Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Gundam Wing. No profit was gained in the making of this fic.

Trowa's Day of Sobriety

The slap stings and I wonder why it is that women always go for the face.

"It's more effective if you close your hand into a fist." I tell her gently.

The woman, Sherry, is glaring at me, chest heaving in anger and I take a moment to appreciate her nice tight package. Perfect breasts, not too big and not too small. Pert too.

"Trowa Barton, you are such a bastard!"

Voice like a shrew though.

Watching her stalk away, I shrug and head over to the bar. I've perfected this scenario with practice, fancy restaurants always have a lounge bar.

The bartender is eyeing me with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. I shed my jacket and loosen my collar before sitting on the stool at the counter.

"Whiskey. Dry."

My voice is composed and I wonder if I should be feeling anything. Hurt? Angry? I can't be bothered to strive for either and just take the drink when it arrives. The bartender continues to watch me.

"How long was this one?"

"One month, two days, twelve hours and . . . " I glance down at my watch, "thirty-six minutes."

He makes a clucking noise with his tongue and I look up at him, curious. Normally when I come here he doesn't say anything, just hands me my drinks and leaves me alone. One of the reasons I like the place. Proof that humanity really is, just one big fuck you.

Seems like you can't count on anyone these days.

"You sure are hard on the ladies. That's what, the third one since December? Love'm and leave'm, huh?"

I finish off the drink and gesture for him to fetch me another. "Who said anything about love?"

He sets the second whiskey down in front of me and shakes his head. "That's cold."

Cold? Maybe I am. The last girl I dated called me mercenary. She didn't understand why I found that so funny.

Take what I need and get the hell out. Infiltration tactics crafted for life.

Today is just like any other day.

I don't use them just for the sex, though I admit that's a large part of it. There's something very satisfying about the feel of a woman as she comes under your hands. The sound of her moans, the way she writhes and grasps, it's almost as good as coming yourself.

But if it was just sex I wanted, I could easily go out and find a prostitute.

No, it's not just the sex. And that's why the women never stick around for very long. Why I don't let them stick around for very long. I don't know what I'm looking for. Companionship? Somebody who understands? Someone to make this hole inside me not feel so vast?

Working in the circus, you come to realize that most people are only willing to see as far as the mask you put on. Nobody wants to get to know the person under the paint. They just want the show, the happy clown. And you begin to slowly disappear, until all that's left is the act and nothing more.

I'd rather be a mercenary in truth, then a fool living a lie.

So I quit.

I'm not cold, though I may be a bastard. I just want something real.

"You must love somebody. Your best friend. You have a best friend?"

The bartenders talking again and I'm tempted to finish my drink and leave but something holds me there.

"Sure." I tell him flippantly, "His names Jack Daniels." And I hold my glass up in a mock toast.

"You won't find a friend in a bottle of whiskey."

I'm amused by how emphatic he sounds, this bartender, and I smirk to show how little his comment means to me.

"You don't think so?"

"I think you're looking for answers in the wrong place. No truths to be found there."

I don't like the direction of the conversation anymore and wish he'd go away. He doesn't however, he just brings me my third glass and watches me drink it.

There are those who consider me their friend. Shallow acquaintances who know nothing about me. Women to flirt with over the water cooler or across the desk. Men to rib and trade rude comments with. All about as solid as this glass of whiskey.

Drown your pain, drown your fears.

Being honest with myself is an uncomfortable practice I try to avoid as much as possible.

What am I so afraid of?

Being alone.

Maybe that's the reason behind the women, since I'm being honest and all. Wallowing in my own-self pity. Nobody understands poor little Trowa. Just one more sad clown. All alone with no home to call your own.

Glasses four and five join the others on the bar and I line them up, silent soldiers, mocking me.

"I thought I was here to get drunk."

Who knew honesty was so sobering? I should have stuck with Sherry, at least she gave a good head.

The glasses are empty and the bartender was right. No great truths to be found there.

"You don't seem very drunk to me." He reaches over to take the glasses and I catch his arm. I've noticed something I missed before.

Five glasses.

I touch each one individually, counting again.

Laughter followed by swearing.

Five faces.

The light hits them and they glow warmly.

A newly discovered smile.

Five names.

Not just one, never just one.

Eyes that hold sorrow wrapped in control.

Five friends.

I never was alone.

The tap of fingers and an impatient twitch.

Five.

The whiskey might not hold any truths, but the empty glasses do.