Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing
Relena sat opposite Trowa at a conference table, working late into the night. Before her lay hundreds of faces as she sorted them into methodical piles.
"Do you honestly think he was working alone?"
Trowa shook his head quietly. "There's no way to be sure. With the most recent explosion I think we have cause to be suspicious, but the investigation is showing a similar lack of skill in that device as with the others."
She nodded, slipping a face to the back of the main pile, folding a bottom corner slightly as she worked. "But there was a dummy device and a real one at the conference center?"
"Yes," he agreed. "And that's my primary reason to hold reservations, but a person can change their technique much more quickly than their skills. The skills were the same level the second time around and the third."
Relena glanced up at the clock. It was getting late. She suspected that if she could go back to the port she might be able to jog her memory. Perhaps the sights and sounds would help her recall any other clues she might have overlooked. She knew her brother would never allow it, however, and wondered how she might convince the former Gundam Pilot to allow her the opportunity without her brother's knowledge. She thought that if she waited long enough, maybe the bar would have closed. That might further incentivize the Pilot to let her walk the area herself.
The hours ticked by slowly, but she never lost sight of the card she needed on the table.
Finally Trowa's comms device dinged in his ear. "Go for Trowa," he answered. He stepped toward the door and signaled with his hand for her to stay put.
Relena smiled and nodded as he disappeared through the door. She listened for a moment to be sure his voice was retreating down the corridor for privacy.
She quietly peeked out the door for good measure, then locked it so she could do what was needed. She stripped down, pulling the thigh-length, black cotton dress from her bag and slipping it over her head. Over top she layered the distinctively green colored long sleeved sweater her sister-in-law had given her the day before. (Apparently this hue of green was not Lucrezia's color. She said it made her resemble a Mardis Gras float.)
Quickly, she turned and pulled the dog-eared card from the bottom of the stack and stuck it to the planning board at the front of the room. Grabbing a marker she scribbled on the board. "Found him! Gone to the restroom."
She tucked her used clothes deep into the bag, knowing it would be there when she returned, and plopped it neatly next to the remaining pictures. Finally, she pulled her hair up into a loose bun and unlatched the door, checking the hallway before slipping out into the night.
The winding tunnels of the underground made a confusing labyrinth, but she eventually found her way out among the stars. Though she had spent time studying the maps of the city on the journey to Mars, it took her a few blocks of walking before she was able to use the street signs to place herself. She was going the wrong way, but she could now get back to the ports.
It was over an hour of walking, even after she had made her way outside, but she finally stumbled across the gravel road and stood at the perimeter of where the blast had nearly killed her days before — where the blast had nearly killed her daughter.
She looked up at the dormant space vessels as worry pooled in her belly for the child, but she told herself that the girl was with her guardian and that she would be home in her mother's arms just as soon as this mystery was solved.
The diplomat barely had time to register the sound of the gravel behind her giving way to the weight of a man's shoes before one arm wrapped around her waist and the calloused hand of the other covered her lips. The stubble on his jaw brushed her ear as she tried to pull away.
"Sh," he whispered, tightening his grip around her, pulling her flush against him. His scent enveloped her, now. It was familiar but with the distinct lacing of liquor.
She struggled more, straining to thrash free.
"Relena," he said through his teeth in a harsher but still quiet voice. He tightened his vice-like grip in response to her efforts. "I'm not kidding," he said. "Be still."
She ripped free her jaw. "You're drunk," she accused.
"I had a couple of drinks. I'm hardly drunk."
She continues to strain, digging her nails into his arm.
"Even drinking, I wouldn't be as foolish as you coming here."
"Stop touching me," she hissed.
She was sure she heard him growl under his breath. "When you're still," he answered, turning his face so his nose now ticked her ear as he spoke. "There are a dozen and a half drunk men thirty yards behind you, watching, and they think that you're here for attention."
She finally froze, eyes wide as she considered the possible trouble that would mean.
He pulled back just enough to pull a free strand of hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear.
"I don't think you want that," he added.
He was right. The last thing she needed was attention. She relaxed just enough to communicate that she would cooperate.
"Please let go," she whispered, hoping that she'd earned his trust enough to stand on her own, again.
Still he only drew back enough to flatten his hand over her belly without actually releasing her from his grasp. "I've given them the impression that you're here to meet me," he said. "I have no intention of letting them get a better look at you than they already have."
Of course. In the shadows, they were just a silhouette of lovers embraced together at the port. She sighed. He was going to keep her under his arm until they were both out of sight.
This presented a distinct problem. She wouldn't express it aloud but she loathed Heero Yuy, and yet his touch was causing a physiological reaction that made it hard to think.
She hoped that alcohol wouldn't make him any more forward than he was when he was sober. She hated him but she didn't want to actually discuss — nevermind argue — about their shared past.
She heard the familiar ding of his comms device connecting in his ear. "Trowa?"
She frowned.
"I have the vase," he said in simple code. "I'll put it somewhere safe until we can exchange."
She couldn't hear the other man's reaction, but she imagined he was annoyed. Could someone so nonchalant be annoyed? How would he express that?
Heero steered her by the hips as he led her off into the night, obscuring them in the shadows of the alley ways before finally releasing her body from his embrace and placing a large stride between them. The sudden absence of his warmth caused her to shiver in the dress, but she tried to hide it. She hadn't planned for how cold Mars would get at night, she chided herself. She could have dressed in something a little warmer, or at least had brought a heavier jacket to go over the sweater.
She was already several paces ahead of him before she realized he had stopped. She looked back at him and then up at the generic concrete building, knowing what he had planned next. Her shoulders dropped as she backtracked. She'd swear his eyes kept moving up and down her body as she walked. Something about it made the air feel electric and even more cold than before. She now wished she'd also opted for slacks over a dress, but she did her best to ignore it.
He released the outer lock of the building with his thumb and gave her entry.
"Quiet," he warned, but they both knew it was unnecessary.
Down the hall Relena saw a couple of young soldiers chuckling until they looked up and saw Heero. She quickly ducked behind him to obscure her face as he glared at the younger men. Their voices fell to guilty whispers as they quietly tucked themselves away and into a room and out of sight. Relena wondered about the time, thinking it must be pushing at least two or three hours past midnight.
The silence of the barracks was haunting and oppressive. She followed sheepishly to the third floor, preparing to spend the last few hours of the night secured in a room where no other woman had ever visited.
As she stepped over the threshold, the thought was pushed out of her mind nearly as quickly as she had formed it. Certainly, the room was nothing to look at. Lit only by a cool white bulb over the sink, there was nothing to see but a kitchen table, a dresser, and a basic, full sized bed. Heero lived in a simple studio apartment in the barracks which he kept in pristine condition. To her surprise, there were four chairs around the table in the kitchen, making her wonder if Heero ever had any friends over and, if so, what kind.
But her previous assumption about other women was washed away by the clean, clear scent of lavender and rose. A woman visited here, and often by the smell of it. Her scent was part of the room, now. It was distinctly familiar, but she couldn't place where she's recently been exposed to it. Had she met this woman already?
She felt silly and foolish for misjudging him, but she also felt foolish for the inexplicable pang of anger she felt at the scent.
The thought disappeared as he turned toward her and raised his hand.
She automatically winced.
When she looked up their eyes met. Annoyance filled his expression. Looking over her head, he completed the motion, closing the door behind her, then turned and silently led into the kitchen area.
Knowing there were still hours ahead, Relena abandoned the niceties and plopped herself down at the table without asking. With a matching air of discomfort, Heero pulled down two glass cups and placed them in front of her. She listened to him rifling through another cabinet as she watched the images through the glass twist and stretch with a slight tilt of her head.
He uncorked the whiskey with a low pop and quietly poured a few ounces into each glass.
As he took his and stepped away to lean against the counter opposite her,
Relena smiled. "No ice?"
He sipped his drink and shrugged. "Do I look like someone who would have ice in the freezer?"
She swirled her glass and took an airy sip. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type to keep whiskey at all." Her attention returned to the feminine scents laced about the room as she realized the only true answer to that thought was simply that ten years is a long time. He had changed and so had she.
Relena finished her drink fairly quickly and he poured her another without her asking. She frowned. The potent alcohol was already urging her to say things she'd rather not, and she didn't want to risk that when they were both already stressed. Doubtless he was just being a hospitable host, but she hesitated, eyeing the second drink as she wrestled between being cautious and being polite.
"You're trying to get me drunk," she said, only half joking.
"Hn." He turned his attention out the window, but she felt like he had rolled his eyes.
She knew that he understood she was being humorous. Or did he?
Ten years really is a long time.
"That wouldn't be wise," she whispered with only half the commitment. Despite it, she took another slow sip, gently nursing her drink.
"It's going to be a long night. You might as well relax," he explained. "You've been stressed."
She pressed her lips together, fighting the alcohol to keep silent, but she lost. "Well, I should think that's to be expected."
He ignored her, this time and poured himself another drink, swallowing it quickly.
Relena pushed the nearly empty glass away from her and folded her arms. "We could at least try to get along," she mumbled as she scolded herself.
She heard Heero harrumph as he knocked back the glass and finished his drink. He set it in the sink then leaned back, again, crossing his arms and closing his eyes in thought.
After several minutes it was he who broke the silence. "She's smart," he said.
It took her a moment to realize he was referring to Juliet.
Hearing him address the subject released a deluge of emotion in the former Queen but she tried to conceal it with a polite smile as she turned her face further from him. "She takes after her uncle," she said in agreement.
Heero shook his head. "You're pretty clever yourself."
She shrugged. "I just mean that she's a strategist at heart. I'm just a pacifist."
"Pacifism takes incredible strategy."
She lifted her hands onto the table in front of her and bowed her head in thought. "Maybe," she agreed. She pulled on the sleeves of the sweater, again, willing them to stretch over her knuckles.
Heero noticed and considered the nervous gesture in context. He frowned. "I suppose that even the best strategist has blind spots."
When Relena realized he was referring to Leland, she stood abruptly and turned her back to him. Anger flushed her cheeks. "I don't know what you mean," she hissed, folding her arms.
Heero's eyes wandered her body, again, noting the way the dress still moved after she'd become still. He sighed and looked away. "I know you're used to skirting the truth to negotiate peace, but when you're here it would be best for everyone if you don't bother trying to deceive me."
Her shoulders dropped slightly as she heaved a frustrated sigh. "We could just not talk about this."
"I have questions."
"—That are none of your business," she bit out. "I thought we agreed to try to get along?"
"I agreed to no such thing," he responded. He pushed off of the counter, standing tall as he allowed his hands to swing loose at his sides.
She felt as if she would find a venomous grin, should she turn to face him now, but she did so anyway. Instead she found his eyes looking down on her, filled with a sort of sadness that made her feel bare before him. She looked past him to the stovetop, unable to escape his watch but hopeful to at least escape the feeling it caused her.
"I don't want to talk about this," she said honestly, feeling her own long buried grief working its way into her voice. She swallowed, but the ache only got worse, causing her eyes to sting. "You've moved on," she explained (more to herself than to him). "You've come to love other women and I —" Relena closed her eyes and pushed through a pang of pain with a shrug and an empty smile. "I don't see why it matters."
"You're wrong," he said coldly.
She shook her head. "The only thing you haven't grown out of is your ability to be a persistent, intrusive pain in my ass," she grumbled.
Heero moved forward abruptly, propelling himself toward her in two swift strides. Relena gasped and threw both hands up to shield her face, pressing herself against the counter behind her and squeezing her eyes shut tightly as she waited for the blow to land.
It felt like an eternity before she could force herself to look up at him. He stood over her, hands still relaxed at his sides, jaw clenched shut, and his eyes wide, calm, and swirling with a mix of sadness and disgust. As she lowered her defense and straightened herself under his gaze, he shook his head but did not move away.
She could barely breathe without her body brushing his.
"I have not," he reiterated in a careful, slow voice. His breath pushed the baby hairs around her face as he spoke. He swallowed, scanning her body with his eyes. "Yes, I've changed. You've changed. But I have not loved anyone since I fell in love with you."
Relena clasped her hands in front of her in a comforting gesture, trying to feel secure under his scrutiny. She watched him examine her face, detail by detail, shifting his gaze from her mouth to her eyes and back again.
"You're the only one I love, and it is all I can do to let you have your choices, when I'd rather than repay him for —" He paused and looked measuringly over her again. "—what he's done to you."
Love. Present tense. Her stomach dropped.
He'd never told her he loved her, not even in their most intimate moments.
So what was he playing at now? Had he any idea what such a confession would do to her?
He stare bore into her, making her shiver. "And damn if that will ever change."
Relena breathed through her mouth, unsure how to respond. She looked down at the tiny space between them then raked her eyes up his body and back to his face. His expression softened as he breathed out, visibly relaxing when their eyes met.
She pulled her gaze away, again, staring at the blank wall to her right, frozen in place. She was suddenly very aware of how her heart was pounding and wondering if two glasses was enough to drink for this conversation — or was it too much?
"Relena," he growled.
Her glare shot back to him when she felt his finger twist the bottom hem of the sweater she had slipped on over the dress. She wondered what gave him the impression he could reach across the invisible barrier, but she said nothing. He stood frozen under her watch, neither continuing the ministration nor retreating.
He was waiting.
Heero was not going to touch a married woman, she knew.
Unless —
Her hands were between them, slowly spreading flat against his chest. She looked down at them, trying to think. She knew that if she pushed, even a little, he would step away.
But she didn't.
That was the right thing to do, she thought, as she looked up at his collar bone and his throat, and then eventually his eyes. She could hear his breath grow shallow and hard.
She glanced at the door. She should walk away. She knew that. She had little enough to drink that she was still in her right mind.
Leave, she heard a part of her say.
He would follow, but he would have gotten the message, and this will have been an embarrassing misunderstanding.
Leave.
Was it? Or did he understand her perfectly?
She looked back up at him. This time he seemed to respond to her lack of decision. He lifted his head lightly, careful not to draw away, and went back to fiddling with the seam of her cardigan. Slowly he began to fold each finger in, interweaving them along the hem until it was bunched into his fist. Feeling the tension that had built, she allowed it to draw her slowly into him, until she was flush against his body. He still did not break the intense eye contact they shared, staring down at her like a tormented statue.
He had gradually become pressed against her in such a way that she could feel his pulse — and not that of his breast.
LEAVE!
The door seemed to fade from her mind as she let her hands run down his torso, feeling his abs flex and tremble under her fingertips.
The voice of what must be her conscience faded with it.
When she reached his belt, she pulled his hips still closer and looked into his eyes.
"Relena," he whispered, seemingly squeezing her shirt tighter.
She gave an imperceivable nod of resolution and lifted herself onto her toes, meeting his lips in a thirsty kiss.
He released her shirt and cupped her face closer with one hand as he slipped the other just under the bottom of her skirt to caress her thigh. Relena responded to the touch on her bare skin by lifting her leg into his grasp, allowing him to lead it up to his hip. Without breaking the kiss, he allowed his second hand to repeat the motion on the opposite side, digging into her skin with the pads of his fingers so he could lift her against him just long enough to deposit her on the counter.
Once he had her sitting, wrapped tightly around his waist, he quickly lifted the dress up and away from her, letting it and the deep green sweater fall to the floor. She embraced him in little more than her bare skin.
After losing himself for several minutes in the taste of her neck and jaw, he finally pulled his lips off of hers so he could see her before him. He let his fingers roam gently over the scars and marks that years and experience had brought her, making their way back to the bruising on her arms and ribs. He delicately traced the lines of her arms, gently wrapping his hands over the imprints her husband had forcefully left on her wrists. He stopped a long while and stared at the layers of bruising on her sides, where broad circles of fading green and brown we're covered over in places with fresh, dark blue and purple. His hand stopped there as she flinched away from his tender touch.
He looked at her and opened his mouth to speak but she forcibly yanked his hand away and pulled him in for another kiss.
