A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

Midnight Coward

Chapter Five

Zechs stared at his closet, irritated with both it and himself.

It was meticulously organized - had been reorganized just last week when Zechs had found himself in possession of a furious energy and with no other outlet - but even so, Zechs stared at the contents and had no idea what to wear.

There, were, perhaps, too many options.

He could still remember his father, dressing for grand state dinners, tense parliament meetings, mundane family outings. Zechs's earliest memories were of sitting in his father's dressing room, organizing the movements of toy soldiers and watching his father's valet dress him.

Clothes make the man, Marticus would say, winking at Zechs's reflection in the mirror. Always remember that you aren't just dressing yourself - you are dressing the leader of men.

The words had lodged deep inside of Zechs, alongside his memories of heat and the smell of burning tapestries.

He had been obsessive about his uniforms while in the military, repairing any rends or missing buttons himself, polishing his boots until they were brighter than a still lake on a summer's day. After the wars, during his exile on Mars, perhaps one of the most depressing things had been the drab clothing - a gray so pitiful it was almost khaki. His shirts and trousers had felt threadbare the day they had been assigned, his jumpsuit and emergency EVA suit the only clean, pressed, fresh articles of clothing he was allowed. Even the undergarments were regulated - gray tanks and gray briefs and gray socks and so much gray.

Zechs had grown a beard, simply because he had nothing else to do, and because it was some sort of relief from all of the gray.

The first event he had attended upon his return to Earth had been his sister's marriage. He had been invited, if not exactly encouraged to attend. A friend of a friend of Une's had managed to scrounge up something suitable for him to wear, the old-fashioned white breeches and brocade frock coats of the vanquished elite. Zechs had loathed every moment in the uniform, had seen a reflection of himself in a mirror and realized just how much he had started to look like Marticus. He had returned to his hotel room that night and shaved off the beard, vowing never to grow it out again, and, despite the uniform being a loan, he had burned it in the shower.

Since then, Zechs had confined himself to civilian attire, had fallen in love with the trappings of a wealthy, ordinary businessman. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone - knew that anyone who bothered to spare him a second glance or spend a few moments searching databases for his face would know who he was. What he was.

But, at the very least, three piece suits, cashmere sweaters and linen trousers kept Zechs from remembering his past in excruciatingly vivid details. He could avoid reliving it, at least, when he was awake.

Of course, there were always occasions when he couldn't avoid it - when he couldn't pretend that he was just a wildly successful entrepreneur in the post-war Earthsphere, dressing lavishly, living well and fucking beautiful boys as often as he pleased.

Reality tended to crash into the fantasy Zechs had built, brutal and demanding, and today was certainly one of those occasions.

He had a closet any dandy would envy.

But he still had no idea what to wear to the wake of the boy who had died for him.

Allison had managed to track down Nick's family, and Zechs was sure that the funeral home would be filled with the beautiful boys who had worked with Nick at Adonis, boys who had on occasion warmed Zechs's bed. Boys who were still alive.

Zechs's gut churned at the thought that some other patron of Nick's might also be in attendance, and he instantly hated himself even more.

His self-loathing, however, did nothing to motivate Zechs into finally deciding on a suit to wear.

He had four black suits - one three piece, one double-breasted, one slim cut and the last was actually a very dark gray suit with cross-threads of black woven intermittently into the wool. It was, by far, his favorite suit.

He had worn it once, with Nick. The shorter man had stood on his toes, running his fingers over the velvet band on the edge of the collar, straining to press a kiss to Zechs's lips.

Zechs glared at the suit. He wasn't sure he would be able to wear it again without associating the suit with Nick.

It was pathetically maudlin, and Zechs already had more than enough nightmares to occupy his mind. He did not need to torture himself with this too.

He pulled the suit out and set it aside. He would tell Petra to have it removed.

Sighing, Zechs stared at the other black suits.

It felt wrong, felt melodramatic and a little gauche, to wear a black suit. Nick wasn't his family, wasn't even someone Zechs knew that well. He had seen the boy maybe five times, over the last three months, and while he had enjoyed Nick immensely, it had been a brief, superficial relationship based solely on Zechs's ability to pay Nick.

Of course, the reality of it was that Nick had been good. Not just in bed, but a good person - funny, generous, more than a little naive, desperate for praise. He had been the kind of person that should never, ever have died trying to save Zechs's life.

Alison had made all of the arrangements, had contacted what little family Nick had - a younger brother, both orphaned by the war - and Zechs still wasn't sure it was even right that he attend.

Zechs was pulled from his spiral of self-loathing by the sound of an incoming call.

With a sigh, he stood up, walked out of the closet, and found his mobile phone.

Petra.

She had been his personal assistant for nearly three years, and she likely knew him more intimately than anyone else alive, Noin being the only exception.

Zechs thumbed the phone on.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you so early. I know today is a… difficult day. But there has been a development, and I wanted to make you aware of it."

Quiet, efficient Petra, who had only the slightest of accents to betray her L2 origins, sounded frustrated.

Zechs could count on one hand the number of times that Petra had been anything less than distressingly unflappable.

"Is this about the KV acquisition?" Zechs had been trying to move the deal into the final stages for months now, but the KV board was still dragging their feet. The deal would make the MIG shareholders an enormous sum of money, while still allowing a few key players from KV to remain in control of their company. Everyone stood to make money, and KV would be left largely intact. It was, as far as Zechs could see, an easy proposition to say yes to. And yet, it had taken nine months to even get KV to agree to draw up potential acquisition documents.

"No, sir. Well, not directly."

Petra was also always direct - occasionally shockingly so - and Zechs couldn't recall her ever stumbling over words or prevaricating.

"Well?" Zechs prompted her when she didn't immediately clarify.

"Sir, the Herald and the Daily News are both running front page features on you."

"They've done it before." The two news outlets tended to focus on stories more salacious than substantial.

"Yes, sir, but the News is… The headline is "Losing a Dangerous Game: The Murder of Zechs Merquise's Favorite Whore."

Zechs felt a cold fury settle deep in the pit of his stomach, felt a blizzard of rage swirl through his veins, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady when he spoke.

"And what creative invention is the Herald running?"

Petra cleared her throat.

"The Lightning Count's Body Count Continues to Grow After the War. It's not clever. Neither of them are."

"Would that have made them any less offensive?" Zechs growled.

"Of course. If I have to read this garbage, the least they could have done was come up with decent headlines. I've already spoken to the editors at both papers and assured them that they will be hearing from your lawyer, and I've encouraged them to print retractions in the afternoon updates. But-"

"But this could sink the KV deal," Zechs sighed. "Among other things."

"Yes, sir. This morning I had a notification from their board that negotiations would be put on hold."

Zechs sighed again and rubbed his temples.

So much, he thought bitterly, for Maxwell cleaning up his mess.

It looked like, as usual, Zechs would have to take care of things himself.

"Get Allison on this immediately. And set up a call with the chair of KV. I-"

"Sir, speaking with KV can wait until tomorrow. You have enough to deal with today that-"

"No," Zechs cut her off. "It cannot wait. Set up the call."

Petra was silent for a moment, and Zechs could easily visualize her expression: cheeks sucked in, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"Very well. The wake begins in an hour. Will you-"

"Have my car ready to leave in thirty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

She ended the call, and Zechs went back to glaring at his closet.

Irritated with himself, with the press, with Maxwell and with the KV board, Zechs walked past the section of black suits and instead chose the darkest navy suit he owned. It was a three piece suit, the blue so dark that in poor lighting it did look black, but even so, it felt more appropriate than a black suit.

And it was a choice.

He picked out a dress shirt, tie and cufflinks, and set everything out before finishing his toilette - brushing through his hair, shaving, filing his nails after he felt his thumb snag on the hand towel he used to pat his face dry.

Petra still hadn't called back by the time Zechs had finished dressing.

It wasn't until he was in the back of his car, until the driver had pulled into traffic and Zechs had settled against the leather seat, that his phone rang again.

It was not Petra.

With a sigh, Zechs stared at the incoming caller's name.

Spawn of Satan.

He had given her that label in a fit of pique. He had only been back on earth for two weeks, had - he thought - not made of a spectacle of himself at Relena's wedding, had been distantly polite to all of the former OZ and Alliance and Barton connected nobles and former military staff that had reached out to him and dutifully reported anyone suspicious to Une. He had been boring and bored, and he had accepted the invitation to join an old comrade on his yacht for a two week Mediterranean cruise, and of course the paparazzi had gotten their hands on compromising photographs and of course the photos revealed all sorts of things about Zechs to the public that he would rather have kept private. And that's when the calls had begun. The haranguing. The never-ceasing accusations.

Zechs did not want to deal with her, not today.

But, considering that she was likely calling because of the newspaper headlines, Zechs knew that if he didn't answer she would simply keep calling or, worse, take it upon herself to fly over and dress him down in person.

So, with a sigh, he answered the call.

"Good morning, Dorothy. How is the weather in Brussels today?"

"It was a glorious morning, thank you for asking. In fact, it was the most perfect spring morning we could have hoped for considering that the press conference we had planned for this morning was to announce your sister's candidacy for Foreign Minister."

Zechs hadn't known that Relena was interested in advancing her career that quickly. She had been on the back benches for years now, working as an assistant minister for the half dozen Foreign Ministers that had come and gone since the war, learning the craft and refusing to use either her birth or adoptive connections to gain any undue advantages.

"I'm sure she was perfectly photogenic."

Especially with Dorothy there to manage not only Relena, the press, but, Zechs was confident, the weather as well. Dorothy would have likely engaged in minor chemical warfare if it meant ensuring a sunny day for Relena to announce her candidacy.

"Oh yes." Dorothy's voice was cold, very cold. "My particular favorite expression of hers this morning occurred when a reporter asked if her brother's indiscretions would have a negative impact on the legislative agenda she is attempting to push through the senate right now. I'm sure you are familiar with it, Zechs; she's only been trying to get these laws passed for three years now. Her entire platform, after all, is built on securing a safe future for children, and passing the legislative reforms that would make intercolonial child trafficking a category one offense in the ESUN charter is, of course, in no way damaged by headlines of your whore being murdered."

It was one thing - one very bad, fury-inducing thing - to have the newspapers use Nick for their tawdry attempts to increase sales. It was entirely another, and entirely intolerable, to have Dorothy use him as a tool to further castigate Zechs for his mere existence.

"He wasn't a child," Zechs ground out. "He was twenty-one and, in case you were too busy being the mastermind behind some cotillion appearance for Relena, prostitution was legalized in the post-war ESUN charter nine years ago. While I admire Relena's dedication to preserving the innocence of children - so much so, in fact, that I have been the single biggest contributor to her advocacy groups for five years - I fail to see how that has any relationship to me."

Dorothy barely let him finish speaking before she was off again.

"You fail to see how - it has everything to do with you! Relena cannot possibly campaign on anti-corruption, on peace and prosperity and protection for the youth of the Earthsphere while her own brother is cavorting with prostitutes who are being murdered while he fucks them!"

Zechs had always had a short temper, had always admired Treize's ability to seemingly collect his fury into a deep internal well and unleash it when his targets were unsuspecting; had always been baffled by Noin's ability to let insults roll off her shoulders and focus instead on the things that mattered most to her. Mars had, to an extent, cooled Zechs's temper and taught him the importance of putting his emotions aside.

Dorothy, however, had always brought out the worst in Zechs. She made him feel like a twelve-year-old boy fighting for a place in the most elite military school on Earth all over again, made him feel the suffocating rage, the desperation of revenge and the irritation of youth.

He was nearly thirty. It should not be so easy for this woman to reduce him to such a state.

He tried, he tried to remain silent and simply let her words slide through his mind without having an impact.

But she persisted.

"Do you know how long it took me to find out his name? To find out that he has a record dating back to the war for solicitation. He was a child, and you took advantage of him when-"

"I assure you," Zechs finally broke in, his voice savage, "that I have never had a sexual relationship with a child. If you ever accuse me of pederasty again, you had best have insurmountable evidence or I will have my legal staff come at you with everything in my power. You may feel entitled to use me as your personal target for honing your poisoned tongue, but there is only so far I will allow the personal assistant of my sister go before I take action. Are we clear?"

She had heard that tone before, during their time together in White Fang. She knew it was the tone that precluded violence and death. And she knew what happened to anyone who dared to argue with him.

But Dorothy, as ever, was either unwilling or unable to consider self-preservation over her righteousness.

"I am her chief of staff. And if you think I can be intimidated by the threats of a washed-up coward who-"

"Tell me, what does Relena think of your relationship to the woman who murdered her father? I admit, I was surprised that she would be so sanguine over having her most trusted assistant share the bed of the woman who single-handedly demolished her childhood. Does she really find it so easy to trust you? She doesn't worry about you reporting back to Une?"

The line was silent.

"That is only the smallest, easiest weapon I have to use against you, Dorothy." Zechs could feel his pulse settling again, could feel his rage becoming manageable, as he gained the upper hand over her. "Do not tempt me to recall all of your actions during the last decade and contemplate how they could impact my sister's life. Or her career."

"You heartless bastard. You would really ruin her just to get even with me?"

He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. And the fact that Dorothy didn't understand that, didn't see that, meant that she still believed him to be the self-centered monster of his youth. It was frustrating, but then again, in this situation, it was useful.

"Oh, I wouldn't stop at getting even. I've never liked to do things halfway."

Another silence, and Zechs could imagine Dorothy mentally cataloging all of her possible options.

"She can change things, Zechs. People believe in her - they trust her. If she gains power, if she gains a following, she can make sure humanity never endures the tragedies of the past again. You just need to stay out of her way."

Then again, Dorothy had always been frighteningly intelligent and perceptive.

Zechs swallowed hard at the well-aimed barb.

"Surely even you want that for her? For humanity?"

And now it was Zechs's turn to be silent.

"Une tells me that she has an agent assigned to look into things at the New York office. Please, Zechs, just let them take care of this and try to stay out of trouble long enough to let Relena get elected."

Dorothy didn't wait for him to acquiesce - he wouldn't have, not verbally, and they both knew that.

Instead, she ended the call, and Zechs was left staring at the phone, his stomach sour and his lips twisted into a grimace.

It was a very good thing that Petra still hadn't called by the time his car arrived at the funeral home - and while part of Zechs suspected Petra was intentionally not letting him speak to KV until later in the day (if she bothered to set up the call at all), Zechs knew better than to direct his ire at her.

Petra didn't fight back. Whenever Zechs turned his frustration or anger on her, she simply accepted whatever terrible things he said with an emotionless face and then went about her work as if nothing had ever happened. It had the effect of making Zechs feel like a churl, of instantly regretting any harsh words he delivered to her, and he had made an effort to stop.

When Zechs stepped out of the car, he was greeted with a gust of chilly wind that ruffled his hair and stung his cheeks. It was bracing, and Zechs tried to focus on that physical sensation instead of his riot of emotions.

He tried very, very hard to set aside his anger with Dorothy, with the newspapers, with Maxwell and the Preventers, with the world, and focus instead on the fact that he was here to pay his respects to a good, innocent boy who had been taken from the world because of his relationship to Zechs.

Despair and self-loathing were emotions he could manage so much easier than the others, after such long familiarity with them, and Zechs settled into them and walked inside the funeral home.