Trowa watched the dancers swirl by with dull eyes. The colorful pageantry, the genteel mood, the aristocratic traditions were lost on him…not because he didn't understand them, but because he didn't care. He stood next a pillar off to the side of the parquet dance floor. The borrowed uniform—a formal version of the ones the Preventers usually wore—itched, and he fought the urge to fiddle with his collar. He was beginning to think he'd made a mistake in agreeing to help Heero with the security at this ball. But Heero had called during the circus's slow season—the Preventers were short-handed ever since Zechs and Noin had taken off for Mars and the terraforming project, and now Wufei had, inexplicably, demanded his vacation days—and Trowa had agreed before he realized what he was doing. Now, he was stuck in an overly-starched uniform that didn't even belong to him.
He had seen Heero on and off throughout the evening, catching glimpses of him through the crowd as the other pilot escorted Relena Darlian. Besides those two, the only person he recognized (well, from some place other than the news) was Sylvia Noventa. The sweet-faced granddaughter of Field Marshal Noventa was escorting her grandmother. Trowa had met both of them shortly after the battle in Siberia, during the wars, when Heero had gone from one surviving relative of the late Field Marshal to the next, offering them the chance for revenge. He'd even brought his own gun for them to use. Efficient. Obviously, since Heero was still alive to escort the Vice Foreign Minister to charity balls, none of the Noventas had taken him up on his offer. Trowa doubted that either Sylvia or her grandmother would recognize him—after all, he had gone out of his way to be inconspicuous as Heero had tried to settle his debts.
His thoughts were interrupted as Quatre came skidding to a halt beside him. "How late am I?" The short blond pilot was dressed in a formal suit complete with the handful of medals that the Earth Sphere Unified Nation had granted to them all for their services during the Eve War and Mariemaia's Uprising. Heero, supposedly, had flushed his down the toilet. Trowa had seriously considered doing the same, but Catherine had gotten wind of his plan and stolen the medals from him. She was keeping them, she said, for his children. He hadn't bothered to correct her. So long as he didn't accidentally come across them while cleaning, he didn't care.
"Hour and a half," he answered Quatre, who was out of breath. His tie was also askew and his hair tousled, like he'd been running through the wind.
The blond swore under his breath in Arabic. At least, Trowa assumed it was an oath—he had heard the Maganacs using it several times while working on their mobile suits. "Rashid misfiled our flight plan," Quatre explained. "The Prague spaceport wasn't expecting us."
"You haven't missed anything."
"I hope not. My father spent such a long time establishing Winner Enterprises as a charitable company that I would hate to do anything to damage that reputation." Quatre fussed with his tie.
A soft voice made both young men look up, "Hello, Mr. Barton." Sylvia Noventa stood in front of them, hands clasped demurely in front of her. She wore a pale pink gown that would swirl when she danced and long white gloves that reached past her elbows. The twin barrettes that held her hair back from her face at the temples were gold tonight and studded with tiny pieces of pink rose quartz and white opals. "I did not expect to see you here tonight. Are you with the Preventers now?" She nodded to his uniform.
"No," he answered and immediately regretted how harsh that sounded. She didn't deserve his bad mood. "I'm just supplementing tonight's security. Heero's a Preventer though—he's around here somewhere," he offered.
"Yes, I saw Mr. Yuy earlier." Sylvia looked to Quatre now. "Will you be so kind, Mr. Barton, to introduce me to your friend?"
Trowa looked down at Quatre, who had been staring unabashedly at the young woman. When she mentioned him, the blond pilot started flushing furiously. Trowa hid a smile. "Sylvia Noventa, meet Quatre Raberba Winner, the head of Winner Enterprises."
"Pl-pleased to meet you," Quatre said, stumbling over the words a little. At least, he managed a suave kiss to the back of her hand. Trowa was surprised at that—the other boy looked stunned as if Sandrock had just kicked him in the head. He had no idea that a pretty girl could do this Quatre.
In the background, the string quartet struck up a waltz. "Do you dance, Mr. Winner?" Sylvia asked, blushing as well.
Quatre nodded dumbly and let her lead him out on to the dance floor. Once they actually fell into the forms of the dance, Quatre seemed to calm down. Trowa went back to suffering the uniform in silence. It was going to be a long, boring night.