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Long Lost
Disclaimer: I still don't own GW or any of its characters. I tried, but Evilnmalice outbid me. (Fortunately it didn't pay up, so it doesn't own them either.)
Warnings: None
Pairings: so far, only 3x4, we'll see how things develop
Archive: Desolation Angels: http://www.dreamwater.net/ashura
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Chapter 1: Puzzle Pieces
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Quatre paced to the window, peered out the corner of the curtain for the twelfth time in as many minutes, and threw himself impatiently onto the sofa with a sigh. Iria, curled in a chair near the fireplace with a book on her lap, let a chuckle escape.
"Patience, Quatre, patience," she challenged laughingly. "Staring out the window's not going to make her get here any faster."
"I know." He rolled onto his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling mournfully. "But--I've got butterflies in my stomach, Iria, just from the way her voice sounded." He laughed ruefully as a slender hand tangled in the trim of the Persian rug spread out on the floor. "I wish Trowa was here, I feel like I'm going to explode."
"I think," Iria said dryly, "that those are two separate problems, little brother."
Quatre tossed a pillow at her, wrinkling his nose as it bounced off her head. One thing a Gundam pilot could be counted on for was good aim. "That's not what I meant and you know it."
"Aa," Iria conceded. "Although I notice you're not denying it, either."
Quatre groaned and buried his head in the remaining cushions. "No, I'm not denying it, now don't be mean. I've been less nervous about going to war, Iria--do you know what it takes for a Gundam pilot to get butterflies?"
Iria didn't even look up from her book. "Mm-hmm. Tall, quiet, brown hair, green eyes, can do a triple backflip from the garden wall and land on his feet."
"You're no help," Quatre grumbled, abandoning the couch to peek out the window again. "Putting pictures like that in my head when I'm not likely to see Trowa for another month. Oh!! There she is!" He watched the car pull up the drive for a heartbeat or two, then grinned at his sister over his shoulder. "I'm glad she got rid of that awful pink thing. I even like pink, but for a /car/...?" His nervous monologue continued as he fluttered out the door, and down the hall to greet his guest, leaving Iria laughing softly into her book.
Relena, like all of the pilots, had grown taller in the two years since the war had first erupted. On Dorothy's (remarkably good) advice, she had highlighted her hair with streaks of gold, and taken to wearing lipstick. Her face had left behind the cherubic roundness of childhood as the rest of her had blossomed into at least a sophisticated curvaceousness. Once her attention had turned from wars and battles, Dorothy had proven to be a good friend and a surprisingly warm person. She'd made Relena her project, displaying her proudly to the pilots and their friends whenever they saw each other. Quatre got the idea she'd been through Relena's wardrobe with some thoroughness as well, because the dowdy, shapeless ensembles and childish pastels had been replaced with darker, more vibrant colours as time went on. It was a change he approved of, though Duo had told him he was biased. He remembered the discussion well--they were sharing a bottle of wine on Duo's living room floor. Heero had been unable to comprehend how they noticed trivial things like Relena's wardrobe, let alone found it interesting discussion. Trowa had just smiled affectionately.
All of which brought him back to the moment, where Relena was standing in his doorway in jeans and a blue sweater, her hair tied back in a ponytail that bobbed behind her head. "Come in," he told her, with very little preamble, and she slipped inside. She looked--and felt--nervous. "Can I get you something..? Cup of tea, glass of wine..?"
She nodded, tense but pleasant. "Wine would be great, if you don't mind--I'm nervous, Quatre. Though I guess you probably know that already, don't you?" She smiled ruefully as he nodded assent. She'd always been the one who had the hardest time acclimatising to the idea that he could feel what the rest of them did.
Despite the butterflies still doing their own triple-standing-backflips in his stomach, Quatre did his best to make small talk and put her at ease as he poured the wine, handed her a glass, and led her back to the sitting-room Iria had discreetly vacated. She curled into the fireside chair, her eyes momentarily closing as she took a long breath, forcing herself calm. Quatre perched opposite her, on his favourite sofa.
"So..Relena," he began finally, when he thought the butterflies were about to transform into dragons and burst out of his chest, "you sounded troubled, when you called." That was an understatement. "What's on your mind?"
"Do you remember your mother?" she blurted.
She saw the flash of pain in his eyes as he shook his head. "She died having me, Relena, I thought--I thought you knew that." A slight shrug, barely more than a ripple of his slender shoulders, and he forced his composure again. "Why?"
Relena's fingers clenched around the stem of her glass, her eyes searching the amber liquid for answers she couldn't provide. "Have you ever seen pictures of her, though? Or...heard anything about her?"
It was apparent to Quatre that this was leading up to whatever she'd come over to discuss, so he answered honestly. "Pictures, yes. My father had one on his desk when I was little. I don't know too much about her, though. Her--her name was Quatrina; I was named for her. Everyone says she was very sweet, but they would never talk to me about her. It was like there was a big secret." His head fell back onto the arm of the couch. "Well--there was, I guess, it was that I killed her. Nobody wanted to tell me that. They told me I was a test tube baby til I found out for myself." His confession complete, his pale eyes sought Relena's again and he repeated, "Why?"
Relena didn't answer immediately, instead she reached for her purse. Quatre watched her, willing himself to be patient as she drew a wrinkled photo from the leather bag. "Quatre," she asked, nervously, her voice almost too soft to her, "is this a picture of her?"
He rolled off the sofa to reach for the picture, unfolding it to see his own aquamarine eyes staring back at him. Shock momentarily strangled his curiosity as well as his voice, and Relena just watched him, wide-eyed, until he nodded. "Yes. Yes, it is. Why--where did you get this?"
She slid to the floor to kneel next to him, her fingers trembling as she reached for the photograph. "It's my mother," she answered hoarsely. "Katrina Peacecraft of the Sanq Kingdom."
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TBC