He loved watching her when she was sleeping as much as he loved watching her when she was talking. She was so very beautiful, so stunningly perfect that imperfections were merely a compliment to the natural grace instilled into her blood, the lovely result of years of careful Japanese breeding, with long ebony hair, just a tint of violet to it, hanging over skin that was pale from some ancient Western ancestor, skin that tanned easily in warm weather and would stay tan. Beautiful, perfect flaws. The tiny impression of fingernails pressing against a small dark spot on her forehead, the nails she could never keep even, the way her eyes never seemed to be calm, at peace. Had they truly only been married for a year? It seemed at times to him that their courtship had lasted for an eternity he would never trade, their marriage one that could never fade. But it was so very difficult to say those things to her, when he knew how she distrusted poetic words, flowery intentions, and it was crushing to know he couldn't do what other men would hesitate to do.
Quatre sighed and touched his lips to her tan cheek, letting his skin touch hers for a moment, feeling the strong heat that flowed from her summer-warm body. He loved arguing with her as well, loved watching her when her violet black eyes spit fire and her personality emerged from the layers of cool, detached beauty her father had told her men desired. She was a spitfire, opinionated and passionate, sarcastic and verging on insensitive, and he knew that was what had attracted him to her in the first place, the one time he had seen her fighting with a suitor her father had chosen. Tall, dark, and handsome, he thought, discarding the fact it was an obvious cliché. "I don't think I'm what your father had in mind," he murmured against her cheek, smelling the husky scent that was hers. "I'm certainly not what I would have thought you would want." He sighed unhappily, stroking her arm gently through the red satin of her nightgown, his pale European-Arabic hand in direct contrast with the slick crimson. He hated being the one considered feminine in personality, hated being the one always expected to surrender first, to obey, and he hated it always twisting against him so he could not tell her he loved her, because she did not want to hear it. Can't tell you, he whispered in his mind, that I was in the wars, a pilot of a machine of death…destroyer of colonies. She didn't even know of his mental imbalance, the horrible things extreme stress could do to him: he would lash out uncharacteristically, snarl and attack instead of turning and apologizing.
"Why are you crying?" he heard Rachelle ask, felt her slender fingers touch his cheek with a rare warmth and turn his blue eyes to her. The touch, on a physical level, was not foreign, but the kindness behind it was different from the usual calm atmosphere she tried to exude. Her fingertip picked up a tear and she brushed it aside, smearing a glittering streak across his face to below his earlobe.
"For no reason at all," he smiled, eyes obscured by the glimmer of wetness layering over them, and he was surprised, but not displeased, when her hand began to burn against his skin, fingers weaving into his hair and pulling his face down to her lips. He paused when she paused, feeling her dark, luminescent eyes on him, and he heard a soft noise, like a keen, in the back of his throat, and he whispered, "Rae," before she touched his mouth to hers.
--
Requiem: Bolero
--
"Quatre," she shook his shoulders sternly, leaning over her husband in the bed they now shared, "would you mind waking up? We do have things that need to be done today." Her tone was cool, layering over the impatience her eyes flashed, and he groaned into his pillow, nuzzling his face deeper into the misshapen depths. His hand snaked out and latched onto her wrist, pulling her unceremoniously from her stance beside the bed and sprawling her halfway on him. "Idiot!" she spat, momentarily forgetting the lessons taught by her father, and he laughed quietly, slim shoulders quivering in delighted amusement. Her cheeks burned as she recalled how he, in one of his few quirks, enjoyed seeing her angry. "Honestly," Rachelle strove for some semblance of dignity as she managed to wriggle and crawl off of him to her side of the bed, her crimson brocade gown bunching up at her knees, "I can't be nice to you once without you trying to take advantage of me in the morning." She sniffed haughtily, all an intricate show and he smiled softly, and her long hands smoothed out the folds made in her skirt before they could wrinkle into place. "Besides, I've already gotten my dress and make-up on."
He sat up slowly, letting the sheet slip to his lap, and he leaned to peck her cheek innocently, emerald green eyes all but glowing. "I'm very sorry, Rae," said Quatre sweetly, latticing his hands together as he pulled his knees, and the white sheet, up, tilting his head to one side in a purposefully cute movement. "I won't ever try to be amorous again."
Her cheeks grew even darker and she pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Foreign Minister Dorlian and her family are arriving today at noon," she responded in a tone that was completely business, pointedly ignoring him as he plucked his shirt from the floor and tugged it on over his head, "and I've asked Tanya to make that Italian dish she likes - fettuccini with that authentic sauce? And garlic bread, maybe some flavored ice for a small dessert. Of course, there will be other courses, but I made sure to request those specifically." He glanced up from tugging on some shorts that would last until he had to pull on the more formal wear the meeting would require and was a bit surprised, and mildly disappointed, to find she had stepped off the bed, running her finger down an electronic schedule. She tapped her finger against one of the choices listed and firmly deleted it, scanning the rest of the list swiftly and setting the flat object on the small bedside table, beneath a sleek antique lamp, one she had selected the other week. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked pointedly as he flipped through the various shirts she had set out, his face drawing into a worried expression.
"Where's my green polo?" he replied in that meek voice he used when he was upset or trying to get something he wanted, fluidly choosing the brown slacks from among the pants stacked on the arched chair positioned by the walk-in closet. Turning back to the bed in the center of the large, airy room, he cast a helpless look in her direction, navigating around the dresser pushed against the wall near the closet. "I was going to wear that."
She ignored his helpless look with admirable strength and instead stalked over to the chair he had abandoned, lifting a black button-up from the top and handing it to him with a forceful flourish. "For God's sake," Rachelle said in a voice that brooked no argument, "you're twenty-eight years old! Don't you think you're a little old for that?"
Quatre's lips drooped a bit and she narrowed her eyes dangerously, leaning over to pull meaningfully at the rumpled shirt he had on, tugging up with it. "Rae!" he protested, face reddening, and he shoved away from her hands, clutching at the front of his shirt and stepping back. "I can get dressed on my own."
"Of course, dear," she replied in a saccharine tone, landing a quick kiss on his chin before sweeping about on her heel and clicking across the floor. The wide double-doors, carved from browned oak, closed behind her and his soulful face turned to mild sadness. He tugged the shirt over his head and shrugged the open button-up on his shoulders, shifting it up his arms and tucking the cuffs comfortably.
Standing outside the bedroom she shared with her husband of thirteen months, she placed her hands on her lower abdomen, smoothing her fingers along the cloth clinging to her skin as she sought to ease the mild nausea stirring inside of her. She had yet to tell him of her pregnancy, feeling a sense of discomfort every time she tried to, one that was not caused by morning sickness, which was yet a week or two away according to the medical texts she had been poring over while he was at his office. Something was coming, something that was undetermined. Premonitions were an old gift of hers, like his empathy was for him, and she was used to knowing if the results would be good or bad, but this was neither. It unsettled her, frightened her, and she felt her stomach with her palms, as if to soothe the child forming within. "I will tell him later," she near-whispered determinedly, and the usual wave of stubborn emotions shook away any feelings of illness, swamping over her mind. Creasing her fingers up into arches, she tentatively pushed, very lightly, at the flat slope of her abdomen, wondering at what was to come, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have the added weight that would remind her constantly of her son or daughter. Probably a daughter, she thought with a secretive smile, if Quatre's twenty-nine sisters are anything to go by. Although, of course, one had to take into account that the whole group of thirty Winner children were test tube babies, so it was possible that she might have a son. "It's not important," she told their forming child, her voice intentionally pitched low so her beloved might not overhear, "so long as you are mine and you are his. Which I am prone to think you are." She laughed, a light sound, rare for coming from her, and looked down the length of the intricate hallway leading away from the door.
The door that was inching open at her back, and she respectfully moved forward, turning about slightly and planting her hands in a move of intimidation, squarely hooking her fingers on her hips. Quatre smiled in the doorway, hooking his belt into place and looking as adorably sophisticated as he could, reminding her of his dual, yet interlocked nature, both naive and intelligent at once. "Am I presentable?" he questioned, slowly pivoting around, and she smiled not unkindly, moving forward to check the folded collar of his shirt and to run her fingers through his hair, flexing strands in a certain direction, perhaps to excuse the affectionate action. His smile turned into soul-filled shyness and she mock-scowled.
"I'm going to make sure Tanya has finished setting up lunch," informed Rachelle, tugging and patting down his collar before moving in graceful motions down the hall. Having no other direction to turn to, he glanced out the tall Gothic windows on either side of the small landing linking bedroom to hallway and swept after her, absently fiddling with his silver-laced wedding band. Red-painted doors speckled the hallway, forming a total of ten beneath the arching ceiling, also Gothic in design.
"I thought you said the Dorlian family was going to arrive at noon," he reminded her, rolling his sleeve back a bit to check the quartz face of his leather watch, "and it's only...a quarter 'til twelve." He blinked reflexively and colored slightly, pulling his sleeve back into place and feeling unbalanced. "Why did you wake me so late?"
"You were sleeping and I figured it wasn't worth it," she replied bluntly, foregoing mentioning the fact that she had been loathe to disturb him when he looked so peaceful. It really wasn't that important to mention. "And as I've already seen that everything has been set up - guest wing, lunch, planning supper, and et cetera - it isn't as if you've failed at playing host." She paused as they reached the massive doors that would open into the main portion of the house, the several large rooms that formed the center, and she gave him a bittersweet smile, the kind preceding an echo of her father's many lessons from the past. "After all, the woman is in charge of making sure the house is kept in working order."
Rachelle strove to banish the image of his wounded face from her mind, assuming it would pass from his mind soon enough. She knew something he did not, after all, and that something was trying to reign in her overtly active twins from causing serious damage to rather expensive objects scattered tastefully throughout the house. Quatre stopped, blinked reflexively for the second time that day, and smiled brightly at the small family seated, or, in the case of two small boys, bouncing, in the extensive living/seating room. "Relena!" he beamed, and the stately blonde woman, her handsome face bright with a smile, stood up to give him a swift hug, one that he returned. "You're early!"
"Well," she began, giving Rachelle a quick hug and reciprocating the elegant smile the lady Winner gave her, "the shuttle landed early and we called to ask if it would be all right if we arrived earlier than we had originally planned, and Rae said it was hardly any trouble at all, though I'm sure she regrets that by now," a pointed look was delivered in the direction of the two swarthy boys wrestling dangerously close to a large china cabinet. Mentally, Rachelle made a note to have the china and other breakables moved to a small, locked room when her child was born. The dark arm of Noce Huntson-Dorlian descended from the edge of the hand-stitched sofa and easily hauled up one boy, followed by his twin, by the back of his shirt, plopping both unceremoniously beside their father.
Noce was the opposite of Relena, tall and with dark brown skin, his black hair curled tightly against his skull, cut short. His smile was easier than his wife's, a slash of pearly white that was simultaneously dashing and protective, and he stood carefully, making sure his lanky, strong frame didn't overturn anything. His offered hand was shaken by both Quatre and Rachelle, and he sat back down quickly, as if afraid he might break some of the more delicate items placed uncomfortably close to both him and the twins. "Shane," Noce said gently, his deep voice rumbling slightly, "Alex." The twins, both with curly hair a shade of dark gold and hazel eyes, rolled those hazel eyes tellingly and started elbowing each other, Alex's blue shirt inching up his rib cage and Shane's red shirt wrinkling in a resigned matter.
"Boys," Relena said in an exasperated voice, arching a wheat colored eyebrow in a silent promise, and they settled down, adopting guilty, apologetic looks.
"We're very sorry, Misterquatreraberbawinnersir," Shane rushed, throwing the end together into a sulky one-word epitaph for the sentence.
"We promise never to do it again, Missus Rachelle, ma'am," Alex added dutifully, his voice far more polite than his brother's. A wicked grin crossed his face before they could be forgiven, though, and he continued cheerfully, "Besides, it was mostly Shane's fault." A swift punch to Alex's thigh ensued, courtesy of an angry Shane, and Noce flowed to his feet once more, grasping a boy's shirt in each hand and lifting them from the couch. "Mama!" Alex cried, startled, and Shane windmilled in the air, still determined to beat his brother senseless. "Tell Daddy to put us down!"
"Before I'm forced to commit underage homicide," Noce started pleasantly, his lopsided smile once more decorated his lean face, "could you please direct me to our rooms? I'd hate for such a lovely home to be cordoned by police tape."
"To the left and through the blue doors," Rachelle filled in as Quatre tried to figure out where she had arranged for them to be. "The guest wing has eleven rooms, as do all the other wings, but you're the only guests we have at the moment. Iria Winner will be here tomorrow, though, so you have first choice of rooms."
Noce inclined his head in thanks and strode out of the room, winding around shimmering tables of glossy oak and redwood, still holding his sons firmly. "They're such a handful," Relena sighed, rubbing her hand over her face in the weary, timeless motion of all overwhelmed mothers. "I swear I have the highest maintenance seven-year olds in the known universe."
"No argument here," Rachelle responded dryly, motioning for the smaller woman to sit down once more, as she and Quatre, in unconscious unison, sat down together in perfect rhythm, along the sofa facing the one the Foreign Minister was on. She gave them a knowing look and heat blossomed in Quatre's face for the countless time in the past twenty-four hours. "You needed to ask Quatre something," she reminded, cutting straight to the point. She could be remarkably tactless when she wanted, he admired privately, taking that pebble of knowledge and placing it into his heart.
"Yes," she sighed, fingering the shoulder-length strands of her hair in a nervous gesture before slapping her hands lightly against her knees. "I assume you both know about the Cortez scandal."
"Of course," Quatre nodded as Rachelle commented in playful sarcasm, "How could we not?"
"Obviously," Relena tacked on sardonically, "what with the media blitz and how the tabloids are going at it like rabid sharks. Look, the problem is that, other than the fact that the Preventers are responsible for helping the bastard's wife, poor dear, we - we being the Preventers, myself for sponsoring them, and pretty much anyone and everyone politically active - hit the tip of the iceberg." She paused to let them think over that just as she tried to form what she would say next. "Cortez was a drug dealer, as we all know, and a nasty one at that. He was a murderer, a rapist, a pedophile, and so on.
"We've also recently learned that he was a low-ranking member of a much larger criminal organization. Duo," she smiled as Quatre grinned and Rachelle snorted, "is working with Cortez's wife, dubbed 'Aimee' because of her apparent French-Irish descent, and Miss Kino will be letting him know he needs to find out whatever information he can from her. If," her tone grew affectionately sarcastic, "he manages to not scare her off with inappropriate advances. Heero contacted me with the idea of asking you for help."
"What?" Quatre said, his voice still respectful, and Rachelle touched his hand lightly.
"Things aren't looking good," Relena furthered quietly. "Noin and Une both agree with Heero and I that you'd be the best choice for helping. You've been an inactive member of the Preventers for a while and you happen to be one of the brightest minds alive, on Earth or in space, as your political and personal activities have shown. We're not talking about reactivating the Zero system," Rachelle's hand covered Quatre's in a show of concern, her eyes flickering as she saw his face blanch, the skin around his mouth and eyes tightening uncharacteristically, "but we need your help."
A moment of silence followed and Rachelle's breath was silent, as was her husband's, but she could feel the tension in his body, the sudden wash of calculated fury, and it seemed, for that soundless, breathless moment, like he was a different entity, as if a new personality had entered his body, dark and consuming and hateful.
"Ask again later," she said quickly, moving her hand off of his and wrapping her arm over his shoulder, pulling his face stiffly to her shoulder as she gravitated her body toward his. "I don't think now is a good time."
"Yes," Relena said in a hollow tone, and Rachelle felt it settle in her gut, the knowledge that Relena was more than aware of what was happening to Quatre but was not allowed to tell her. She had seen that haunted face before, heard that hollow voice, from others he was close to, from the four men that he treated like brothers, from a few of his vast amount of sisters, always followed by hasty excuses, hasty departures.
He did not trust her with this, she felt, as she watched Relena quietly leave the room, moving to take her bags from the entrance hall somewhere nearby. He did not trust her, he would not tell her, and she could not relegate that fact as another example of the flaws of men. Her father's sexist views and his ignorance of her opinions had never hurt like this, nor had the heartless sexual advances of suitors who cared about her body and her power more than Rachelle herself. "You never did," she whispered to Quatre, feeling as if her heart was breaking. "I was always a woman to you in the highest sense, treated with a respect that was true, something no one else gave to me. And I know you love me and will give me everything I ask for, but you will not give me your trust." He shivered under her arm, mouthing soundlessly over her neck, and she felt the wetness of fresh tears slipping slowly down her collar, tracing along the dips and slopes of her skin. "Whatever darkness you have, give it to me," she soothed, moving her other arm around him, pressing her palm against his back and twisting it in slow circles. "I am the warrior and you are the peacemaker."
"I'll hurt you," he mumbled before a litany exploded from his lips, shaking his body with tears, and she missed every word, though she knew he was apologizing. People, she reminded herself, always speak in their native tongue when they are upset, and so she let her betrayal hurt inside of her chest as she listened to his musical Arabic.
He found her after supper, standing bare foot in the sprawling back lawn with her glistening dark hair cascading down the open back of her wafting dress, her shoes discarded beside one another on the stone patio. The stars and the iridescent orb of the Earth shone above through the thick, protective glass coating the colony, catching her body in a humming, silvery light that so opposed her sun-like nature, but the duality of it merely made her that much more lovely. Tendrils of her hair were caught by the circulating air of the colony, twisting about in glittering waves, and he sighed, leaning against the marble arcs set as a boundary around the patio, a small opening leading to the lawn she was on, her feet engulfed by the fresh grass. Her fingers lifted an arrow from the quiver forced into the spongy earth, slipping it in place on the simple bow and pulling the crystal string back in a smooth movement, and she released it without a single word of acknowledgement. She was a powerful shot, her arrow striking the red center of the target pinned to a withered tree in the forefront of the line of trees surrounding the estate.
"Rae," he said helplessly, sensing the hopeless rage directed at herself, at him, at nothing, and she calmly placed another arrow along the bow, wooden shaft fitted over her finger, as she turned smoothly to face him, the point of the triangle aimed a few degrees to the left of his face. Dread and some other unknown emotion swirled in the pit of his stomach.
"Do you trust me?" Rachelle demanded, her legs a creamy light brown, exposed by a slight slit in the skirt of her dress. Her dark eyes were blazing, flickering and devouring their own heated light, reflecting the muted lights of the house back at him. He could hear, distantly, the Dorlian family laughing inside, with their light mother and dark father and crazed children, but it was another world.
"Yes," Quatre said as strongly as he could manage, and she narrowed those burning eyes, her slender eyebrows tilting downwards in cruel disappointment. A soft, rushing sound filled his ear and he flinched, moving to the right as the arrow streaked several inches from where his head had been, clattering lifelessly against the smooth, tanned white concrete used to make the immense mansion. It fell to the ground, to the stones, and he felt his heart plummet. You fail, a voice, that of himself, whispered in his head; you fail you fail you fail.
She let the bow drag her arm down to her side, let the slender, curved wood rest against her obscured thigh. Staring at him, like an ancient pagan queen, beautiful and untouchable and filled with a fire that the wind fed just as it played with her hair, casting strands across her face and waving the rest over her shoulder, she repeated the question, gently, "Do you trust me?"
"No," he whispered, forcing it through his lips like a curse, and she smiled sadly, emptily.
Author's Notes: *laughs nervously* Not too sure how many people will like this chapter…but! There were a few plot points in the above and I kind of like it. As for the pairing being QuatrexRei...I usually prefer Quatre/Makoto and I've developed a fondness for Heero/Rei, but, for some reason, I wanted to write Quatre and Rei as a couple. It has great chemistry, though, if you think about it; they have enough differences and similarities to fit smoothly. Isn't that neat? *nimbly sidesteps blunt objects being hurled at her, thereby nimbly sidestepping into a wall*
I have now at least mentioned the four Senshi I wanted to have in this story: Aimee (Ami), of course, being the female protagonist, Mina (Minako) as the secretary/Duo's current girl (emphasis on 'current'), Rachelle (Rei) Winner (read the above), and the elusive Ms. (Makoto) Kino (mentioned twice by name, now, with an appearance in an upcoming chapter). Handy, no? Don't worry about Makoto being shorthanded; she has a very fun role that I rescued from the wreckage of a different Duo/Ami fanfic that thankfully was trashed before I could post it (ironically, I started that one and trashed it the same day I started 'Requiem'). And, for the first time in my life, I'm actually seriously considering the possibilities of Makoto/Trowa. No thanks to Girl-chama…*mutters gratefully* And, of course, a very large thank-you to Kaiya-chan for being such a fabulous beta-reader. I've fixed mistakes in all four parts, ma'am! (And thank-you for pointing out the 'by'-'according to' thing. The sentence really didn't sound right to me until you suggested I replace one with the other. Arigatou!)
As for this chapter...I have a theory, based on several different sources, that the Zero system's effects are not a temporary thing, but can have a permanent result. Whereas in Heero's case he was already prone to aggressive action, Quatre seems more likely to behave in a darker manner during stressful situations, as if he has a different personality that emerges. I kept Rei's premonitions because it's fun and will play a role, and, besides, if Quatre's an innate empath, why can't she have mild ESP or whatever? And I know Quatre isn't a test tube baby, but last I knew, he still thought he was, so the public opinion in the AC world is that the Winner children were all scientifically produced. Let's hear it for science and weirdness! As for Relena's husband and children, it's somewhat unrealistic to think her relationship with Heero would end in marriage (although it is possible). Not only were they teenagers when they were fixated on one another, but it just doesn't fit well in the setting of this fanfic. Isn't Noce a sweetheart, though? I have suspicions that I might have based Alex and Shane somewhat on my favorite literary twins ever...no, not Fred and George of 'Harry Potter,' but Samneric (Sam and Eric) of 'Lord of the Flies.' Their family name being 'Dorlian' instead of Noce's surname of 'Huntson' is in reference to politics: with Relena being such an active politician from a young age, changing her name could cause confusion (don't ask me why, but it's true). And Noce is such a nice guy, it didn't bug him at all. *winks*
On a sadder note, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Jager, my family's beloved black Labrador. He was a beautiful dog, emblazoned with a white star on his chest, and he was five months from celebrating his fifth birthday when he died of unknown causes. He is…was the sweetest animal I have ever known and he did not deserve dying, and I'd like to think God let him into heaven. He most certainly had a soul. My brother, who saw him die, and my mother, who was Jager's mother-by-heart, I also dedicate this chapter to. Amen.
Standard disclaimer more or less applies to 'Bolero,' even if I'd prefer less. Distributed to www.FanFiction.net and selected locations on Saturn's ninth ring. Coming to a Plutonian holo-zine near you. Prayers are distributed on the side to the families who lost loved ones in the Columbia disaster.
Feedback is both encouraged and enjoyed; review or drop a line at alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com. Compliments, criticism, offers to post the fic elsewhere, and marriage proposals accepted.
(Smaller note: I would appreciate it if choice words weren't shared with me about my being pro-Relena. *winks* Purty please?)
Quatre sighed and touched his lips to her tan cheek, letting his skin touch hers for a moment, feeling the strong heat that flowed from her summer-warm body. He loved arguing with her as well, loved watching her when her violet black eyes spit fire and her personality emerged from the layers of cool, detached beauty her father had told her men desired. She was a spitfire, opinionated and passionate, sarcastic and verging on insensitive, and he knew that was what had attracted him to her in the first place, the one time he had seen her fighting with a suitor her father had chosen. Tall, dark, and handsome, he thought, discarding the fact it was an obvious cliché. "I don't think I'm what your father had in mind," he murmured against her cheek, smelling the husky scent that was hers. "I'm certainly not what I would have thought you would want." He sighed unhappily, stroking her arm gently through the red satin of her nightgown, his pale European-Arabic hand in direct contrast with the slick crimson. He hated being the one considered feminine in personality, hated being the one always expected to surrender first, to obey, and he hated it always twisting against him so he could not tell her he loved her, because she did not want to hear it. Can't tell you, he whispered in his mind, that I was in the wars, a pilot of a machine of death…destroyer of colonies. She didn't even know of his mental imbalance, the horrible things extreme stress could do to him: he would lash out uncharacteristically, snarl and attack instead of turning and apologizing.
"Why are you crying?" he heard Rachelle ask, felt her slender fingers touch his cheek with a rare warmth and turn his blue eyes to her. The touch, on a physical level, was not foreign, but the kindness behind it was different from the usual calm atmosphere she tried to exude. Her fingertip picked up a tear and she brushed it aside, smearing a glittering streak across his face to below his earlobe.
"For no reason at all," he smiled, eyes obscured by the glimmer of wetness layering over them, and he was surprised, but not displeased, when her hand began to burn against his skin, fingers weaving into his hair and pulling his face down to her lips. He paused when she paused, feeling her dark, luminescent eyes on him, and he heard a soft noise, like a keen, in the back of his throat, and he whispered, "Rae," before she touched his mouth to hers.
--
Requiem: Bolero
--
"Quatre," she shook his shoulders sternly, leaning over her husband in the bed they now shared, "would you mind waking up? We do have things that need to be done today." Her tone was cool, layering over the impatience her eyes flashed, and he groaned into his pillow, nuzzling his face deeper into the misshapen depths. His hand snaked out and latched onto her wrist, pulling her unceremoniously from her stance beside the bed and sprawling her halfway on him. "Idiot!" she spat, momentarily forgetting the lessons taught by her father, and he laughed quietly, slim shoulders quivering in delighted amusement. Her cheeks burned as she recalled how he, in one of his few quirks, enjoyed seeing her angry. "Honestly," Rachelle strove for some semblance of dignity as she managed to wriggle and crawl off of him to her side of the bed, her crimson brocade gown bunching up at her knees, "I can't be nice to you once without you trying to take advantage of me in the morning." She sniffed haughtily, all an intricate show and he smiled softly, and her long hands smoothed out the folds made in her skirt before they could wrinkle into place. "Besides, I've already gotten my dress and make-up on."
He sat up slowly, letting the sheet slip to his lap, and he leaned to peck her cheek innocently, emerald green eyes all but glowing. "I'm very sorry, Rae," said Quatre sweetly, latticing his hands together as he pulled his knees, and the white sheet, up, tilting his head to one side in a purposefully cute movement. "I won't ever try to be amorous again."
Her cheeks grew even darker and she pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Foreign Minister Dorlian and her family are arriving today at noon," she responded in a tone that was completely business, pointedly ignoring him as he plucked his shirt from the floor and tugged it on over his head, "and I've asked Tanya to make that Italian dish she likes - fettuccini with that authentic sauce? And garlic bread, maybe some flavored ice for a small dessert. Of course, there will be other courses, but I made sure to request those specifically." He glanced up from tugging on some shorts that would last until he had to pull on the more formal wear the meeting would require and was a bit surprised, and mildly disappointed, to find she had stepped off the bed, running her finger down an electronic schedule. She tapped her finger against one of the choices listed and firmly deleted it, scanning the rest of the list swiftly and setting the flat object on the small bedside table, beneath a sleek antique lamp, one she had selected the other week. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked pointedly as he flipped through the various shirts she had set out, his face drawing into a worried expression.
"Where's my green polo?" he replied in that meek voice he used when he was upset or trying to get something he wanted, fluidly choosing the brown slacks from among the pants stacked on the arched chair positioned by the walk-in closet. Turning back to the bed in the center of the large, airy room, he cast a helpless look in her direction, navigating around the dresser pushed against the wall near the closet. "I was going to wear that."
She ignored his helpless look with admirable strength and instead stalked over to the chair he had abandoned, lifting a black button-up from the top and handing it to him with a forceful flourish. "For God's sake," Rachelle said in a voice that brooked no argument, "you're twenty-eight years old! Don't you think you're a little old for that?"
Quatre's lips drooped a bit and she narrowed her eyes dangerously, leaning over to pull meaningfully at the rumpled shirt he had on, tugging up with it. "Rae!" he protested, face reddening, and he shoved away from her hands, clutching at the front of his shirt and stepping back. "I can get dressed on my own."
"Of course, dear," she replied in a saccharine tone, landing a quick kiss on his chin before sweeping about on her heel and clicking across the floor. The wide double-doors, carved from browned oak, closed behind her and his soulful face turned to mild sadness. He tugged the shirt over his head and shrugged the open button-up on his shoulders, shifting it up his arms and tucking the cuffs comfortably.
Standing outside the bedroom she shared with her husband of thirteen months, she placed her hands on her lower abdomen, smoothing her fingers along the cloth clinging to her skin as she sought to ease the mild nausea stirring inside of her. She had yet to tell him of her pregnancy, feeling a sense of discomfort every time she tried to, one that was not caused by morning sickness, which was yet a week or two away according to the medical texts she had been poring over while he was at his office. Something was coming, something that was undetermined. Premonitions were an old gift of hers, like his empathy was for him, and she was used to knowing if the results would be good or bad, but this was neither. It unsettled her, frightened her, and she felt her stomach with her palms, as if to soothe the child forming within. "I will tell him later," she near-whispered determinedly, and the usual wave of stubborn emotions shook away any feelings of illness, swamping over her mind. Creasing her fingers up into arches, she tentatively pushed, very lightly, at the flat slope of her abdomen, wondering at what was to come, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have the added weight that would remind her constantly of her son or daughter. Probably a daughter, she thought with a secretive smile, if Quatre's twenty-nine sisters are anything to go by. Although, of course, one had to take into account that the whole group of thirty Winner children were test tube babies, so it was possible that she might have a son. "It's not important," she told their forming child, her voice intentionally pitched low so her beloved might not overhear, "so long as you are mine and you are his. Which I am prone to think you are." She laughed, a light sound, rare for coming from her, and looked down the length of the intricate hallway leading away from the door.
The door that was inching open at her back, and she respectfully moved forward, turning about slightly and planting her hands in a move of intimidation, squarely hooking her fingers on her hips. Quatre smiled in the doorway, hooking his belt into place and looking as adorably sophisticated as he could, reminding her of his dual, yet interlocked nature, both naive and intelligent at once. "Am I presentable?" he questioned, slowly pivoting around, and she smiled not unkindly, moving forward to check the folded collar of his shirt and to run her fingers through his hair, flexing strands in a certain direction, perhaps to excuse the affectionate action. His smile turned into soul-filled shyness and she mock-scowled.
"I'm going to make sure Tanya has finished setting up lunch," informed Rachelle, tugging and patting down his collar before moving in graceful motions down the hall. Having no other direction to turn to, he glanced out the tall Gothic windows on either side of the small landing linking bedroom to hallway and swept after her, absently fiddling with his silver-laced wedding band. Red-painted doors speckled the hallway, forming a total of ten beneath the arching ceiling, also Gothic in design.
"I thought you said the Dorlian family was going to arrive at noon," he reminded her, rolling his sleeve back a bit to check the quartz face of his leather watch, "and it's only...a quarter 'til twelve." He blinked reflexively and colored slightly, pulling his sleeve back into place and feeling unbalanced. "Why did you wake me so late?"
"You were sleeping and I figured it wasn't worth it," she replied bluntly, foregoing mentioning the fact that she had been loathe to disturb him when he looked so peaceful. It really wasn't that important to mention. "And as I've already seen that everything has been set up - guest wing, lunch, planning supper, and et cetera - it isn't as if you've failed at playing host." She paused as they reached the massive doors that would open into the main portion of the house, the several large rooms that formed the center, and she gave him a bittersweet smile, the kind preceding an echo of her father's many lessons from the past. "After all, the woman is in charge of making sure the house is kept in working order."
Rachelle strove to banish the image of his wounded face from her mind, assuming it would pass from his mind soon enough. She knew something he did not, after all, and that something was trying to reign in her overtly active twins from causing serious damage to rather expensive objects scattered tastefully throughout the house. Quatre stopped, blinked reflexively for the second time that day, and smiled brightly at the small family seated, or, in the case of two small boys, bouncing, in the extensive living/seating room. "Relena!" he beamed, and the stately blonde woman, her handsome face bright with a smile, stood up to give him a swift hug, one that he returned. "You're early!"
"Well," she began, giving Rachelle a quick hug and reciprocating the elegant smile the lady Winner gave her, "the shuttle landed early and we called to ask if it would be all right if we arrived earlier than we had originally planned, and Rae said it was hardly any trouble at all, though I'm sure she regrets that by now," a pointed look was delivered in the direction of the two swarthy boys wrestling dangerously close to a large china cabinet. Mentally, Rachelle made a note to have the china and other breakables moved to a small, locked room when her child was born. The dark arm of Noce Huntson-Dorlian descended from the edge of the hand-stitched sofa and easily hauled up one boy, followed by his twin, by the back of his shirt, plopping both unceremoniously beside their father.
Noce was the opposite of Relena, tall and with dark brown skin, his black hair curled tightly against his skull, cut short. His smile was easier than his wife's, a slash of pearly white that was simultaneously dashing and protective, and he stood carefully, making sure his lanky, strong frame didn't overturn anything. His offered hand was shaken by both Quatre and Rachelle, and he sat back down quickly, as if afraid he might break some of the more delicate items placed uncomfortably close to both him and the twins. "Shane," Noce said gently, his deep voice rumbling slightly, "Alex." The twins, both with curly hair a shade of dark gold and hazel eyes, rolled those hazel eyes tellingly and started elbowing each other, Alex's blue shirt inching up his rib cage and Shane's red shirt wrinkling in a resigned matter.
"Boys," Relena said in an exasperated voice, arching a wheat colored eyebrow in a silent promise, and they settled down, adopting guilty, apologetic looks.
"We're very sorry, Misterquatreraberbawinnersir," Shane rushed, throwing the end together into a sulky one-word epitaph for the sentence.
"We promise never to do it again, Missus Rachelle, ma'am," Alex added dutifully, his voice far more polite than his brother's. A wicked grin crossed his face before they could be forgiven, though, and he continued cheerfully, "Besides, it was mostly Shane's fault." A swift punch to Alex's thigh ensued, courtesy of an angry Shane, and Noce flowed to his feet once more, grasping a boy's shirt in each hand and lifting them from the couch. "Mama!" Alex cried, startled, and Shane windmilled in the air, still determined to beat his brother senseless. "Tell Daddy to put us down!"
"Before I'm forced to commit underage homicide," Noce started pleasantly, his lopsided smile once more decorated his lean face, "could you please direct me to our rooms? I'd hate for such a lovely home to be cordoned by police tape."
"To the left and through the blue doors," Rachelle filled in as Quatre tried to figure out where she had arranged for them to be. "The guest wing has eleven rooms, as do all the other wings, but you're the only guests we have at the moment. Iria Winner will be here tomorrow, though, so you have first choice of rooms."
Noce inclined his head in thanks and strode out of the room, winding around shimmering tables of glossy oak and redwood, still holding his sons firmly. "They're such a handful," Relena sighed, rubbing her hand over her face in the weary, timeless motion of all overwhelmed mothers. "I swear I have the highest maintenance seven-year olds in the known universe."
"No argument here," Rachelle responded dryly, motioning for the smaller woman to sit down once more, as she and Quatre, in unconscious unison, sat down together in perfect rhythm, along the sofa facing the one the Foreign Minister was on. She gave them a knowing look and heat blossomed in Quatre's face for the countless time in the past twenty-four hours. "You needed to ask Quatre something," she reminded, cutting straight to the point. She could be remarkably tactless when she wanted, he admired privately, taking that pebble of knowledge and placing it into his heart.
"Yes," she sighed, fingering the shoulder-length strands of her hair in a nervous gesture before slapping her hands lightly against her knees. "I assume you both know about the Cortez scandal."
"Of course," Quatre nodded as Rachelle commented in playful sarcasm, "How could we not?"
"Obviously," Relena tacked on sardonically, "what with the media blitz and how the tabloids are going at it like rabid sharks. Look, the problem is that, other than the fact that the Preventers are responsible for helping the bastard's wife, poor dear, we - we being the Preventers, myself for sponsoring them, and pretty much anyone and everyone politically active - hit the tip of the iceberg." She paused to let them think over that just as she tried to form what she would say next. "Cortez was a drug dealer, as we all know, and a nasty one at that. He was a murderer, a rapist, a pedophile, and so on.
"We've also recently learned that he was a low-ranking member of a much larger criminal organization. Duo," she smiled as Quatre grinned and Rachelle snorted, "is working with Cortez's wife, dubbed 'Aimee' because of her apparent French-Irish descent, and Miss Kino will be letting him know he needs to find out whatever information he can from her. If," her tone grew affectionately sarcastic, "he manages to not scare her off with inappropriate advances. Heero contacted me with the idea of asking you for help."
"What?" Quatre said, his voice still respectful, and Rachelle touched his hand lightly.
"Things aren't looking good," Relena furthered quietly. "Noin and Une both agree with Heero and I that you'd be the best choice for helping. You've been an inactive member of the Preventers for a while and you happen to be one of the brightest minds alive, on Earth or in space, as your political and personal activities have shown. We're not talking about reactivating the Zero system," Rachelle's hand covered Quatre's in a show of concern, her eyes flickering as she saw his face blanch, the skin around his mouth and eyes tightening uncharacteristically, "but we need your help."
A moment of silence followed and Rachelle's breath was silent, as was her husband's, but she could feel the tension in his body, the sudden wash of calculated fury, and it seemed, for that soundless, breathless moment, like he was a different entity, as if a new personality had entered his body, dark and consuming and hateful.
"Ask again later," she said quickly, moving her hand off of his and wrapping her arm over his shoulder, pulling his face stiffly to her shoulder as she gravitated her body toward his. "I don't think now is a good time."
"Yes," Relena said in a hollow tone, and Rachelle felt it settle in her gut, the knowledge that Relena was more than aware of what was happening to Quatre but was not allowed to tell her. She had seen that haunted face before, heard that hollow voice, from others he was close to, from the four men that he treated like brothers, from a few of his vast amount of sisters, always followed by hasty excuses, hasty departures.
He did not trust her with this, she felt, as she watched Relena quietly leave the room, moving to take her bags from the entrance hall somewhere nearby. He did not trust her, he would not tell her, and she could not relegate that fact as another example of the flaws of men. Her father's sexist views and his ignorance of her opinions had never hurt like this, nor had the heartless sexual advances of suitors who cared about her body and her power more than Rachelle herself. "You never did," she whispered to Quatre, feeling as if her heart was breaking. "I was always a woman to you in the highest sense, treated with a respect that was true, something no one else gave to me. And I know you love me and will give me everything I ask for, but you will not give me your trust." He shivered under her arm, mouthing soundlessly over her neck, and she felt the wetness of fresh tears slipping slowly down her collar, tracing along the dips and slopes of her skin. "Whatever darkness you have, give it to me," she soothed, moving her other arm around him, pressing her palm against his back and twisting it in slow circles. "I am the warrior and you are the peacemaker."
"I'll hurt you," he mumbled before a litany exploded from his lips, shaking his body with tears, and she missed every word, though she knew he was apologizing. People, she reminded herself, always speak in their native tongue when they are upset, and so she let her betrayal hurt inside of her chest as she listened to his musical Arabic.
He found her after supper, standing bare foot in the sprawling back lawn with her glistening dark hair cascading down the open back of her wafting dress, her shoes discarded beside one another on the stone patio. The stars and the iridescent orb of the Earth shone above through the thick, protective glass coating the colony, catching her body in a humming, silvery light that so opposed her sun-like nature, but the duality of it merely made her that much more lovely. Tendrils of her hair were caught by the circulating air of the colony, twisting about in glittering waves, and he sighed, leaning against the marble arcs set as a boundary around the patio, a small opening leading to the lawn she was on, her feet engulfed by the fresh grass. Her fingers lifted an arrow from the quiver forced into the spongy earth, slipping it in place on the simple bow and pulling the crystal string back in a smooth movement, and she released it without a single word of acknowledgement. She was a powerful shot, her arrow striking the red center of the target pinned to a withered tree in the forefront of the line of trees surrounding the estate.
"Rae," he said helplessly, sensing the hopeless rage directed at herself, at him, at nothing, and she calmly placed another arrow along the bow, wooden shaft fitted over her finger, as she turned smoothly to face him, the point of the triangle aimed a few degrees to the left of his face. Dread and some other unknown emotion swirled in the pit of his stomach.
"Do you trust me?" Rachelle demanded, her legs a creamy light brown, exposed by a slight slit in the skirt of her dress. Her dark eyes were blazing, flickering and devouring their own heated light, reflecting the muted lights of the house back at him. He could hear, distantly, the Dorlian family laughing inside, with their light mother and dark father and crazed children, but it was another world.
"Yes," Quatre said as strongly as he could manage, and she narrowed those burning eyes, her slender eyebrows tilting downwards in cruel disappointment. A soft, rushing sound filled his ear and he flinched, moving to the right as the arrow streaked several inches from where his head had been, clattering lifelessly against the smooth, tanned white concrete used to make the immense mansion. It fell to the ground, to the stones, and he felt his heart plummet. You fail, a voice, that of himself, whispered in his head; you fail you fail you fail.
She let the bow drag her arm down to her side, let the slender, curved wood rest against her obscured thigh. Staring at him, like an ancient pagan queen, beautiful and untouchable and filled with a fire that the wind fed just as it played with her hair, casting strands across her face and waving the rest over her shoulder, she repeated the question, gently, "Do you trust me?"
"No," he whispered, forcing it through his lips like a curse, and she smiled sadly, emptily.
Author's Notes: *laughs nervously* Not too sure how many people will like this chapter…but! There were a few plot points in the above and I kind of like it. As for the pairing being QuatrexRei...I usually prefer Quatre/Makoto and I've developed a fondness for Heero/Rei, but, for some reason, I wanted to write Quatre and Rei as a couple. It has great chemistry, though, if you think about it; they have enough differences and similarities to fit smoothly. Isn't that neat? *nimbly sidesteps blunt objects being hurled at her, thereby nimbly sidestepping into a wall*
I have now at least mentioned the four Senshi I wanted to have in this story: Aimee (Ami), of course, being the female protagonist, Mina (Minako) as the secretary/Duo's current girl (emphasis on 'current'), Rachelle (Rei) Winner (read the above), and the elusive Ms. (Makoto) Kino (mentioned twice by name, now, with an appearance in an upcoming chapter). Handy, no? Don't worry about Makoto being shorthanded; she has a very fun role that I rescued from the wreckage of a different Duo/Ami fanfic that thankfully was trashed before I could post it (ironically, I started that one and trashed it the same day I started 'Requiem'). And, for the first time in my life, I'm actually seriously considering the possibilities of Makoto/Trowa. No thanks to Girl-chama…*mutters gratefully* And, of course, a very large thank-you to Kaiya-chan for being such a fabulous beta-reader. I've fixed mistakes in all four parts, ma'am! (And thank-you for pointing out the 'by'-'according to' thing. The sentence really didn't sound right to me until you suggested I replace one with the other. Arigatou!)
As for this chapter...I have a theory, based on several different sources, that the Zero system's effects are not a temporary thing, but can have a permanent result. Whereas in Heero's case he was already prone to aggressive action, Quatre seems more likely to behave in a darker manner during stressful situations, as if he has a different personality that emerges. I kept Rei's premonitions because it's fun and will play a role, and, besides, if Quatre's an innate empath, why can't she have mild ESP or whatever? And I know Quatre isn't a test tube baby, but last I knew, he still thought he was, so the public opinion in the AC world is that the Winner children were all scientifically produced. Let's hear it for science and weirdness! As for Relena's husband and children, it's somewhat unrealistic to think her relationship with Heero would end in marriage (although it is possible). Not only were they teenagers when they were fixated on one another, but it just doesn't fit well in the setting of this fanfic. Isn't Noce a sweetheart, though? I have suspicions that I might have based Alex and Shane somewhat on my favorite literary twins ever...no, not Fred and George of 'Harry Potter,' but Samneric (Sam and Eric) of 'Lord of the Flies.' Their family name being 'Dorlian' instead of Noce's surname of 'Huntson' is in reference to politics: with Relena being such an active politician from a young age, changing her name could cause confusion (don't ask me why, but it's true). And Noce is such a nice guy, it didn't bug him at all. *winks*
On a sadder note, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Jager, my family's beloved black Labrador. He was a beautiful dog, emblazoned with a white star on his chest, and he was five months from celebrating his fifth birthday when he died of unknown causes. He is…was the sweetest animal I have ever known and he did not deserve dying, and I'd like to think God let him into heaven. He most certainly had a soul. My brother, who saw him die, and my mother, who was Jager's mother-by-heart, I also dedicate this chapter to. Amen.
Standard disclaimer more or less applies to 'Bolero,' even if I'd prefer less. Distributed to www.FanFiction.net and selected locations on Saturn's ninth ring. Coming to a Plutonian holo-zine near you. Prayers are distributed on the side to the families who lost loved ones in the Columbia disaster.
Feedback is both encouraged and enjoyed; review or drop a line at alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com. Compliments, criticism, offers to post the fic elsewhere, and marriage proposals accepted.
(Smaller note: I would appreciate it if choice words weren't shared with me about my being pro-Relena. *winks* Purty please?)