Wake in the Dream (1?)

by Anne

Ratings/warnings: OK (Oz/Kiwi spelling/grammar etc) – PG13 – angst, drama, action.

Pairings: 3x4, 1x2, 5xR

Summary: Past and present merge after Quatre is kidnapped. Can his friends rescue him in time?

Archive: http/dryerspace. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise and Sotsu Agency. I promise to return the characters in one piece, more or less, when I'm finished, but hold no liability for any physical injury or psychological trauma sustained by them in my fiction.

Author's notes: This is written for the 10 year anniversary contest at Gundam Wing Universe - http/ to: haraamis and Bast for beta reading, Misanagi and Shadow for prodding for more as I was writing. Plus all those who made comments and encouraged along the way. You know who you are…

Comments to: anne One

/AC 205/

"I'm leaving now, okay? We'll talk when I get home." Quatre hit the off switch on the vid phone before Trowa had a chance to reply. Tonight, of all nights, he shouldn't have been late, but something had come up at WEI that required his personal attention. He frowned, glared at the briefcase on his desk and swore under his breath. No, it wasn't coming home with him. This weekend, he would give Trowa his full attention, take the phone off the hook and relax, at least until their friends arrived on Monday morning.

When he and Trowa had first met, ten years ago, he'd felt the connection between them. He'd known that they shouldn't be fighting, that he could trust the pilot of the other Gundam, but had never dreamt just how much that trust would grow, that they would become friends, lovers and more.

Giving the briefcase a parting glare, Quatre walked out of his office. It was bad enough that he'd have to come in on Monday to sign papers, but at least once they were done he could leave work behind with a clear conscience for the rest of the week. This deal was an important one worth a lot of money, even by WEI standards, but he would not allow it to ruin the time he planned to spend with their friends. After all, it had been a while since he and the other pilots had had the opportunity for quality time together. He sighed. They'd all come a long way in the ten years since the war, and their friendship was very precious to him and to Trowa.

He stopped by the elevator and pushed the button. It was growing dark outside, and the building was almost empty. Two men, part of the cleaning staff, gave him a nod as he stood waiting, and he nodded back. Glancing at his watch, he decided that the elevator was taking too long. A brisk walk down the stairs would help work off his foul mood; he didn't want his day to ruin what was left of the evening.

It only took a few minutes to reach the ground floor, and his car in the parking garage. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, noticing the flat tyre. Hunting around for the tools to change it, he decided not to phone Trowa and let him know that he'd be even later. With any luck this wouldn't take long, and he could make up the time on the road. It had been a while since his last speeding ticket, and besides, they would have to catch him first.

Quatre caught the movement behind him out of the corner of his eye and ducked just as the man lunged towards him. He rolled, the tyre iron still in his hands, and then rose to his feet to take in the situation quickly. There were two men, as well as the one who had attacked him, all well built, holding guns and wearing masks. All routes to the exits were blocked, and he wasn't in the mood to back down from a fight. Shifting his grip on his makeshift weapon, he smiled coldly at them. "If you excuse me, gentlemen, I'm in a hurry, and you're in my way."

The men exchanged a glance, but didn't speak. Instead, they advanced towards him. Quatre sighed. He would have preferred to settle this without violence but if they insisted he really had no choice.

The first man approached. His grip on his gun tightened, but Quatre could feel his nervousness. "Come with us, Mr. Winner," he said, his voice muffled by the mask, "and we won't hurt you."

Quatre snorted. "You're pointing a gun at me." He took a step backwards, keeping his movements slow. "That rather suggests that you plan to use it."

"Which is why you should come with us." The man mirrored Quatre's movement. "Now, now, you don't have to prove anything. Come peacefully, and we won't tell anyone that you didn't put up a struggle. It can be our little secret."

"Don't patronise me," Quatre snapped. "I don't appreciate it." He swung the tyre-iron, and the man went down clutching at his knee and groaning. "I don't like violence," Quatre said conversationally, "but that doesn't mean I won't fight if I'm provoked." Quatre stepped around the man on the ground. The spare tyre was still propped up against the side of his car, the flat beside it. That ruled out the idea of using his car as a means of escape. He would have to do this the hard way.

The remaining men walked up to him. One secured his gun in his belt and reached into his pocket. The other smirked. "If you're so determined to make this difficult, I'm sure we can accommodate your wishes."

"That's your choice," Quatre shrugged.

They moved closer, and he waited, knowing that he would only get one opportunity to escape and that he had better make the best of it.

One step further.

Quatre took a deep breath and threw the tyre-iron at them. They instinctively ducked to either side of the object, and he dived between them.

Hitting the ground, Quatre cursed as his elbow jarred against the concrete. It had been too many years since he'd done this, and he was out of practice. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rolled with the movement, and came up again in a half crouch, ready to start running. He felt a sharp prick at the side of his neck but ignored it. Someone grabbed at him, but he pushed him away. He had to get to the exit.

He as dimly aware of footsteps behind him, but he kept running. Nearly there. His surroundings spun sickeningly, and he dropped to his knees. No, he had to keep running. Quatre ordered himself to his feet, but his body refused to obey. His hand went to his neck. When it came away there was a tiny tranquiliser dart in his palm.

Trowa put his coffee cup on the counter and frowned. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. Although Quatre had rung and told him that he was on his way, he couldn't ignore the growing feeling of unease.

/Annoyance. Resignation./

What was keeping him? Trowa shook his head, trying to make sense of the empathic echo he was picking up from his husband. Surely Quatre hadn't got another speeding ticket? One day he was going to learn that his car was not a substitute Gundam; Trowa was not looking forward to the day Quatre went that one step too far and lost his licence, and Trowa sure as hell wasn't about to volunteer to act as chauffeur. Doing things for the one you love only went so far.

/Fear. Regret. Guilt./

"Quatre?" Trowa headed for the door on instinct. Something was wrong, very wrong. The thing that worried him the most wasn't the fear, but the guilt. Trowa knew Quatre well enough to recognise that emotion. Quatre usually hid it, knowing how Trowa would react. Quatre took too much on his shoulders, his self-expectations were still unreasonably high, and after one too many arguments between them over his tendency to blame himself, he tended to hide certain reactions maybe a little too well. For it to be so openly projected like that through their empathic link meant that Quatre wasn't in full control of his abilities.

Digging his phone out of his pocket as he ran for his motorbike, Trowa rang Quatre's number, although he didn't expect an answer. Often, Quatre switched it off, or left it on vibrate, so that if he was in an important meeting, it wouldn't disturb him. Trowa had complained once, after trying to get hold of him, but Quatre had reminded him that if Trowa had /needed/ him he'd know. "And then," he had said, with a smile, tracing his fingers across Trowa's lips, "it wouldn't matter what I was doing, I'd be there for you."

"You're not here for me now, Cat," Trowa muttered under his breath after being connected with Quatre's answering service. He didn't bother leaving a message. If Quatre were okay he would have picked up himself. Starting the bike, he roared out into the street. It would be faster that way than taking his car, and he was worried that however quickly he got there, he would be too late.

It didn't take him long to reach Winner Enterprises' main offices. The traffic was light at this time of night, and he'd opened the throttle right up. In different circumstances he would have enjoyed the ride. Quatre wasn't the only one who missed piloting his Gundam, and although they had been fighting a war, in some ways those days had been simpler. He'd had goals, a mission that he didn't dare fail. Trowa hadn't enjoyed the killing or bloodshed any more than Quatre had, but he missed the adrenaline rush, the knowledge that what he was doing was important. Watching Quatre come home from work, tired and frustrated with dealing with those corporate idiots, Trowa was tempted just to spirit them both away somewhere and start a new life. A life where Quatre could be what he wanted to be, rather than driving himself to live up to the ghost of his father's memory.

Had it really been ten years since they had played that first duet? Trowa slowed down as he approached the parking garage. It was something they hadn't done for months now; Quatre was too tired, and Trowa hadn't liked to push the matter, even though he missed it.

Quatre's car was parked in its usual spot, and Trowa pulled up beside it. There was no sign of foul play, and the car did not appear to be tampered with but Quatre was nowhere in sight. Either he hadn't got as far as the car, or whoever was responsible had covered up what had happened. Removing his helmet, Trowa hunted through his key ring for the spare key Quatre had given him, unlocked the car and reached into the glove box to disengage the alarm.

"Hmm," he murmured, frowning, when he noticed it was already off. No one else except for him and Quatre had the password for the device that Duo had designed and installed. Even now, in peacetime, they all tended to be somewhat paranoid about covering their backs. Heero's theory was that it was because no matter how much they pretended they couldn't escape the soldier within. Quatre was of the opinion that it was more a case of peace of mind in knowing they would have an advance warning system for the day when their past would catch up with them. Although they had managed to keep their identities a secret, there was always the possibility that someone had recognised them and was merely waiting for the right moment.

The phone rang. Trowa reached into his pocket and then realised that it wasn't his phone, but Quatre's which was sitting on the dashboard. This was not good. Quatre would have never abandoned his phone. "Barton," he snapped, slipping into the driver's seat as he made a grab for it.

The voice at the other end sounded mechanical, the computer software the person was using removing all traces of inflection. "Check your email, Mr. Barton."

"Who is this?" Trowa glared at the phone, but the call had been terminated. Damn it. It hadn't been long enough to initiate a trace. He climbed out of the car, resetting the alarm out of habit, and taking Quatre's phone with him. Whoever these people were, they were organised; he'd give them that. The call had been made once Trowa had reached the car. Was he being watched?

He needed to get home. If Quatre had been kidnapped or worse, he had no choice but to follow the instructions until he knew what he was dealing with. He just hoped that these people didn't know who and what Quatre was.

It had been a while since Trowa had pushed an engine like this, but the trip home seemed like an eternity even though he was going as fast as he dared without running the risk of wrecking the bike. The phone message kept replaying itself in his head, and although he knew that Quatre was still alive, he suspected that his husband was living on borrowed time.

Who had captured him and why? Was it because of Quatre's position with WEI or had these people discovered his role in the war and were seeking revenge against a Gundam pilot? If it was the former, Quatre's survival rate was better, but Trowa had seen enough during his time working for the Preventers to know just how easy it was for a kidnapping to turn to murder.

Trowa shivered and opened up the throttle even further. The tyres squealed like nails on a chalk board, and he could hear Quatre's voice telling him to be careful. Trowa shook his head. "I'll be careful when I know you're okay," he muttered. One vigil by Quatre's bedside, wondering if he would ever wake up, had been enough. They weren't soldiers any longer. Quatre was supposed to be safe. They weren't in a war zone; they should be allowed the luxury of peacetime. Hadn't they fought enough?

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Quatre's voice was so clear that Trowa looked around for him, the bike teetering dangerously to one side as he shifted his balance. Since when had Quatre taken on the role of Trowa's subconscious? Trowa sighed. It really wasn't like him to lose control like this and give into his imagination. He needed to get a grip on himself. There was too much at stake.

Finally reaching home, Trowa parked the bike, removed his helmet but didn't bother taking off his jacket. He locked the garage door behind him as he wasn't in the mood to be disturbed, and headed upstairs to the study and the computer.

/Fear. Frustration./

"Quatre, where the hell are you?" There was so much he didn't understand about their empathic connection. During the war he'd felt an echo of what Quatre was feeling, but it had only happened when Quatre had needed him, a silent call for help that Quatre wasn't even aware that he'd sent. Since they'd consummated their relationship, their connection had grown, evolved. There was an awareness between them that neither was able to shut off completely.

At the moment Trowa was torn between not wanting to know what Quatre was going through and taking comfort in the knowledge that he could still feel /something/. If the connection between them died, then he'd have to deal with the possibility that maybe Quatre had too.

No wonder he was imagining Quatre's voice. If Quatre was alive still in Trowa's mind, he was still alive in reality. Closing his eyes, Trowa tried to reach for Quatre empathically, but instead of the answering caress he usually felt, there was only darkness, confusion, fear and pain.

He didn't want to feel this. He didn't want to know. Trowa tapped a rhythm on the end of Quatre's desk while he waited for the computer to boot up.

One. Two. Three.

He had a mission. This was a mission, just like all those they had done during the war. It didn't make a difference what the objective was. It shouldn't make a difference. He'd always been able to detach himself from a situation, been able to set his sights straight-ahead. Except where Quatre was concerned.

The computer blinked at him, taunting him. You have six new emails.

Four. Five. Six.

Trowa tapped the rhythm with one hand, using it as a focus for his breathing. The header on the last email was blank, the sender supposedly Quatre although it had been sent within the last few minutes. Text plus a picture. He'd read the text first, then brace himself for the picture.

/Mr. Barton.

We have your husband. He will be returned on Tuesday. You are to carry on as though everything were normal. No one is to know that he is missing. If they do, you will never see him again./

The psychology behind the note was nothing new. Lay the guilt on the victim's loved ones. Make sure that they know that if something happens it does because they did not cooperate. Trowa had no intentions of endangering Quatre, but he also knew that obedience did not guarantee Quatre's safety.

Taking a deep breath, he clicked on the attached photo. It was date stamped and appeared to have been taken less than ten minutes ago. He checked the time of the email, not surprised to see that it had been sent as he arrived home. Tracing the source would no doubt be futile. However, that didn't mean that he wasn't going to test just how good Heero's latest tracking program was.

Forcing himself to examine the photo, Trowa tried to stay calm. Quatre appeared to be okay, although it was difficult to be certain, as he was unconscious. He was still dressed in the suit he'd gone to work in that morning, although his tie had been loosened, and there was a grease mark across the front of his shirt. His jacket had been placed under his head as a makeshift pillow on the mattress upon which he was lying. One shirt sleeve had been rolled up to enable a needle and a drip to be inserted. They were not taking the chance that he might be able to identify them.

Trowa's finger traced the outline of Quatre's face on the screen. It was already too late to ensure his safety. Quatre didn't react well to drugs, especially sedatives. It played havoc with his empathic shielding; and usually deadened the connection between them. But whatever they were using on him, it appeared to be having the opposite effect. Since Quatre had been taken, Trowa's awareness of him had grown, the shielding that Quatre had constructed between them crumbling without his energy to maintain it. This wasn't a peaceful sleep; wherever Quatre had retreated to in his mind, it was not somewhere pleasant.

"I'm coming, Cat," he whispered, turning off the screen. He didn't need the photo in front of him to remember. It would be ingrained in his mind every waking moment until Quatre was safe, and Trowa had no intention of sleeping until that happened.

He reached for the phone, picked up the receiver and entered several numbers. Three clicks told him that the scrambling software Heero had installed for them had been initiated. Trowa hit another switch to turn off the vidscreen and then dialed another number. While he doubted that this enemy would be able to infiltrate their security, he was not about to take any chances.

Heero answered within the first few rings. "Yuy."

"Subdominant diminished." Trowa spoke the code words that Quatre had devised, quickly. In choosing the terminology, Quatre had decided to indulge his musical background, much to Trowa's amusement. But, as Quatre had reminded him, it was too dangerous to directly use their code names from the war. If their identities were ever compromised, and the transmission intercepted, their enemy would recognise the phrase '04' immediately. Quatre had then shrugged and grinned. He was still using '04', just in a different way. After all, the subdominant was the musical term for the fourth degree of a scale.

"Understood." There was a pause before Heero continued. "I'll arrange a performance. Yuy out."

Trowa put down the phone, rose to his feet and cracked his knuckles. One thing that he had learnt from Quatre was that Gundam pilots worked better as a team, even if that team was minus one. Heero and Duo would be here by morning and Wufei and Relena soon afterwards.

He just hoped that Quatre could afford to wait that long.

End of Chapter One

TBC