A.N.: Hello all! This is the first 'Duo' chapter not featuring a Great Big
Sea song. gasp! Which is odd as I just saw both their Montreal concerts and
actually met the band, so I could tell them how great they are in person (
For all I pride myself on words, I have a feeling I sounded somewhat like
Quatre in this chapter. Oh well - still the best weekend of my life.
Reviewers: Relwarc, yes, you missed an update - I have a list you can sign up for, just check my author page! (shameless plug there) Glad to see you're reading all of this. As for Alex getting fragged. wait and see :o) I might, or I may not. He's a right jerk in this fic, though. I don't like him very much. Bryony, thanks for the Trowa commentary. He's the hardest one to write, and I do see him as calm and competent - but NOT a mute, or autistic! When he wants to talk in the series, you can't shut him up! lol. Here's some 'bad guys being bad' for you, and some more cute Quatre. KNW - glad you like, especially the characterisations. They're always what I worry about most. (I see I'm in your favorites! Grin!). J.S - likewise about the favorites! And you aren't as shocked as I am, trust me! Maybe we could collaborate on one of the land campaigns, Talavera maybe? And I'm sorry Hilde's not going to be in this more - she IS cool!
~On board the H.M.S. Valiant~
Quatre mumbled something along the lines of 'gurblesmursh' at his attacker. It didn't work - the man kept shaking at his shoulder and whispering gibberish into his ear. As Quatre's brain slowly shook off the fogs of sleep, the words became intelligible. They still didn't make any sense, but at least they were words.
"-have to come with me, now, wake up. Quatre, wake up."
"Murphel?"
"-important, I want - Quatre?"
"Go 'way. Lem' sleep."
"Quatre, you'll thank me for this later". With that, Trowa grabbed the side of the hanging bed and heaved, dumping his friend onto the hard deck. "Mueller and Alex are standing wheel-watch, nowhere near the bow. We won't get another chance."
Quatre pondered this information, discarded words.
"Miffle?"
Trowa rolled his eyes, and rejected slapping his fellow midshipman in favour of simply grabbing his arm, hauling him up, and dragging him shirtless into the wardroom. Quatre protested weakly.
"Trowa! It's the middle of the night. I'm cold. Let me at least get my jacket so that if Mueller sees us I won't be out of uniform on deck. He'll. nevermind."
Trowa ignored the last part of Quatre's statement. "Go get your jacket then. But hurry. This is something I want you to hear."
A few minutes later, awake and jacketed, the two arrived at the fo'c'sle, where Trowa halted them in front of the door, holding a finger up his lips.
"I noticed the violin under your bunk. I thought you'd like this. He does it everytime he's awake enough."
"What? Who?"
"Listen."
Quatre listened. He heard a squeezebox and a drum of some kind, different from any of the drums he'd heard before. It was immeasurably fast and primitive-sounding, and it drew him in. Someone was singing. He listened a bit longer, then turned to Trowa.
"That's the same song he sang when I was still seasick! It's about a woman!" Mildly peeved, he listened more. It was a funny song, he was forced to admit. And Maxwell had a fine voice. "Is that Maxwell playing the drum, too?"
"Yes." The corners of Trowa's eyes crinkled a little. "And Yuy on the squeezebox. Quite a pair."
Quatre was well aware that his jaw was hanging open a little. To be able to coordinate drum and voice as well as Maxwell was doing took more than a little talent, and a lot of skill. Listening harder, he frowned.
"Someone's coming." If someone caught them there, they'd be for it. Officers traditionally steered clear of crew quarters - there wasn't actually anything in the regulations about it, but it was not Done. Trowa swore under his breath, gaining a look from Quatre - officers and gentlemen didn't curse where they could be heard - and grabbed his friend's arm, dragging him into the shadows around the corner, where the music could still be heard.
Whoever it was, he was quiet as he entered the fo'c'sle, closing the door behind him. Maxwell's voice didn't even waver at the newcomer, but kept going.
Inside, Heero noticed the anonymous sailor slip into a corner and hunker down. He shrugged without letting his fingers slip on the box, figuring that if the man wanted to talk he'd be talking. Duo winked at him, telling Heero that he wanted the next song to himself, and the able seaman nodded silently. He was quite happy to let Duo pine over his missing love if he wanted to, and if his friend could sing about it less time was spent moping and yammering about her charms in Heero's ear.
Duo let his bodhran rest on his knee and started to tell a story. The ballad was slow and beautiful, about a young lady who went walking in summertime and met with a knight.
"Come live by the white moon
That rules the strong tide.
Climb up on me horse, love,
And be my sweet bride."
Heero's eyes, roving the room, were drawn to a commotion in the corner, as the unknown sailor emerged from the shadows and spoke up, breaking the song after the first chorus. His voice was cold.
"Funny song for you to sing, Maxwell."
"Why'd that be, 'Tenant Alex, sir?" Duo's voice was polite and properly respectful, but Heero, sitting close by his best friend's side, could see the way his fist was clenched about his tipper (A/N: a tipper's the drumstick).
"Well, Maxwell, you're hardly a knight, are you?" When Duo refused to reply, Alex continued in a sardonic tone. "And that girl of yours. hardly the marrying sort, I'd say. I certainly had a good time with her. I do hope she could use that arm the next day. "
Heero was just in time to catch Duo as the diminutive musician lunged, snarling, at the officer.
"Ye rat-bastard, I knew 't'was you, I'll kill ye, s'not right hitting a lady, ye could've killed her, ye - "
"Duo," Heero hissed , "shut up now, be quiet, that's an order, please, he'll have you for this one-."
"Well, now Maxwell, you're hardly one to call me a bastard, are you?" The Lieutenant's voice was calm. "That must be why you like the whore so much - she must remind you of your mother." He stopped, considering, while Heero strained to hold Duo back. "Oh, I am sorry, Maxwell. I forgot - you don't know who your mother is, do you? Left you at the church. She probably knew just how you'd turn out."
Roaring, Duo broke Heero's hold and was across the fo'c'sle in an instant. Alex held his ground, letting the sailor hit him once, just once, then smiled and laid out the much smaller man with one blow. Duo glared up at him from under his mates, who'd piled across him to stop him. He bared his teeth, speechless with rage. Alex rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Really, Maxwell. You do know striking an officer's a hanging offense." He turned smartly on his heel and left, leaving Duo sobbing on the floor.
Outside, the two midshipmen watched the lieutenant stride away. Quatre turned to Trowa, aghast.
"They can't hang him, can they? He was provoked! Alex started it!"
"Lieutenant," the emphasis was clear in Trowa's voice, "Alex is a Naval Officer. His word, his oath, his honour are undoubtable. I know, you know, the sailors know. Captain Noventa knows what his lieutenant tells him. And Seaman Maxwell did strike an officer."
"But- but-."
"I know."
The music was clearly over for the night. Quatre lay in his bunk, sleepless. He knew. Trowa knew. But their very having been there, eavesdropping and without permission, couldn't have happened. They couldn't defend the sailor without hurting themselves. He dreaded Mueller finding out.
The next morning, Quatre carried out the most unpleasant duty he could imagine. Seaman Duo Maxwell was clapped in irons and thrown into the stinking brig, to be left alone in the dark to await trial.
Quatre turned the key in the padlock and his agonized eyes sought out the terrified sailor's.
"I'm sorry."
Reviewers: Relwarc, yes, you missed an update - I have a list you can sign up for, just check my author page! (shameless plug there) Glad to see you're reading all of this. As for Alex getting fragged. wait and see :o) I might, or I may not. He's a right jerk in this fic, though. I don't like him very much. Bryony, thanks for the Trowa commentary. He's the hardest one to write, and I do see him as calm and competent - but NOT a mute, or autistic! When he wants to talk in the series, you can't shut him up! lol. Here's some 'bad guys being bad' for you, and some more cute Quatre. KNW - glad you like, especially the characterisations. They're always what I worry about most. (I see I'm in your favorites! Grin!). J.S - likewise about the favorites! And you aren't as shocked as I am, trust me! Maybe we could collaborate on one of the land campaigns, Talavera maybe? And I'm sorry Hilde's not going to be in this more - she IS cool!
~On board the H.M.S. Valiant~
Quatre mumbled something along the lines of 'gurblesmursh' at his attacker. It didn't work - the man kept shaking at his shoulder and whispering gibberish into his ear. As Quatre's brain slowly shook off the fogs of sleep, the words became intelligible. They still didn't make any sense, but at least they were words.
"-have to come with me, now, wake up. Quatre, wake up."
"Murphel?"
"-important, I want - Quatre?"
"Go 'way. Lem' sleep."
"Quatre, you'll thank me for this later". With that, Trowa grabbed the side of the hanging bed and heaved, dumping his friend onto the hard deck. "Mueller and Alex are standing wheel-watch, nowhere near the bow. We won't get another chance."
Quatre pondered this information, discarded words.
"Miffle?"
Trowa rolled his eyes, and rejected slapping his fellow midshipman in favour of simply grabbing his arm, hauling him up, and dragging him shirtless into the wardroom. Quatre protested weakly.
"Trowa! It's the middle of the night. I'm cold. Let me at least get my jacket so that if Mueller sees us I won't be out of uniform on deck. He'll. nevermind."
Trowa ignored the last part of Quatre's statement. "Go get your jacket then. But hurry. This is something I want you to hear."
A few minutes later, awake and jacketed, the two arrived at the fo'c'sle, where Trowa halted them in front of the door, holding a finger up his lips.
"I noticed the violin under your bunk. I thought you'd like this. He does it everytime he's awake enough."
"What? Who?"
"Listen."
Quatre listened. He heard a squeezebox and a drum of some kind, different from any of the drums he'd heard before. It was immeasurably fast and primitive-sounding, and it drew him in. Someone was singing. He listened a bit longer, then turned to Trowa.
"That's the same song he sang when I was still seasick! It's about a woman!" Mildly peeved, he listened more. It was a funny song, he was forced to admit. And Maxwell had a fine voice. "Is that Maxwell playing the drum, too?"
"Yes." The corners of Trowa's eyes crinkled a little. "And Yuy on the squeezebox. Quite a pair."
Quatre was well aware that his jaw was hanging open a little. To be able to coordinate drum and voice as well as Maxwell was doing took more than a little talent, and a lot of skill. Listening harder, he frowned.
"Someone's coming." If someone caught them there, they'd be for it. Officers traditionally steered clear of crew quarters - there wasn't actually anything in the regulations about it, but it was not Done. Trowa swore under his breath, gaining a look from Quatre - officers and gentlemen didn't curse where they could be heard - and grabbed his friend's arm, dragging him into the shadows around the corner, where the music could still be heard.
Whoever it was, he was quiet as he entered the fo'c'sle, closing the door behind him. Maxwell's voice didn't even waver at the newcomer, but kept going.
Inside, Heero noticed the anonymous sailor slip into a corner and hunker down. He shrugged without letting his fingers slip on the box, figuring that if the man wanted to talk he'd be talking. Duo winked at him, telling Heero that he wanted the next song to himself, and the able seaman nodded silently. He was quite happy to let Duo pine over his missing love if he wanted to, and if his friend could sing about it less time was spent moping and yammering about her charms in Heero's ear.
Duo let his bodhran rest on his knee and started to tell a story. The ballad was slow and beautiful, about a young lady who went walking in summertime and met with a knight.
"Come live by the white moon
That rules the strong tide.
Climb up on me horse, love,
And be my sweet bride."
Heero's eyes, roving the room, were drawn to a commotion in the corner, as the unknown sailor emerged from the shadows and spoke up, breaking the song after the first chorus. His voice was cold.
"Funny song for you to sing, Maxwell."
"Why'd that be, 'Tenant Alex, sir?" Duo's voice was polite and properly respectful, but Heero, sitting close by his best friend's side, could see the way his fist was clenched about his tipper (A/N: a tipper's the drumstick).
"Well, Maxwell, you're hardly a knight, are you?" When Duo refused to reply, Alex continued in a sardonic tone. "And that girl of yours. hardly the marrying sort, I'd say. I certainly had a good time with her. I do hope she could use that arm the next day. "
Heero was just in time to catch Duo as the diminutive musician lunged, snarling, at the officer.
"Ye rat-bastard, I knew 't'was you, I'll kill ye, s'not right hitting a lady, ye could've killed her, ye - "
"Duo," Heero hissed , "shut up now, be quiet, that's an order, please, he'll have you for this one-."
"Well, now Maxwell, you're hardly one to call me a bastard, are you?" The Lieutenant's voice was calm. "That must be why you like the whore so much - she must remind you of your mother." He stopped, considering, while Heero strained to hold Duo back. "Oh, I am sorry, Maxwell. I forgot - you don't know who your mother is, do you? Left you at the church. She probably knew just how you'd turn out."
Roaring, Duo broke Heero's hold and was across the fo'c'sle in an instant. Alex held his ground, letting the sailor hit him once, just once, then smiled and laid out the much smaller man with one blow. Duo glared up at him from under his mates, who'd piled across him to stop him. He bared his teeth, speechless with rage. Alex rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Really, Maxwell. You do know striking an officer's a hanging offense." He turned smartly on his heel and left, leaving Duo sobbing on the floor.
Outside, the two midshipmen watched the lieutenant stride away. Quatre turned to Trowa, aghast.
"They can't hang him, can they? He was provoked! Alex started it!"
"Lieutenant," the emphasis was clear in Trowa's voice, "Alex is a Naval Officer. His word, his oath, his honour are undoubtable. I know, you know, the sailors know. Captain Noventa knows what his lieutenant tells him. And Seaman Maxwell did strike an officer."
"But- but-."
"I know."
The music was clearly over for the night. Quatre lay in his bunk, sleepless. He knew. Trowa knew. But their very having been there, eavesdropping and without permission, couldn't have happened. They couldn't defend the sailor without hurting themselves. He dreaded Mueller finding out.
The next morning, Quatre carried out the most unpleasant duty he could imagine. Seaman Duo Maxwell was clapped in irons and thrown into the stinking brig, to be left alone in the dark to await trial.
Quatre turned the key in the padlock and his agonized eyes sought out the terrified sailor's.
"I'm sorry."
