A/N 1: A few tie-ins that occur far outside the timeline span of this particular series can be traced back to the story 'Once' or the actual series in case you're curious.

A/N 2: 180 days is approximately 6 months, 90 days is about 3 months, and so on and so forth. Seems like a short span, doesn't it? Just mentioning that for those of us who're too lazy or brain dead or whatnot to bother thinking about the validity of my numbers. No intention to insult the intelligence, just realizing that not many people may want to figure that out on their own. :) Also it helps put the timeline in retrospect. So there. :P

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and thus have no money. So ha.

-BEGIN FIC-

time is never time at all
you can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth

Tonight, Tonight

-- 11:23 --

Walking into the dark hotel room, the tall lank man grunted as he tripped over the clothing scattered haphazardly across the floor. Staggering a few steps to catch his balance, he managed by miraculous measures to keep the grocery sacks he held in his arms from spilling as he made his way towards the small kitchenette the hotel room sported. Pulling the fridge door open with the toe of a black steel-toed construction boot, he leaned over, basking in the cool chill air that flowed from the white recesses of the small cube-shaped refrigeration unit for a few moments before shelving the items he held within his worn paper Stater Bros. Bags – a six pack of Budweiser, a twin pack of baloney, a bag of bagels, a small bin of margarine, a package of processed cheese, a carton of eggs. Into the cabinet above the microwave-fridge combo the kitchenette held he slipped a stack of paper plates, a microwave egg-poacher, a bag of Chips Ahoy! cookies and plastic eating utensils, along with small disposable salt and pepper dispensers.

Steam spilled from the bathroom as the white-painted door was quietly opened and a water-dripping head was thrust through the opening. Wet dark-brown bangs which effectively plastered themselves to half of Trowa's face were soon scooped into the confines of the white hotel-issue towel he held in his slim fingers to be briskly rubbed in a vain attempt to be dried as the emerald-eyed boy watched his room companion stock their small living space. "Considering staying here for awhile?" he asked as he quickly wrapped the towel on top of his head to hold his hair away from his neck and face, leaving his body to be free for drying without trickles of water pouring down his back from the thick mop he sported.

"So are you," his companion quickly grunted as he stooped to shove a bag of baby-cut carrots into the crisper drawer at the bottom of the micro-fridge.

"Oh really? I thought I'd be off to track down Mr. Winner as of tonight."

"Wrong, bucko. Mr. Winner won't be arriving on Earth for another three days. He's got further business out in the colonies. I've got other plans for you."

One brow arching over an unconcerned green eye, Trowa frowned. "I take it you'll be spending these three days telling me what's going on."

"More or less, I suppose. Won't have much of your cooperation if you don't know anything."

"You've already told me that Quatre's at risk. And you've proven it with your little stunt. My biggest concern is whether he's at risk because of the threat you've claimed you've been tracking, or because of the threat you could very well be responsible for presenting to him."

A sharp bark of laughter escaped the older man as he straightened his stance, tossing his head back and lifting his arms above his head. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he swung his arms behind his body, rotating his shoulders and groaning as his back audibly cracked. "Jumping the gun a bit there, kid. Already placing blame, when you have no evidence to convict the one you're holding the rod of justice towards. A bit uncalled for, don't you think?"

"You can understand why I'm concerned."

"Of course I understand why you're concerned. If I were in your position, I'd hardly trust me either. But then again, you don't have any reason not to trust me."

"And every reason not to."

"Of course."

Ducking back into the bathroom, Trowa continued drying himself even as he continued his conversation, raising his voice to decibels great enough to be heard by the man rummaging through spilt luggage in the small sleeping and living space the hotel room provided. "And, Mr. Waverly, I do expect you to tell me how it is that you're still alive. And why you're still involved with Quatre Raberba Winner."

-- 21:57, 82 Days Ago --

Sighing softly, the lithe man closed his eyes to block the vision presented to him by the flood of blue monitors that rested before him. 'So it's all coming to an end. All our hopes, all our dreams….'

'With Duke Dermail's ultimate mistake of handing the future of our combined worlds, colonies and Earth, into the hands of those who oppose our carefully crafted plans and life-long formed ideals along with Colonel Tsuburov's overly enthusiastic and entirely too premature embrace of the mobile doll system, it now is going terribly wrong. What I've dedicated my life to, what I've tossed my very humanity and youthful hopes away for, is failing because of the ambitions of those within our organization who have not the foresight nor the patience to simply see what's already resting beneath their noses and wait for it to develop and evolve.'

'I'm sorry, Douglas. You left the evolution and progression of your plans in my hands, thinking me capable. It has become evident that I've failed. I couldn't stop this from happening. I didn't read the actions of our own organization correctly.'

'I allowed myself to be distracted by the activities of those who retaliated against everyone. By those young pilots. And my hopes that they would be the key to unlocking our future have proven fruitless.'

'Oh well. At least I can help prevent this travesty from getting any worse than it's already become. Just need a little outside help….'

Turning away from the screens, he walked calmly towards the doors that occupied the rear of the large control room he was in, passing with casual ease amongst the scurrying, busied soldiers that inhabited the cramped spaces of the station with him. And, in passing, he nodded quickly to the soldier known simply as Sedici.

Brushing past the strong-jawed man, James nodded once. "Now's the time. Let's try to stop the flood from flowing where it's not wanted."

"Think we can?" the other man softly whispered.

"No. But we can slow it before the damage to our plan is too great to recover from."

"Got'cha."

A quick wink of a hazel eye and a muttering of "Glory to you, White Fang. Hopefully Tsuburov will cooperate," ended their conversation as James hurriedly left the room.

Walking down the passageways that would inevitably lead him to the grandiose shuttle bays housed in the still-under-construction super structure known as Space Fortress Libra, the man let his shoulders slump and his footfalls slow with the heavy weight that burdened him with his journey down the familiar terrain of the site he'd been haunting for the last two months, hunting and spying about for any information that would lead him to the determination of the plots of those who were responsible for the construction of the metallic monster which would soon be free to terrorize the depths of space. Slinking slowly around a corner, he lifted a hand to his head, rubbing his temple. 'Damn them for not waiting. All we're doing now is birthing chaos in a world that needs stability. We're creating rifts where we've already built foundations. All because they can't see the folly of what they're doing.'

'Maybe if we were the ones running this poorly organized show, things would have resulted differently.'

'Maybe if the operations from three months ago had worked as planned, without their interference and without the mistakes that were made….'

'Hell, doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done, what's passed has passed. And it can't be undone, no matter how much I wish for it to be so.'

'Meaning I'm back to being on the losing side.'

Straightening his posture slightly, he walked a bit more briskly to the door that would lead him to the main shuttle bay compartment, to the shuttle he'd ordered to be standing by for him during this hour to the Lunar Base.

'If nothing else, I'll just switch again. After all, I've yet to complete my assignment for that crazy old man; he's very likely waiting for his results.'

'Once I get this ball rolling, I'll have to see what kind of disruptions I can stir up in the Romefeller organization for him.'

Closing his eyes as he passed a sentry standing his post outside of the shuttle he intended to board, he flashed his identification badge with a quick, carefree flick of his wrist. The young man perused the offered plastic card and nodded to indicate that he had permission to enter the craft. Stepping forward, James calmly walked onto the shuttle and took a seat. Brushing his long unbound brown hair behind his shoulders as he adjusted his position in his chair to make himself comfortable for the long trip awaiting him, he sighed to himself.

'So it's time to go back a few steps.'

'Maybe once I back up on the board, I'll be able to progress.'

'Not like there's any set schedule or anything; our plans will wait for us, laying dormant and silent as the horror started by the Romefeller Foundation rolls towards its close and returning to its unseen evolution once this melodrama has ended. They've waited through the flaws of the past, through the mistakes we've made before. This is just another temporary setback in our quest to see this ideal formed.'

'Time doesn't matter.'

'Time, after all, was never the issue. Because time is never time at all.'

-- 21:05, Yesterday --

Walking back to the chair and flopping lazily down into the cushions once more, he grunted and changed the channel once more. 'It's about damned time, kid.'

His eyes closed as he heard Trowa's surprised gasp and the click of his boots stopping just outside of his door. "You… you're…" the teenager's voice cracked, the hint of shock lacing every breath that emerged from his frame.

"Nice to see you too."

"How're you still alive?" the emerald-eyed boy said with the slightest of frowns appearing on his lips, before he followed his question with yet another; "And what are you planning?"

"Questions for another time. But maybe I can clarify a few things for you."

Trowa nodded once.

Glancing over, hazel eyes dull, a strained smile met the man's lips. "How do you feel about the deserts of California, boy?"

Sweatshirt-clad arms instinctually found their way to their most comfortable and familiar position of being crossed before Trowa's chest as the young man's eyes narrowed and the frown upon his lips deepened, becoming less enigmatic as each moment passed. "Why do you ask?" he cautiously stated, his gaze piercing through the man before him.

"Simple, kid. The person who can explain everything to you is there. That is, the guy who's in charge of this little operation."

"Are you meaning to tell me that you don't know all of the details of what you're planning?"

Nodding slowly, James narrowed his hazel eyes to match Trowa's gaze without a flinch or flicker of worry at the harsh undertones laying in that emerald glower. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. I don't know all the details. Therefore, I can't tell you everything you most likely want to know."

"You're lying."

Arching a brow, the older man let a snide sneer find his lips, working its way to his face slowly but steadily. "Maybe I am."

"You are."

"But then, I could also be telling you the truth. Just because I know much of what's going on with every party that I'm involved with doesn't mean that I have been allowed to peruse the entire picture. There are still many pieces of the puzzle missing."

Trowa simply stared incredulously at him.

His sneer fading into a smile, James chuckled under his breath. "Not much one for game metaphors, I take it."

"Chess and jigsaw puzzles don't appeal to me."

"I see. Amazing you could put up with Mr. Winner, seeing as how he relates everything to that which doesn't make its acquaintance with you."

Silence met James in response.

With a huffed sigh, the longhaired man rose from his seat and crossed the room with six swift steps. Stooping over, he tossed the top of a suitcase closed and zipped the zipper shut. And with a grunt he hoisted the bag and turned to Trowa. "As said, kid, there's a guy in California who can explain everything to you, should you be willing to take the trip. It's all paid for, if you are."

"And if I refuse?"

A shrug of his shoulders and a yawned, "Then I suppose Mr. Winner's going to get himself killed shortly," was enough to put the younger man stiff with rage, hands clenched at his sides. "So," James continued as he arched a brow, his face neutral without care or bitterness, "are you willing to come along? Or are you going to leave him in the hands of those who are after his life?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"I'd say not."

"How soon?" Trowa questioned.

"Got your stuff?"

"I suppose-"

"You can call the cute girl you live with from the terminal. Our flight for Los Angeles leaves in half an hour. Get onto the Harley. We'll get your Honda towed back to that circus you work with."

Brushing past Trowa, noting the incredible tension that raced through the young man's body, James sighed. "Move it, kid. We don't have forever."

"Right."

-- 19:58 --

The thick dirt crunched under the boots of the two men as they slowly walked towards the lonely little remains of a wooden house that appeared to be the only structure that existed to the span of the dusty plains ahead, barely visible against the blackening curtain of the steadily approaching evening sky. Having left the motorcycle at the rest stop that laid nearly a mile behind them, they braved the cold of the darkening desert night and the wind that gusted over the unforgiving landscape. As far as Trowa could determine, they were striking for the abandoned shack before them that seemed completely devoid of life. Turning a questioning glance to his companion, he stared.

James walked calmly at Trowa's side, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed to expose less of his body to the incredible chill of the air that surrounded them both. Turning his head to the side, he frowned. "Yep, that's the place."

"You're certain?"

"Positive. I think I'd know where to go, wouldn't you?"

"Could be a trap."

A sharp snicker made it's way from James' throat as he shook his head. "If I wanted you captured or killed, I wouldn't go through this much fucking effort, kid. I'd either just shoot you or snag you while you're sleeping. It's easy enough to do."

"Murder is never easy."

"It is once you're used to the idea of it."

Trowa's eyes narrowed coldly.

"Anyway," James continued, completely unperturbed, "there're a few things I've got to tell you before we get there."

"Please indulge me."

"The guy you're about to meet; you've met him before. And you won't like it."

"Like I liked meeting you?"

A smirk finding his lips, James shook his head. "Such a bitter opinion of me. What did I ever do to you?"

"Made our lives a living hell six months back."

"And saved your lives more times than you can count. Hell, saved your lives more times than you can ever know."

"Really. You expect me to believe that?" Trowa flatly stated.

"No. But it is the truth."

"I never believe someone when they proclaim that something's 'the truth.' More times than not, they're lying through their teeth."

"True on that count," James responded with a shrug, "and that makes a person untrusting. Which, of course, is best for continued survival but is nothing but a shitty setback when trying to actually live out a life amongst other people in a normal society. But that's off the subject. As I was saying originally, you've met him before. And you thought he betrayed you. Let me be the first to tell you – Xavier Johnson's not the one who supposedly screwed you over. At least, it wasn't him entirely. He wasn't the mastermind behind what occurred. It was me."

"Really."

"Yep. The one who ransacked Quatre's little war room, stole your records, pounded Xavier to cover the fact that he was in on what was going on, drugged Chad Lesley."

-- 04:14, 179 Days Ago --

Slowly walking into the room, Duo stared around, his violet eyes huge upon his face. "What the fuck happened here?"

Trowa, meanwhile, was staring wide-eyed at the descended ceiling panel that hung cockeyed from its one intact support, the other having been snapped. The chandelier was in pieces, as was the glass table. Coral was lying scattered about the room, salt water soaking into the Persian rug and delicate reef fishes lying dead upon the ground. The computer terminal that the hidden panel had held was lying on its side on the ground, static dominating its screen and the keyboard that accompanied it snapped in half with its keys scattered aimlessly about the room with every chess piece that had previously been set up upon a board.

Quatre calmly walked over and picked up a pawn that had been carelessly thrown to the floor with the rest of his chess pieces when the tables and chairs had been overturned. Turning it over and over with his slender, pale fingers, he sighed softly. "Damn."

Trowa stared at Quatre. 'I can't believe he's remaining so calm!' Walking to the computer, he picked up the smashed remains of the keyboard, frowning. 'So much destruction… maybe out of frustration? Or…'

Quatre shrugged calmly. "Maybe they suspected that this would derail whatever I was planning. Like stripping the blueprints to a building away from the foreman in charge, thus halting construction, they seem to have been attempting to erase my plans."

"Have they?" Duo quietly whispered as he knelt, slowly picking up a shard of glass that was obviously once a part of the chessboard table.

"Hardly. I use the chessboard to visualize, not to plan. It's what's already in my head that matters. And there, I'm always seven steps ahead of what I have laid out."

Trowa sighed, staring at the disaster of a room. "The only problem is that they may have figured out what you were planning."

"Maybe. But then why destroy it all? Why not wait to see what move I would make, then attempt to use my strategies against me?"

Duo scowled. "My biggest concern isn't over the plan, the room, or none of this shit…"

"Hm?" Glancing over, Quatre raised a brow. Trowa quickly mimicked the move.

"It's that whoever did this is most likely still here."

A quiet groan interrupted their thoughts.

"The floor panel," Quatre softly hissed as Trowa yanked his gun from his holster and readied it.

Nodding, the taller pilot sneaked to the dropping portion of the floor that was once stationed below the chess table, and poked it with his gun. "How do you lift it?"

"The safety latch, right where that tear in the rug is."

Reaching into the tear, he felt the circular device, and gave it a good counter clockwise wrench. He brought his gun to bear as the floor panel dropped.

All three stared in disbelief as the grisly scene unveiled itself to their eyes.

Duo was the first to whisper, "Xavier…?"

-- 22:43, 179 Days Ago --

Trowa stared down the sites of his gun, keeping the forehead of his steadily approaching target perfectly centered in his line of vision. The blaring of the alarms above and around him and the glistening red light that filled the hallways beyond the stairwell that lead to the cellar he was standing in and filtered throughout the room didn't cause him to so much as blink as he stared the intruder down. "Stop," Trowa growled.

Still the stumbling man approached without hesitation. The only thing that seemed to be slowing him down was the dragging of his toes along the concrete floor below him.

"Stop or I'll shoot," Trowa warned one final time as he squinted and peered along his pistol's barrel.

Chad Lesley apparently either did not hear him or was not listening, continuing to walk towards him with his dark eyes wide and unseeing. Light trickles of sweat ran down through his moustache, the perspiration making his face glisten in the faint light thrown by the lamps of the hallway upstairs.

-- 20:03 --

"Covering for him?" Trowa asked, a frown turning the corners of his usually unexpressive lips.

"Telling the truth," his companion breathed quietly.

"The James Waverly I knew wouldn't ever be so forthcoming with the truth."

Sighing quietly, James bowed his head. "Much has changed with the passage of time."

"Oh really? Enough to make you into a completely different person? It's been six months."

"Six months, a year, a decade, a lifetime; doesn't matter. What matters are the events that took place. What time brought, what it took, what I have now and what I had to leave behind to gain what I've got."

Arching a brow, Trowa frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever dreamed, Trowa?"

His brow knitting, Trowa snorted. "We're getting entirely off the subject."

"Have you?"

"I did once." Looking ahead to the shack they were slowly approaching, Trowa let a soft, desolate sigh escape his lungs. "I dreamed of the life I would have with the end of the war, existing in a world of peace with those I care for without having to worry about who was going to die next and when, without having to keep my eyes constantly perusing my environment to find my next attacker before he found me."

"Nice dream, kid. What happened to it?"

"It's… nearly come true."

"Nearly?" James inquired.

"I can't stop looking over my shoulder. No matter how much I attempt to convince myself that our time as soldiers is done and the time for our lives as normal civilians has arrived, I can't stop looking."

"But you continue to attempt to advert your eyes from those who would kill you?"

"Yes. I want that life to come to pass; I want to live a life where I have no worries outside of how my next performance will go and what Catherine will be attempting to force on me for dinner." Bowing his head, Trowa lifted a hand to tug the collar of his jacket up to shield his neck from the cold breadth of wind that whistled past them as they made their way over the cold sands.

"You're still clinging to the hopes of youth. The hope to live, the hope to prove yourself. Your youth, your life, your innocence. You're still living the beauty of youth, tainted by the stain of the nasty, harsh world that surrounds us."

Trowa arched a brow.

"Much as I'm still wishing I could cling to the dreams of the past, the hopes I held as a younger, more foolish, less bitter man. As I'm wishing I could hold on to the visage of my childish wants; my ideals and plans and longings, the dreams of my earlier days."

"You make it sound as if this change has been occurring for years rather than a few months."

"It has," James clarified. "It's simply that events as of late have forced my hand – they've forced me to move on."

"And you're bitter about moving on?"

"Let us simply say that you can never leave the past behind without leaving a piece of your youth."

"Awfully cynical viewpoint."

"And unfortunately, overly true."

Trowa frowned as they walked steadily on. Glancing over once more, he asked, "So the truth is what you've revealed to me, then? You were the one responsible for everything? And Xavier is the one who's behind everything that's happening now?"

"You're reading too deeply into what I've told you. I was responsible for most of what happened six months ago. Not entirely responsible, but I was the mastermind behind it all that set the gears into motion. Xavier was working with me at the time for the same goal."

Trowa sputtered, staring at him.

"No, I'm not kidding. We kept that fact hidden so if either of us were compromised we wouldn't be easily traced to one another. At least, we did so until the end, when Xavier dropped the ball in his panic. Foolish moron never did hold up well under any kind of pressure – it's what gives him the smaller paycheck. Not as capable."

"Blowing your own horn?"

"Being honest."

Trowa nodded once. "Going to continue? You've yet to tell me about the here and now."

"Xavier's not the one behind everything that's happening now. You, kid, won't meet that party. Xavier simply has more information than I do seeing as how he was hired directly by our employer, and thus has more to tell you. I'm more of a third party here than anything; I don't know everything that's happening on this end of the spectrum, and frankly I really don't care to know everything that's going on. This has nothing to do with what I want out of life anymore. That much I've discovered. It won't affect my survival, and it won't affect my ultimate goals. The only thing in my life it'll interfere with, so far as I've seen, is my bank account and perhaps my prospective timeline for getting certain things done."

Turning a curious eye to his companion, Trowa frowned. "So-"

"We're here," James interrupted with a nod. "Best head on inside before it gets much colder, kid."

A clip of a nod indicating agreement was all that Trowa gave the longhaired man before he delicately pushed against the door of the ransack little shack. As the door creaked loudly, he eased himself inside.

James' eyes narrowed as the door closed behind him.

'Take all the time you need, kid.'

'Keep him busy.'

Slowly walking away from the small establishment, James' lips turned with a smug, quick smirk.

'You're doing an excellent job already. Going right along with what I expect you to do; thanks for being a perfect little puppet.'

'And while you keep him busy, I've got some things to check up on.'

Circling the building, the lank man quickly and easily located the car rented by Xavier Johnson. Pulling a Swiss Army knife from his back pocket, he carefully inserted the nail file into the keyhole of the driver's side door and gave it a quick twist. Jostling it a few times and twisting it again, he lifted the door handle and let himself into the vehicle.

After searching it carefully for any and all paperwork that it held, he held what he'd discovered under the amber illumination of the dome lamp. Committing the information to memory, he swiftly returned those slips of paper – a vehicle registration card, a copy of the rental agreement for the vehicle, a batch of receipts including those for a meal from Burger King and a room at the Holiday Inn Express in Fresno, a stray telephone number, a crudely drawn road map – to the locations where he'd found them.

As a final touch, he slipped a microphone receiver between the plastic molded sheets that made the covering of the steering column before exiting the car and carefully locking its door once more.

tbc...