furrow of his brow.
"Are you sitting comfortably?" Nichol allowed himself to lean amiably against the desk, hoping that it would let Trowa relax a bit, even though he apparently had no qualms about coming into the office unannounced. Trowa was the oldest of the field trained Preventers at twenty-two and closest in age to Nichol, but a respectful temperament kept a distance between them.
Except when they disagreed, then all bets were off.
"Not really," Trowa slouched so that his arms rested between his knees as he studied the old, pilled carpeting.
"Please tell me that you didn't come to apologize about last week. It was hard enough listening to the real culprits cow-towing for my forgiveness." Truth be told, Nichol couldn't imagine having one more thing to hold over Trowa's head.
"I don't have anything to apologize for, except perhaps," Trowa stopped, looking over as if to check and make sure Nichol was listening, "I would really like to meet up with you outside of the unit."
"I guess we'll have time for that," Nichol leaned back into his seat, "Although, I'm going to be pretty busy . . ."
"Victoria?" Trowa offered, a little sharply and his eyes dropped.
"Well, well, bad news travels fast, doesn't it?" Nichol chuckled, clicking the end of his pen a few times. At Trowa's confused expression (bland face, one raised eyebrow), Nichol added more quietly, "Victoria and I weren't really a good match. I can't exactly trade one military school for another and accomplish the complete separation from the system that I wanted, can I?"
"Then where?" Trowa asked, sitting up with his shoulders inclined forwards.
"Professor Ripley here in town is retiring," Nichol replied, appreciating the bewildered smile that Trowa couldn't hide. He walked around the desk and leaned on it from the front, "This way I also get to keep my house."
"Were you ever going to tell me?" The younger man asked, obviously reigning in his expectations.
Nichol took a moment to reply, knowing that he had a long, confusing change ahead of himself. He reached over and picked up a letter, glanced at it and then back at Trowa, "I just found out myself. You're the first person to know."
"Nichol?"
"Hmm." He stopped re-reading the letter to find Trowa standing.
"May I kiss you?"
Nichol groaned, "You are so damned proper, Barton." He added after a moment, "And cautious." Taking the initiative, Nichol pulled downward on Trowa's uniform tie.
***
Now
***
"I came. I'm late." Nichol heard himself apologize, awkward with how easily the extra words slipped from his lips. How insincere they sounded from his inexperience, and how earnestly he meant them regardless, "I'm sorry, Sally."
He watched as her smile faltered, "How did you know I was here?" Then quickly, "I don't care how you knew, I'm glad."
"It was Trowa actually," Nichol replied, sheepishly, "He's better at usefully putting together my observations, more so than I am."
"I suppose it works since you tell him everything now. And he obviously must tell you." Sally's chuckle was feebly light, and almost lost on the wind. Her hands twisted involuntarily into the dress folds on her lap, one finger still wearing the ring.
Nichol stretched out his far hand to cover hers, "You didn't keep hope all this time, did you?"
"No, and yes." Sally replied, "I would forget about her, and then at other times I had these wild fancies that she would come back to me. That he would turn her away for the last time. Give her something definite. When all along, she had already given me the definite answer."
"You're stronger than most. I wouldn't have gone to the wedding," Nichol pulled his hand back and turned to better appreciate the view across the lake, which was dotted with a small number of sailboats. "In fact," he injected as means of humor, "I didn't go."
"Just because you've never really met either of them," Sally retorted, "I'm sure that Trowa's invitation was for two." She shared a look with Nichol and noticed his clothing, lessening her inward reflection, "Or maybe you preferred working in the garden?"
"You're always right on target with me," The shade of the trees was shallow enough that he could easily recline with his crossed legs outward into the direct rays of the sun. "Look at me now. If you hadn't given me the nicest rejection on the planet, I wouldn't have had this opportunity or the satisfaction of picking up Trowa and rejecting the wedding invitation. Not that they would have missed me, I'm sure."
"You would have sorted your feelings out eventually." Sally shook her head, "Or Trowa would have resorted to having me hijacked to some other country."
Nichol laughed, "I doubt it, he's too polite."
"Maybe so," Sally revealed, "I suppose he hasn't told you that he inquired of my intentions toward you soon after the Yuy-Catalonia situation?"
"Barton," He groaned, feeling pleasantly warmed by Trowa's boyish determination.
"There it is," Sally turned halfway from where she sat to catch Nichol mid-fuzzy thought, "You're crazy about him and don't even think of me that way anymore. But it was there before, wasn't it? That feeling of desperation, like you had to have me or nothing would ever be right . . . where did that go? Can you tell me honestly?"
He'd never heard her ask something so personal, let alone bring up an intimate subject. For all of her openness, Sally neither inquired for nor gave much advice about private feelings. Which was why she made people feel comfortable, she might have seen inside them, but it didn't keep her from accepting them without question.
"You don't forget," Nichol answered, "That's really the best I can offer without Trowa to make sense of me, as usual. And you shouldn't forget someone like her, just remember that you tried. That you gave without measure. Even when she wanted you to let her go."
"Nichol?"
"Hmm."
"I hate you."
"Don't shoot the messenger."
"Now we're even." Sally twisted the ring around her finger again, but her voice started to fizzle with imitation sauciness, "It was so cute how you rushed out here to check on me. I wonder what Trowa would think if I didn't send you back to the garden, if I just kept you instead?"
Nichol swallow could be heard quite well as he started to slide away, "Seriously? Uh, Sally . . ."
***
the end.