Wild Roses – First Blood

Chapter Thirteen

Mid July AC 191 Zodiac Wing

Forward Operating Base

"All right, what's going on?" Otto demanded, cornering Zechs with a hand on his elbow as he stepped out of the locker room showers a few days later. "You've been walking around like the cat that got the cream for the last week and Commander Treize keeps smiling at people."

Zechs, momentarily disconcerted at being accosted in such a fashion whilst not wearing more than a towel, relaxed when he saw it was his former roommate. "Jesus, Otto!" he swore. "Are you trying to give me heart failure?"

Otto grinned wickedly. "Well, somebody's got to kick your pulse up a notch occasionally, gorgeous, and I haven't seen enough of you lately to do it the nice way. Are you hiding from me?" he asked teasingly.

"Of course not!" Zechs protested. "I've just been stupidly busy, that's all." He shook Otto's grip off his arm and bent to start drying himself. "We've got rumours flying at us from half-way around the world about possible attacks in the next couple of days," he explained, aware even as he said it that it was information that Otto shouldn't really be hearing. "Treize thinks we'll be seeing our first active deployments before the end of the week."

Otto's lovely eyes widened. "What, for real?" he asked. He shook his head. "I don't know whether to feel excited or scared out of my mind," he said quietly. "Any idea what and what numbers?" he asked.

Zechs also shook his head. "Not a clue, and I'd suggest a little of both. It's what I've been working on lately."

It was the truth, as far as it went. The first reports had hit Treize's desk not three hours after he'd told Zechs of his wife's pregnancy and they'd been coming in thick and fast ever since. Treize had broken the news to his Staff officers only that morning that he was expecting their first deployment in the next few days but he'd told Zechs that General Catalonia was itching to test his new Wing as soon as he'd done reading that first report.

Zechs had felt his heart leap into his mouth at the words, surprising himself with how anxious he was, and he'd been alternating between that frantic nerviness and his overwhelming delight at Leia's pregnancy ever since.

"Is that what's had you hogging the simulators then?" Otto asked, one eyebrow lifted curiously as he commented on the fact that Zechs had been spending a lot of his free time in the past few days in the training suites, running drills for himself. "I was wondering. I was putting it down to frustration, hon," he added slyly.

Zechs felt himself colour a little as he reached into his locker and pulled his clothes free. "Otto!" he protested, scandalised. Neither of them had made any effort to keep their preferences, or their friendship, a secret from the rest of the Wing but still, there were limits. The locker rooms were definitely not the best place for Otto to be flirting with him!

"What?" Otto asked, with an unrepentant grin. "You certainly haven't been fucking me lately," he said brazenly. "So unless there's something I don't know, love…?"

Zechs just about choked. "Oh, my God, Otto, will you shut up?" he spluttered. "You cannot say things like that!"

Otto smirked. "Why not?" he asked cheekily, then shrugged as he let his expression soften into apology. "Sorry, sweetie. I'll stop," he promised, having succeeded in making Zechs's blush deepen to a near match for his coat. "So, the simulators…?" he nudged.

The blond boy shook his head in disgust as he pulled his undershirt over it and glared at his friend. "What about them?" he asked. "I've spent so long whipping my Squadron into shape that I was forgetting what a cockpit felt like. I didn't think that was a good thing from what Treize has been saying so I corrected the problem." He picked up his heavy jacket and began shrugging into it.

"Is that what you're calling it, gorgeous," Otto said dryly, reaching out automatically to help his friend. "Right."

Zechs paused in buttoning his jacket to cast the other boy a puzzled look. "What should I be calling it, then?" he asked. "They're only simulator runs."

"Sure," Otto agreed mildly. "But have you bothered looking at the times you've been making?" He tilted his head. "The rest of us are coming off like first year cadets in comparison, beautiful. The vets in my unit are saying they've never seen anyone move so fast."

"I'm quick," Zechs replied evenly. "I've always been quick. What of it?" he asked. "I'm not doing anything I wasn't at the Academy," he said, and there was a thread of uncertainty in his voice that betrayed the confident phrasing.

Otto softened immediately, reaching out to put one hand on Zechs's red-clad arm as the other boy finished tugging his uniform into place on his body and reached for his darkened glasses. "You never scored like this at the Academy," he replied softly. "Honestly. There's quick and there's quick. Noin wouldn't know what had hit her now."

Zechs frowned slowly. "It can't be that different, Otto," he protested. "It's only been two months." He stopped and thought for a moment. "Admittedly, your Squadron Leader showed me a few tricks a couple of weeks ago," he explained slowly, "but they aren't anything major. They shouldn't be causing that much improvement."

He closed his locker door with a metallic clank and picked up his towel to take it with him back to his rooms, beckoning Otto with him as he began to move towards the door.

Otto fell into step willingly, standing close enough that he was brushing along Zechs's arm and hip as they moved. "Well, something is, love," he replied. "Maybe he showed you more than you thought he had," he suggested.

Zechs shrugged, wondering about it himself now. The impromptu lesson had been delivered at four in the morning, out of uniform and entirely off the record. Only the fact that it had been Treize who'd ordered him to report to the training suites had kept Zechs from turning on his heel and walking away from the older man, especially when his first words had been, "Bonjour, baby bird. Welcome to the last flying lesson you'll ever need!"

Jean-Remy St Cyr Chennault, Treize's second in command and Otto's Squadron leader, was an anomaly in the Specials. He was an officer who wasn't an aristocrat, a man whose military rank was his only title. Rarer still, he was a colonial – and not in the sense of being from space. He was American, Louisiana-born – as he'd stressed to Zechs the moment they were introduced – and his New World pedigree counted for less than nothing in the Euro-centric halls of the Alliance.

Making him stand out even more was his Cajun heritage, an ancestry that showed through in every word he spoke. His accent was thicker than swamp mud and he talked perpetually in a bastard Anglo-French patois that was never entirely comprehensible. Un-translated, his greeting to Zechs had been more truly, "Bonjou', Beby Bir'. W'lcom' t' de las' flyin' l'sson yeh'll eva nee'!" than anything close to correct English.

His appearance was as unconventional as his speech. Hair so dark a brown as to be almost black was kept slicked back into a velvet ribbon that always looked in danger of slipping and a neatly trimmed moustache hid the worst of a narrow scar bisecting his top lip. His customised uniform coat of heavy white wool and bright green facings stood out – if such a thing was possible – even more than Zechs's own vivid scarlet did.

In spite of all that – or perhaps because of it – he was an undoubtedly attractive man, something Zechs and Otto had both noted fairly quickly. His hawkish gold eyes, trim, lanky figure and warm honey skin were matched with a certain insouciant charm that made people smile at him whether they willed it or not.

No amount of charm, though, would have seen him ranked Captain if he hadn't also been damned talented in the field. At twenty-six, Captain Chennault was a multiple ace in multiple suits and the Specials uncontested top pilot by a margin that was close to embarrassing, absolute, unprecedented genius behind the controls.

Or so Treize had said to Zechs when ordering him to attend his little refresher class. Remy himself – as he'd insisted Zechs call him – had laughed at this portrayal whilst he was flipping switches in the simulated cockpit and given a rather different description.

"My granddaddy was a pilot," Zechs quoted the man softly now. "My great-granddaddy was a pirate and my grandmother's from time out of mind have been witch queens. I'm a southern gentleman with the Mississippi in my blood and a feel for flying."

Next to him, Otto chuckled softly. "Are you now?" he said impishly. "I wouldn't have taken you for American," he teased.

"I was quoting your Squadron Leader," Zechs replied archly, knocking his arm into his friend's as they stepped out of the locker room and into the warm, damp evening. "It's what he said to me when he was drilling me the other day."

"Ah," Otto said, as understanding dawned. "That makes more sense." He chuckled softly. "Have you ever heard anything like that accent before?" he asked impishly, referencing his commander's unique way of speaking.

Zechs shook his head, smiling unwillingly. "Definitely not," he admitted. "Half French and half English and half nonsense as far as I can tell." He paused contemplatively. "He's a good pilot, though," he allowed.

"Bloody good, actually," Otto enthused. "He was showing us this little evasive jink he does in training the other day and I couldn't even see how he did it, much less start duplicating it."

"I've seen it," Zechs said, and forbore from mentioning that he'd had no trouble duplicating it at all. That he was a better pilot than his friend was fact but Zechs saw no need to rub in just how much better. "It's probably just practice," he offered supportively.

Otto shrugged good-naturedly. "Maybe but I think there's more to it than that. Have you seen him play his little harmonica thing yet?" he continued. "He has very deft hands."

Zechs shook his head. "Not yet," he answered honestly, following Otto's train of thought without effort – that strong, agile hands made for a pilot who could play his controls with more finesse, and so made for a better pilot.

A moment later, the blond canted his friend a speculative look, his smile becoming a wicked little smirk as he read the other boy's body language and picked up on the other reason Otto had made the comment. "Oh, for God's sake," he sighed indulgently. "Try not to fuck your Squadron Leader, hmm?" he suggested mildly.

Otto flushed a little, caught off-guard, but he returned Zechs's smirk like for like. "Any reason why not?" he asked cheerfully.

"You mean, aside from the fact that he's straight?" Zechs shook his head, shrugging expressively. "It's probably bad luck to nail your commanding officer," he said, "and it's definitely bad for your career."

Otto laughed affectionately. "Bad for my career?" he wondered, scandalised by the suggestion. "Oh, I don't think it would be, beautiful. Not unless you've been taking a lot of acting classes," he tweaked. He tilted his head, making chocolate curls shift in the dying evening light. "As for straight…" Otto continued. "Even if he is – and I highly, highly doubt it, gorgeous – the only difference between a straight man and a gay one is five shots of spirits!"

Zechs cringed. "Otto!" he protested. Comments like that belonged to a side of his friend that he didn't like very much.

A moment later, he shook his head again, this time in negation rather than simple expression. "I really wouldn't make a play for him," he advised quietly. "I overheard him talking to Treize about women, so he's at least bi, and he is your Squadron Lead. Fraternisation with a senior officer is a serious breach of regs."

"I can live with bi," Otto said quietly, shrugging casually. "Especially when it's as hot as Jean-Remy Chennault. But if you're worried, I'll leave be."

Otto took a longer step or two, moving to push open the door the two boys were approaching and hold it for his friend. "He'd probably be a better match for you than me anyway," he suggested softly. "That Ice Prince chill you've been cultivating lately could do with a little spice to balance it."

Zechs turned his head to glare meaningfully. "I'm not 'cultivating' anything," he replied shortly. "And I've told you not to call me that."

The smaller pilot let go of the door, falling back into step as Zechs led them down the central corridor of the Staff Officer's quarters. "Why not?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "It suits you. There's always been something very regal about you when you're in a huff and the way you've been talking to some of your Squadron these last few days could freeze outer space."

Zechs shrugged tightly. "If they will insist on acting like idiots," he said, and left the rest of the sentence to Otto's imagination.

"It's got to be better than 'baby bird'," Otto offered, eyebrows raised speculatively.

Zechs shook his head. "No, it doesn't." He opened the door to his rooms and walked through it, leaving his former roommate to follow him, or not, as suited him. "Stop, Otto. Please?" he asked softly. "I have reason not to find it funny, don't you think?"

There really was only one reply Otto could make to that and he did it whilst giving a long, loud and entirely internal groan, realising too late what he'd forgotten about his friend. "Okay," he answered quietly, then, "I'm sorry."

Zechs waved it away with one gloved hand and moved to toss his towel into his laundry basket.

The move reminded him of Treize a few nights earlier and he smiled again as the recollection warmed him with thoughts of his soon-to-be Godson or daughter and the wonderfully, glowingly happy energy Treize had been radiating since. It wasn't a surprise that Otto had picked up on something being not quite right. He had cause to know Treize a little better than most and would have been one of the first to notice that there was something overriding his usual calm control.

The smile, the shift in his body language must have tipped Otto off, because he crossed the little room in a couple of rangy strides to stand next to his friend.

"And we're back to the point I started this conversation on," Otto said as he drew close. "What on Earth is going on that's got you smiling like that?"

Zechs consciously set aside the dark thoughts that were bubbling in the back of his mind and focused on happier things. "Just family stuff," he said lightly.

Otto canted his head and raised a speculative eyebrow. "Oh?" he asked, matching Zechs's tone. "Has Treize suddenly decided to declare his undying love?" he teased.

"Oh, hardly likely." Zechs rolled his eyes. "No, it's Leia."

"What about her?" Otto asked.

For a moment, Zechs considered whether he should be sharing the information with Otto – Treize was peculiarly secretive about his marriage – but then he reminded himself that Otto was in a unique position as far as such things were concerned. He was the closest thing Zechs had to a significant other at the current time and was on personally friendly terms with both Treize and Leia besides. He couldn't imagine that Treize would especially mind Otto knowing the truth – he might even be happy to have someone else to share it with, given that he was cut off from Larkspur and Valadin and could hardly confide in Lady Une.

"She's pregnant," Zechs told the smaller pilot and Otto's handsome face suddenly lit up with delight, his warm, velvety eyes dancing with pleasure.

"That's fantastic news," Otto said. "No wonder the Commander's been bouncing about the place."

Zechs laughed softly. "You have no idea," he confessed. "He's been restraining himself in public, believe me."

"I can imagine," Otto said, who wouldn't have been able to do any such thing if he hadn't once seen Treize play fight with Zechs, and win by dumping the blond on his arse on the floor. "Well, now," he carried on, "this calls for a celebration. What are we going to do?" he asked, and suddenly, almost between words, his voice dropped and darkened, becoming smoky and suggestive.

Zechs felt his body tighten in response, reminding him that it had been more than a fortnight since anyone other than himself had laid a hand on him.

In truth, the new posting and the new rooming arrangements had impinged on his relationship with Otto more than Zechs had ever thought they would. They couldn't simply stumble the five feet between their beds as they had at the Academy whenever one of them felt the urge – Zechs's rooms were on the far side of the base to the pilot's bunks and Otto shared his sleeping space with two other officers from his Squadron. It made things difficult.

Nor was there anything much in the way of a social community on the base yet. There had been one or two get-togethers, including Treize's, but nothing serious. Zechs hadn't needed the stories of the seasoned hands to tell him that wouldn't change until the Wing was blooded. It meant, for the moment, that there was little opportunity to duplicate the nightlife he and Otto had enjoyed at the Academy and that meant that, at this point, Zechs wasn't even sure which of the hundred or so pilots on base shared his gender preferences, much less which ones might be amenable to a mutually enjoyable encounter or two.

Maybe Otto had been right, after all. Maybe Zechs had been throwing himself into his work because he was frustrated.

Fortunate that there seemed to be a solution at hand, then.

Raising one eyebrow slowly, Zechs let himself smile in a fashion he knew Otto had a weakness for. "I have no idea," he replied, matching his voice to his friend's. "Any suggestions, Officer?" he asked silkily.

Otto grinned at him, his smile that of a fallen angel. "Oh, always, sir," he replied.