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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
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Chapter Six: Respite
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Quatre stirred into reluctant wakefulness, squeezing his eyes closed against the frenetic whirling of the room. Was it supposed to move like that? Sure, he knew the colonies orbited the earth, but they didn't /rotate/ per se, so why were the walls spinning?
He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. Some detached, mildly amused part of his brain--the part that had woken him up in the first place--noted that it was a blue blanket, frayed at the edges and near worn through, and that he wasn't in his own bed with its fluffy Eiderdown and feather pillows, but rather a narrow, badly beaten-up trailer bed with robots dancing around on the sheets. They were dancing a little too wildly for Quatre's taste, and he closed his eyes again.
As he adjusted on the small mattress, trying to evade the shreds of light that spilled insistantly through the worn spots in the blanket, his hand brushed against--skin. Bare skin, that conscious part decided, most likely someone's leg.
One eye cracked open, just enough to peek. Yep, a leg all right. Two of them, in fact, connected to a pair of smiley-face boxer shorts, and a bare smooth chest, a couple of wiry arms, and a mop of very messy dark brown hair that covered a sleeping face.
Aha, thought that little conscious part of Quatre's brain, quite pleased with its own cleverness. This must be Trowa's bed. He liked Trowa's bed. Pity, really, that he couldn't remember how he ended up there. His mind twisted itself into little knots, trying to recall the previous night's activity. Just in case there ended up being a quiz on it today...or in case somebody mentioned it...or if he'd done something really embarrassing. It's never a good sign when one can't remember how they got into bed.
He did recall, however vaguely, being called to judge a contest involving drunk people taking clothes off while balancing on the high wire. He was fairly certain Catherine had been among them, though he couldn't remember if Trowa had or not. He was reasonably certain there had been no casualties. He remembered a girl with purple hair giving him something bright red to drink--or was the hair red and the drink purple? He wasn't quite sure--that tasted sweet, like several kinds of berries, and made his insides feel wonderfully fuzzy.
He stopped thinking quite abruptly when the telephone rang. No, it didn't ring. It screeched at the top of its electronic lungs like a vengeful, dying demon. Quatre squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. Trowa jolted awake next to him, whimpering under his breath as he disentangled himself from the sheets and crawled out of bed.
Quatre just wanted the horrible noise to stop. He'd never heard a phone ring so loudly in his entire life. Come to think of it, entire Oz bases, mobile suits, and towns had blown up with considerably less racket.
"Quatre...." The blanket peeled away, Trowa's fingers stroking down his face. That was pleasant, at least. "Wake up, love, Relena's on for you."
Quatre turned his face into the pillow. There, now he was invisible. "Mmffl. Lllgbbn."
Trowa chuckled, softly enough that it didn't cause too much pain. "I'll take a message, love, but stay awake for a few minutes and I'll find you some aspirin. You're going to need it." The normally-silent padding of his bare feet across the floor echoed in Quatre's ears, eliciting another moan. Aspirin, yes. That was a good plan. He managed to convince his skull to relax, and by the time he'd accomplished this remarkable feat, Trowa was sitting on the edge of the bed holding out a glass of water and two small pills. "Here. Drink all the water, it'll make it go away faster."
Quatre swallowed obediently, trying not to let the water dribble down his chin. "What did Lena want?"
"To talk to you. She's on L2 with Duo, they're following up some leads on their own and waiting for Heero to get back. She talked to Peygan, but she said she'll wait and tell you when you're feeling better."
Quatre winced. "Did you tell her...?"
"That you're hung over?" A ghost of a smile tickled Trowa's lips. "Of course. Was it supposed to be a secret?"
Quatre groaned, thrusting the empty glass into his lover's hands and snuggling into the blankets again. "Great," he grumbled, a faint and weary attempt at a joke. "I had a reputation, once...now it's all blown to shreds because I got drunk at a circus party."
"Don't worry," Trowa offered comfortingly. "You're a very cute drunk. And most of the rest of them won't remember either. Even if they do, they all love you to death. You'll be closer to them for the ordeal."
Quatre couldn't help but notice the wicked gleam in Trowa's green eyes, and pulled the blanket over his head. "Next time you share gossip about me, Trowa, I'm telling Heero you have robot sheets."
Trowa leaned close and kissed his forehead. "Go back to sleep, Quatre."
Quatre, despite the vague, numb feeling in his arms and the fact that he couldn't keep his eyes open, made a wild grab to pull Trowa down with him. "Not sleep...c'with me..."
Trowa, being a kind soul, didn't actually laugh out loud. "Later, little one, I have plans for you. Right now you need to sleep this off."
"Aw...awright..." Quatre, disappointed, nuzzled into the pillow as Catherine stuck her head through the curtain that separated Trowa's room from hers. Her frazzled auburn curls formed a disheveled halo around her pale face, and bloodshot eyes narrowed against the light.
"Stop makin' so much goddamn noise," she grumbled irritably. "By all that's holy, Trowa, just because you didn't drink...let the rest of us suffer in peace, will ya?"
Trowa gave a much-belaboured sigh, pulling on his jeans. "All right, all right. I'm not wanted. I'll go for a walk. Maybe when I come back there'll be humans in this trailer again."
Catherine growled.
"Or not," Trowa said cheerfully, kissing them each once and vanishing out the door.