A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

Midnight Coward

Chapter One

There was blood on his right cheek, had been for some time, but over the past two hours it had dried and hardened into a two-inch long scab of sorts.

Every time he moved, every time he opened his mouth to speak or lifted an eyebrow to sneer, he felt it move and it irritated him to no end.

He wanted, needed, to wipe it off.

But his handkerchief was in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and that had been left behind at the scene of the crime.

He'd be damned if he rubbed it off with his own hands or his shirt sleeve, like some child with a runny nose.

Nor, it seemed, was he to be allowed out of sight - he had had constant supervision, whether it be the very obvious uniformed officer staring intently at him, or the reflective sheen of the mirrored partition on one side of the interrogation room.

Funny, that. He supposed it was a function of his notoriety, of the reputation that still weighed him down ten years after the last shot had been fired in the last war. Even though he hadn't been the one who had attempted murder, he would always be viewed with suspicion.

So, for the last two hours, he had sat with another man's blood hardening on his skin.

And for the last fifteen minutes, as he answered one insufferable and superfluous question after another, he hadn't been able to decide what was more annoying - the dried blood, or the seemingly complete ineptness of the law enforcement officers questioning him.

The woman was only marginally more intelligent than her male colleague, and he had sized the both of them up the moment they stepped into the room and found them wanting.

Depressing to think that they thought he was enough of a danger to keep him in this room, and yet couldn't muster up anyone more intimidating than these two officers, perhaps in their mid-twenties, who were far too young to understand just how little he cared.

"... different than other nights?"

He sighed and forced himself to focus on the sound of their voices.

In addition to the dried blood on his face, he had a headache, and he was fairly confident he had bruised a rib or two.

"Pardon?"

The woman cleared her throat and tried again.

"Was there anything that you did tonight that was different than other nights?"

At least, he admitted, they were making an attempt.

"Well," he sighed, and examined the nails of his right hand. There was blood under the index and middle fingers. "I decided to take a gamble and try the venison and red beets tonight. Interesting flavor combination, but not as satisfying as I imagined it would be."

He could see that his answer had exasperated both officers.

"Mr. Peacecraft- I mean, Prince-"

"I already told your superior that my legal name is Zechs Merquise. If your station is this inefficient with routine paperwork notations, my already low confidence in your ability to do any good in this situation has sunk even further."

His words, delivered in the sharp tones he had once used on fresh recruits of the Specials Unit who thought they were God's gift to warfare, had the desired effect.

They both shrunk back in their seats, their expressions turning sullen and sour.

He allowed himself a minute smirk.

All things considered, he had every right to enjoy this at least a little.

"Mr. Merquise," the woman cleared her throat and sat up straighter. He wondered if they were playing some sort of mediocre cop-boring cop in an attempt to get him to open up to them.

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"Mr. Merquise, I can understand how tonight's events might have upset you-"

"Do I appear upset?" he asked with a slight frown.

"N-no," she stammered, looking to her colleague for support.

"I admit that I was rather attached to this shirt." He grimaced as he looked at the blood on the sleeves of the lavender dress shirt. It was a silk-linen blend, and there was no way his housekeeper would be able to do anything to save it.

"Mr. Merquise, we are trying to help you. If you would please just answer our questions, then-"

"Then what, I will be allowed to go?" He was growing bored, and while he had been waiting for his lawyer, or rather, his lawyer's associate, since she had been on vacation in Switzerland when he called her and was likely still on a plane as she made her way back to New York, he had half a mind to simply go ahead and tell these peons something so that he could leave.

"Well..." It was the man who spoke this time, his shifty eyes betraying the fact that he knew what he was going to say would no doubt be upsetting. "We've been instructed to hold you until you can be released into the custody of a Preventers agent."

Zechs couldn't help the sigh of irritation at that news. First, idiot local law enforcement, and now he would have to deal with the irritation of having the Preventers involved in this.

Delightful.

Sometimes, he wished he had simply stayed on Mars.

"Now, Mr. Merquise, could you please-"

There was a knock on the door and the man scrambled out of his seat, pathetically eager to answer it.

He stepped outside, leaving Zechs alone with the female officer.

"Do you happen to have a handkerchief?" he asked her, after the silence between them had grown tense enough that she started to shift in her seat.

"Uh, no?"

"How unfortunate."

Her eyebrows knit together in either confusion or irritation - likely some combination of the two - and Zechs took a sip from the paper cup of water on the table. Aside from being instructed to sit, the cup of water had been the only effort at hospitality.

He looked at the woman again and had to wonder - had he killed anyone she knew?

It was a twisted game he played at times, looking at the people around him and wondering just how his actions had impacted them, just how they viewed him.

The door opened again and the male officer walked back in, a tall blond haired man in a dark suit on his heels.

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

The man didn't look like a Preventers agent.

"I'm Mark. Alison sent me to fill in. Her flight lands in four hours."

Zechs nodded. He hoped the unimposing man had at least a fraction of Alison's talent. Likely that was all he would need. The woman was a shark, and Zechs deeply appreciated her service as his lawyer over the last few years.

Mark stepped fully into the room and took a seat beside Zechs.

"Can I ask why my client is being held?" The words were clipped, his tone devoid of all warmth, and Zechs liked him already.

"As I've told Mr. Merquise, a Preventers agent is being sent to take him into custody."

"Why?" Mark asked with a scowl.

"For questioning and-"

"Questioning? Is he being charged with a crime? I thought that even the most cursory examination of the crime scene would make it abundantly clear that Mr. Merquise was the victim, and that his actions were purely in self-defense."

The officers seemed taken aback by Mark's knowledge of the situation.

"I saw the surveillance tapes while I was in transit," Mark said, his tone bored. "Now, can you explain-"

"How did you get them?" the woman interrupted. "Those are-"

"Part of an ongoing investigation, yes, yes, I am aware. Now. Back to my question Ms.…?

"Hernandez. Officer Hernandez."

"Officer Hernandez, if my client is not being charged with a crime, then why do the Preventers need to take him into custody for questioning?"

"I have no idea," she bit out. "I'm simply following the order to hold him here until one of their agents can arrive."

"And just when will that happy moment occur?" Mark asked.

Zechs decided that he liked Mark quite a bit. He was just as acerbic as Alison, and, at least on the surface, appeared just as competent and confident.

"Soon, I'm sure."

Mark made a sound in his throat that managed to articulate a world of skepticism.

Both of the officers across the table flushed, and Zechs allowed himself a smirk.

He wondered what Mark was like in bed.

"I would ordinarily assume that my client has been offered medical assistance, but… all things considered, I feel the need to ask."

The officers stared.

"Has Mr. Merquise been offered medical assistance?" Mark repeated.

"But he's… he's fine. There's not even a scratch on him," the male officer protested. "The EMTs at the scene said he wouldn't let them look at him or anything."

Mark turned to Zechs, one eyebrow raised, and waited for confirmation.

Zechs shrugged one shoulder.

"I'm fine."

Mark's eyes roamed over his face and body, testing the veracity of Zechs's words.

"Have you at least managed to identify the man responsible for the attack on Mr. Merquise?" Mark asked, turning back to the officers.

"Not yet. We're running his prints and dental records through the system. He didn't have any identification on him. Our forensic specialist is still at the site."

"Fascinating. And just when can we expect to know who attempted to murder Mr. Merquise?"

"I, well-"

The door to the room opened suddenly and forcefully, letting in what appeared to be a heated argument.

"...don't give a flying fuck. I showed you my badge. You got a problem with this then call my damn superiors, but you are going to clear those fucking reporters from the front of this station or I'm going to have a unit flown in to escort him from the premises and then we'll see who's making such a big fucking deal."

The words were delivered in an angry, irritated growl, and then the man delivering them stepped into the room, a scowl twisting his face.

Zechs found himself staring.

He had only ever met him twice, just after the second war and then again when Zechs had first returned from Mars and attended a function in the Sanq kingdom.

Even so, Zechs had never actually been this close to Duo Maxwell before, and he found himself thinking that it was no wonder he had been called Shinigami as a youth.

Anger was practically radiating off of him, and he projected a sense of danger that Zechs found to be extremely refreshing. He could feel his pulse speed up a little at the cold, wild look in Maxwell's indigo eyes.

He looked to be of average height - perhaps even on the tall side for a colonist - and while he had certainly filled out his since days as a teenaged terrorist, he was still slight, his broad shoulders only emphasizing the narrowness of his hips.

He also looked as though he had dressed in a rush - dark jeans, a dark button up shirt tucked haphazardly into them, and a threadbare black jacket over that. His disheveled clothes made Zechs grimace, but the haggard expression on Maxwell's face - the deep bruises under his eyes and the pallor of his skin, the sloppy tail of hair over one shoulder - actually piqued his curiosity.

He wondered if the other man had been pulled off of an assignment in a hurry to deal with this situation. It looked like he was suffering from more than getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.

Maxwell's deadly eyes landed on Zechs, assessing him for a moment.

Zechs arched an eyebrow and he saw Maxwell's full lips compress, but the man didn't say anything.

Instead, Maxwell turned his attention to the room's other occupants, sizing them up and, based on the way his mouth quirked up in a lopsided sneer, found them wanting.

"And you are?" Hernandez asked.

"Agent Maxwell, from the Preventers New York office. Who are you?"

Hernandez blinked and stared, clearly a little awestruck to be in the presence of one of the infamous heroes of the people. Zechs couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Officer Hernandez, I'm-"

But Maxwell waved a hand impatiently and shook his head.

"Whatever. You the one who has to sign the paper turning him over to me, or is that someone else?"

Maxwell's sharp tone brought Hernandez back to herself, and her gaze hardened.

"He still hasn't answered all of our questions about what exactly happened. We need a statement and-"

"Jesus. Fine." Maxwell waved his arm imperiously, gesturing at Zechs. "Can you just tell them what they want to know so we can get out of here?"

Zechs found himself perversely amused by Maxwell's irritation, and, if he hadn't been so bored with the situation himself, he might have tried to prolong this just to irritate him further.

Maxwell settled himself against the wall across from the two-way mirror, leaning back and folding his arms and doing a far better job at looking intimidating than the two officers had yet managed.

"Well, we just- we just have a few questions left." It was the man, stumbling through his words, his eyes still wide and his hero worship evident.

They aren't even colonists, Zechs thought to himself, annoyed and a little disgusted.

"Did you want to ask them?" Maxwell prompted, when neither of the officers immediately asked a question.

"Um," the man looked at the notebook in front of him. "Can you think of anyone who might want you dead?"

Maxwell snorted a derisive laugh, and Zechs watched as he scrubbed one hand over his eyes.

"It might take from now until the end of eternity for him to answer that. I should have finished that cup of motor oil you people insist on calling coffee."

Zechs wondered just where, on the admittedly long list of people who might want him dead, Maxwell placed himself.

Hernandez cleared her throat.

"Well?" she prompted.

Zechs sighed, and Maxwell muttered something under his breath.

"Any number of people might want me dead," Zechs said with a nonchalant shrug. "Few of them, I imagine, have the means to hire an assassin to do it."

Hernandez arched an eyebrow and beside her, Mark shifted uneasily in his seat.

"An assassin?" Hernandez frowned. "What makes you think he was-"

"You said yourself that he didn't have any identification. I didn't recognize him, as I've already said, and he was determined and skilled enough to pose a slight threat. It seems obvious that he was hired to do the job."

"A slight threat?" Hernandez's colleague echoed with disbelief. "You killed him without even breaking a sweat."

"Looks like his hair got a little mussed, though," Maxwell said, offering up another lopsided sneer.

Zechs didn't bother to glare at him.

"He was a professional, and he knew what he was doing," Zechs sighed.

"Okay, then can you think of anyone who would pay to have you murdered?" Hernandez reframed her question.

Zechs's headache had grown from moderate to severe, and the pain in his side meant that each breath he took burned.

"I am a public figure, and there are no doubt individuals who would wish me dead. Frankly, I can't think of anyone with enough motivation to do it."

Hernandez tapped her fingers on the table, looking at him steadily, and Zechs was almost impressed that she wasn't buying it.

"What about someone who knows you well enough to know your… habits? To follow you and attack you at a time and place where you are vulnerable?"

"I've dealt with a few stalkers over the years."

"Dealt with?" the male officer repeated. It seemed to be his main purpose.

Mark jumped in before Zechs could say anything more.

"I think my client has made it clear that he doesn't know who was responsible for this, and I think that he has been more than helpful in answering your questions after a very long and difficult night. If you have any further questions for him, you can forward them to our office," Mark passed a business card across the table, "and I am sure we can accommodate you."

Hernandez took the card, a fierce scowl on her face.

She looked from Zechs to Maxwell.

"Are you going to keep him here while you question him?"

"No thanks." Maxwell pushed himself away from the wall. He regarded Zechs for a moment. He looked just as angry as when he had first walked into the room, but he had also settled, some of the tension leaving him, though Zechs knew it would be a mistake to think that meant the man was any less dangerous.

Maxwell jerked his head towards the door.

"Let's go."

If Zechs wasn't sitting in a place he had absolutely no desire to be in, and if he hadn't been suffering through boredom and irritation for the last two hours, he would have demanded to know where Maxwell intended to go.

As it was, Zechs took his time standing up, pausing to finish his cup of water and offering Hernandez a mock salute with it before he followed Maxwell from the room, Mark just behind him.

There were a fair number of uniformed officers in the halls, loitering and making pathetic attempts to appear busy when, in fact, it was clear that they had only gathered to catch a glimpse of either Maxwell or Zechs.

How lucky for them to have two celebrities here, Zechs thought.

As they neared the front of the station, Maxwell flipped the lapels of his jacket up and pulled on a black baseball hat that he situated to cast a shadow over his eyes and nose.

Zechs couldn't help but smirk a little at that.

"Surely being seen with me could only improve your reputation."

Maxwell's lips twitched, and he seemed on the verge of offering up a sharp retort, but Mark stepped up beside Zechs.

"My client has had a long night. Unless the Preventers intend to hold him for something, I feel that he should be allowed to return to his home and-"

"Chill out, I'll take him home," Duo grumbled.

"Thoughtful of Une to send a chauffeur, but I have a car service that I prefer to use."

Maxwell's glare turned nuclear at the insult.

"You and I need to talk, and I'm pretty sure it's going to involve things that it's best your lawyer not be privy to unless he's comfortable perjuring himself in court."

Mark frowned at the words.

If it had been Alison, Zechs was confident she would have just arched an eyebrow, folded her arms, and tapped her foot impatiently.

But Mark, it seemed, was no Alison.

He turned to Zechs.

"Do you want-"

"I'll be fine," Zechs cut him off. "Have Alison follow up with me tomorrow. And see to it that the funeral-"

"Yes, Alison is already working out the details."

Zechs nodded in appreciation.

Mark looked uneasy, but he walked past them, out of the station, and Maxwell watched him go, peeking around the open door as if he expected to see someone out there.

"Fucking paparazzi are still out there."

"I don't care," Zechs said.

Maxwell looked back at him.

"Yeah, well, the world's bigger than just you. Other people care that you aren't seen being escorted out of a police station covered in blood."

Zechs arched an eyebrow at that.

Other people.

Of course. Relena, his darling younger sister, had her political career to think of - one didn't get elected to be the youngest Foreign Minister and retain the post by allowing her embarrassing older brother to provide fodder for the gossip rags.

Then again, it could simply be Une, who had no real love for Zechs but still, inexplicably, felt a grudging need to protect him all these years after the death of the man they had both loved.

Maxwell sighed.

"We'll just have to go out the back. Come on."

Maxwell started to walk in the opposite direction, not even looking back to see if Zechs would follow.

That alone irritated him - Maxwell's assumption that he would simply obey commands - but having to walk back through the halls of wide-eyed stares had him ready to snap.

Zechs wasn't sure how Maxwell found the back entrance to the station, but a few minutes later, they were stepping out onto rain-drenched pavement, the glow of the city rising above them but the alley blissfully quiet and still.

"I parked half a mile down," Maxwell gestured.

"Confident I'll survive the walk?"

Maxwell looked over at him, a threat in his expression.

"Who knows? Could be someone's lucky day after all."

Zechs had already assumed that Maxwell felt antipathy towards him, but it was convenient to have it so neatly confirmed.

Maxwell was silent as they walked, for which Zechs was thankful.

Now that he was out of the station, away from the prying, judgemental eyes of the officers and the glare of bright lights overhead, he was starting to feel the full effects of the day.

By the time they made it to Maxwell's car, Zechs's head was pounding and his breathing was labored. If the other man noticed, he didn't say anything.

The car itself, when Maxwell stopped beside it and walked around to the driver's side, gave Zechs pause.

The dark silver body gleamed in the streetlight, the lines of the car those of old Terran classics - nothing like the boxy, contemporary cars that filled the rest of the street. It was a roadster, and emblazoned on the hood of the car was the emblem of a long-defunct American manufacturer.

Zechs looked away from the car and over at Maxwell.

"I had no idea that the Preventers' car pool included Terran classics. Why do they even bother keeping a Stingray in running order?"

"It's not theirs," Maxwell snapped.

Zechs looked at the car again, and then back at Maxwell, studying him with fresh eyes.

That Maxwell had an interest in mechanics was hardly surprising - that he had an affinity for Terran sports cars two centuries old was.

"She runs just fine," Maxwell grumbled, mistaking Zechs's hesitation for mistrust.

Zechs had no doubt of that, but he wasn't about to offer up a compliment to the younger man. Instead, he wordlessly climbed into the passenger seat.

It was an effort to hold in a sigh of relief as the leather seat molded around his body and he stretched his legs out in front of him.

Maxwell shifted the car into gear and maneuvered out of the parking spot effortlessly and into the flow of traffic.

"Preventers headquarters is in Midtown," Zechs casually pointed out when Maxwell headed towards the Upper West Side.

"Why would I take you to HQ? I said I would take you home."

That Maxwell knew where he lived bothered Zechs. It wasn't as if his whereabouts were a secret, but he still didn't like having a former terrorist - a former enemy, probably not even former - knowing where he slept.

Zechs felt off-balance, and it was a rare enough occurrence that he wasn't entirely sure how to regain his equilibrium.

-0o-

TBC