Hey-o, and welcome to my Lil' World of Weirdness!!

I state for the record that I don't own Gundam Wing, or the wonderful characters that will be gracing this story. . . This story is dedicated to my ever wonderful Beta-reader, the Bluegoo – 'cause, just like with 'In This Tainted Soul' something she wrote set my muse off on a all-out writing crusade!!

Okay, that's the legal stuff out the way!!

//Thinking//

"Speaking"

*Stress/Emphasis*

~*~

**MealTime**

By Doctor Megalomania

Okay, so this is a series of little ficlets, there's no time line, no real point, nothing that links them, except for the fact they all came to me during various meals. This one is Trowa's POV, no warnings except for the sap. Please R&R at the end!!

Zero Three: Breakfast

Quatre . . .

He's sweet.

Gentle. Kind.

Wide eyed innocence made human.

I stand in the shadow of the doorway, just watching him as he fusses about the kitchen. He's just . . . what? I don't know there's something about him that leads me to do this every time he sits down to breakfast. The way he goes about it signifies everything about him. To most people it's just a meal, but every day off, Quatre gets up, and makes himself, and whoever happens to be sharing the safe-house a good full breakfast. He's just incredibly kind like that.

It bugs the hell out of me.

I frown as he fawns over the pan of water boiling on the cooker. How can he be like this, so untouched by the war . . . wasting time preparing a simple meal with a waste of flourish. It's a meal that should only provide a good base for the rest of the day. That's what living with the mercenaries taught me. There was never time to waste over a meal, it was cooked and hot. That was all that mattered. Anything else was considered a waste of time, time that could be better spent cleaning the guns, checking the base for intruders, and planning the next strike.

I sighed quietly so he doesn't notice me.

He reminds me of my 'sister', Catherine, she is this way too. Taking too much care over such silly small things, like the presentation of a meal. He stoops to get something out of the fridge, just as a timer trills. The eggs must be done. I move out of hiding and take the pan off the stove. Quatre straightens and smiles brilliantly at me, "Would you like orange juice or tea with your breakfast, Trowa?"

I raise an eyebrow, and shrug noncommittally. "It doesn't matter."

Again, he smiles, "Very well . . ." He glances from the pot of brewing tea to the juice carton in his hand, as he make a decision. "We'll have both."

Both?! What a waste!

I nod, even though my more stubborn survival instincts rant at him, and his choice. As he takes care of the toast, and the table I take the eggs over to the sink to shock them. As the cold water runs, I turn and look at him. He's humming quietly, as he sets the table for two, facing each other to make some light conversation. I see he's already gone out for the newspapers as he folds them nearby in case conversation needs a little boost.

Which of course it will, since Duo is not here, and I am not the most talkative of people.

I wonder what Quatre would do without Duo. The two are best of friends, and are the only ones who will keep the conversation flowing. If it were just Wufei, Heero and myself . . . I bite back a derisive snort, we'd be content to sit around a fire for three days and say nothing more than planning for a mission.

I sometimes wonder why Quatre joined our merry band of fighters. Duo I understand, he's here for revenge and underneath that Joker's façade, he's as cold and mean as the rest of us. But Quatre? Quatre is genuinely this kind and sweet right down to the bone.

"Are the eggs ready?" Quatre tosses over his shoulder, I turn and glance down, the steam is gone, and the eggs are probably set now. I grab a tea towel and cup my hand while the other pulls the eggs out of the tepid water.   

"Excellent!" Quatre crows as I place the eggs safely on the table. He seats himself and motions me to do the same. As I slid into my seat, I study his face. His expression is one of complete calm, but his eyes display a strange gratefulness. This is something I've never seen before, but know that it's something that somehow always occurs.

He blinks and looks up at me, the same expression still in his eyes, "Well . . . enjoy!" He smiles and reaches over to pour the tea. I stare at my plate and try to figure out why he would be so grateful for such a frivolous meal. I look up slightly and try to see what he sees.

I see a jug filled with chilled orange juice, with a steaming pot of tea. A rack of hot toast covered by a clean tea towel to keep the bread as warm as possible. A small makeshift nest made out of a tea towel, for the four boiled eggs. A small plate with butter and a clean knife. A selection of marmalades and jams, some thinly sliced meats. Salt and pepper. A newspaper, with it's supplements neatly piled nearby. Two eggcups, with two teaspoons. Two bone china plates, with two clean knives, wrapped in napkins. One bone china cup half filled with black tea, and my own rapidly filling with the same dark substance. A pot of sugar and a small jug of fresh cold milk are nearby.

There's a quiet chink as the teapot is carefully set down, and he starts to prepare his tea with milk and sugar. I look up, the sunshine is streaming through the window, and the radio is providing a soft mix of chatter and music.

"What do you see?"

The words are out of my mouth before I even think of them.

Quatre smiles, finishes with the milk, and stirs with the teaspoon. He puts the spoon down before he answers me. His aquamarine eyes stare directly into mine, as he rests his chin on his knuckles. Quatre smiles, and speaks softly.

"Proof. . . proof that I've lived, to see another day, another dawn. Proof that you've lived, that you've survived another cold night, another mission."

I blink as his smile broadens, and I understand. I stare down at the meal once again and realise that this is his method of surviving.

Reminding us, that we've fought, we've survived, and now . . .

I look up and incline my head gratefully.

. . . and now reminding us, to stop and take in the beauty that is this new day.

Owari