Chapter Two
The Wailing Wall
He was, in the end, permitted to keep his job. It wasn't one that required much discussion, really.
He tilted the barrel of the gun. It swallowed the light of the lamp, a black line of nothing against the soft red upholstery of the couch. He nodded sharply, and looked across the city to the clock tower, which said 3:45pm. The job wasn't until ten that night.
Tea time.
He sipped his darjeeling, perusing a modified Smith and Wesson catalog. The stapled-in pages of available variants and unusual ammunition had penciled-in notes to him. He lifted the page slightly-- bad English handwriting was still nearly impenetrable to him. It appeared to say something about a scarf.
"Will you be wanting anything else, sir?"
Heero glanced up at his butler. The man was the sort that opened beer by twisting the top half off the can with his bare hands. His muscles knotted like tree roots. The breadth of his shoulders necessitated that he go through doors sideways.
He looked as if he operated his own towing service and cut costs by tossing the vehicles carelessly over his shoulder and carrying them off to the garage like damsels in distress.
"No, I don't think so. Thank you, Marmaduke."
From the far wall there was a sudden drawn-out, bestial wail. It cut off suddenly. Heero looked over with interest, then turned a page in the catalog. The wail was replaced by a low, repetitive guttural grunting, but Heero was engrossed in more bad handwriting-- with his usual lack of comprehension, the words seemed to be suggesting he place parts of the rifle in areas of his anatomy. Consideringly, he tried to sound out the scratchy shapes. He brushed a couple of diamonds off as they bounced on the page.
Relena giggled chirpily, smiling at him in her tiny pink pocket mirror, squirming like a puppy in the uncomfortable cafe chair, and wiping her eyes. 'So sweet . . so deserving . . though perhaps I should have let him thank me . .' she sighed happily, letting it rest on her knees as she watched the view out the 34th story window, and sipped contentedly at her cherry caramel mochaccino.
A seagull brained itself suddenly against the glass, and her cup rocked as she stood in horror, watching it spiral down brokenly.
At this point her coconut-and-sprinkle covered chocolate croissant arrived, and she slowly sat down again, eyes wide, and ate half in a daze before looking down with a small yelp of dismay. She sat her fork down, determinedly savouring the bite in her mouth, and picked up the tiny mirror again.
She looked into it intensely, searching for her daily pleasure-- one to help. The nice man on the subway had been unscheduled, and she'd feel particularly virtuous if she helped two . . her eyes sparked, and a young man in Toledo, Spain shuddered intensely, rubbing the back of his neck.
She'd had her eyes on him for some time. She sighed again, eyes a-shine as she smiled into the mirror, unaware of the foam moustache nearly to her ears.
Heeero had encountered Quatre on the way back from working, and the skinny blond had fallen into step with him automatically. They slapped their cards on the subway sensors in perfect unison, before Quatre suddenly stopped and Heero smacked into his backside in the crowd. "Oh," Quatre said. "I suppose I should ask if you mind. I don't feel like going home."
Heero shrugged slightly.
Quatre smiled sweetly. "I do hope you have tea."
Heero nodded.
"My sort."
Heero opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"Not Stash." Before Heero could shake his head, "Twinings will do, or Typhoo."
While Heero frowned over whether to nod or shake his head to that one, Quatre carried on, poker-faced, with "PG Tips is, of course, acceptable, which do you have?"
Heero started to open his mouth again, then blew his bangs out of his face with a hiss.
Quatre continued innocently. "And milk. How do you feel about milk in your tea, Heero?" Heero had started to nod, but now stiffened. "Or lemon. Honey can be nice, too. But I prefer milk."
Heero couldn't keep up with headshakes and nods, and his usual slight glare was getting fierce.
"What kind of tea cookies do you like, Heero?"
Heero growled very quietly, then choked and began coughing, before spitting something in his hand and tucking it quickly in his pocket.
Quatre smiled merrily, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I often eat shortbread. Not that I like it, mind you."
"Hn—ng!"
By the time they reached the apartment building, Heero had a handful of flowers and was beginning to look a little wild. Quatre smiled at Marmaduke as he loomed over them in the doorway. "Hello again, I was longing for another taste of your wonderful tea." Marmaduke bowed, after the traditional Japanese greeting he'd felt it his duty to learn as a proper servant. Heero smiled perfunctorily, dropping the flowers on the counter where they were promptly retrieved by Marmaduke and placed in one of the myriad vases.
"Quatre, I have no idea what kind of tea we have, and I don't care what's in it!"
Quatre nodded slowly as if this was valuable information, bending to help pick up the shower of precious gems and flowers. "Is juniper considered a flower now?"
"Is what? What are you talking about now?" Heero stood warily with two handfuls of shiny good-smelling litter. Marmaduke was selecting a gold-edged teapot from the cupboard and looking thoughtfully at a cupboard of tea.
Quatre held up something rather ugly and spiky. From the wall in the next room came the coarse, screeching wail. It repeated, getting louder and louder. Marmaduke began assembling the tea things on an elegant little cart. Heero and Quatre went in the room with the couch and the view over the city to await the tea. They sank into the soft couch, Heero's eyes flicking to the clock tower to check that it was, in fact, four in the morning. Quatre sniffed at the smell of some quick dessert being baked or warmed.
"Long day," Quatre sighed quietly, rubbing his face tiredly. Some eyeliner came off his hand, and he frowned around wondering where to wipe it before resignedly sliding down on the couch and pulling a handkerchief out of his back pocket. The monogrammed corner read, in delicate, stylized hiragana and katakana, "Kyouto de, Katora wa hankachi o kaimashita."(1)
Heero snorted softly. "When isn't it?"
Seconds later, the tea cart rolled to a stop in front of them, and Quatre poured for both, looking as if he'd already gotten his second wind. From the wall to their right came a persistent, heavy thumping sound, and then a deep, wet crunch. Quatre sipped his tea in satisfaction. "I love that wall. And to think I used to wonder why you didn't complain."
"I'm not sure I have anything to complain about, even if I wanted to," Heero fished an opal out of his tea with the spoon, before selecting a small lemon tart.
"No pets allowed here, are they?" Quatre blinked at him, tossing back the rest of his tea and pouring more, ear tuned now to a shrill ululation.
"Pets, no. From the sounds of it, it's more like some kind of consort. Maybe a harem, even." His mouth twitched.
Quatre grinned. "Fascinating. All the possibilities. I hope you checked the agreement, though."
"Oh, naturally." Heero said, biting into another tart, then swearing quietly as he had to pull a sprig of lavender out of it. From the look on his face as he took another bite, the lavender had affected the flavour. Quatre snorted softly.
For a while, they discussed work, finishing off the tarts, and Heero had another cup of tea. Quatre wondered, as always, whether he actually liked it, or just didn't want to try to convince Marmaduke he'd be be just spiffy with a lukewarm Mr. Pibb.
After a while, Quatre stood up, dusting off crumbs and the odd precious gem from his leather pants. Heero did the same, walking him to the door out of habit. Quatre waved to Marmaduke, who bowed solemnly while drying a plate, muscles bulging. "Tomorrow," Quatre waved, yawning. Heero nodded, turning to go back towards his bedroom. Seconds later, the door was thrown open and slammed shut again, Quatre firmly on the inside.
"Heero!"
Heero blinked at him.
"There's this huge-ass-CAGE out there! In the hallway! And some guy with BANDAGES!"
Heero grabbed his board, out of habit, and he and Quatre peered wide-eyed around the door. At the door of the next apartment, sure enough, was an enormous wooden nailed-up cage-box on a hand cart, emitting deep, quiet growls. From the door, two faces regarded them with similar wide eyes. They were both bandaged-- one around the head, above a scruffy braid, where some blood had leaked, and the other appeared to own the injured hand visible on the edge of the door.
"See?" Trowa whispered to Duo. "Bondage Freaks! And now one has a white board and squeaky pen!"
Two doors slammed. Four wide-eyed boys leaned against the safety of solid wood. Quatre was sputtering. "Did you hear what--?"
Marmaduke looked up. "More tea?"
(1: "In Kyoto, Quatre bought a handkerchief." That's what my favourite hankie says, though it has my name. It's true. I have these brief attacks where I think I'm really clever and funny. Er. Yeah. Nobody knows why.)
(Sorry about the formatting. I tried to make it all pretty and spaced out and not too confusing. I think I mostly won. stands on the corpse of the fire-breathing Skrewt. . . Ahhh, I really like Relena in this. Oo And in Puss 'n Boots. Go figure. Us pink psychos have so much in common, I guess. o.o)
(Okay, the end is a little stupid. Sorry. Thanks for reading it anyway.)